by J. J. Holden
“Copy that, Chancellor. Thank you. Lebanon out.”
Cassy set the mic down and waited for Ethan to return a few minutes later, and then told him of her conversation with Lebanon.
Ethan nodded. “Good. Frank agreed to send the cars and the company, with Michael going in a battlecar. The mobility will keep him safer, and Frank can’t be spared for a raid right now.”
Cassy knew Frank was a good fighter, but Michael was a scary-ass warrior of doom. “I’m glad to see that he’s not making the same mistakes I did. It has to be tempting, though. The urge to keep your eyes on your people when you send them to fight, it’s pretty strong.”
“Frank’s a good leader, and so are you, but everyone has their blind spots. Frank included. They’re just different than yours are.” He glanced at his monitor—which was blank—and then said, “Why don’t you hang out with me and listen in on the battle through Michael.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that you try to make me still feel like I’m involved here, with my own people.”
Which was true. Cassy often felt left out, which sucked even if she knew perfectly well why it had to be that way.
Ethan nodded, his expression grim. “You are always involved, Cassy.”
- 6 -
0445 HOURS - ZERO DAY +349
CARL SAT IN his dune buggy-like battlecar, the Lizzie Borden. His bucket seat’s five-point harness held him snugly, uncomfortably so. If he crashed, he’d be glad for the harness, but until then it was rough on the ol’ twig-and-berries, and made his broad shoulders ache. Of course, if he did crash, the gunner standing upright at the machine gun mounted on top would be toast.
Carl glanced at the clock and saw there was only fifteen minutes until showtime. In the cold morning air, his goggles should have fogged up, but the Fog-X he had applied was holding up wonderfully. How cool was it that Rain-X was now free and in virtually unlimited supply? He figured it was best to look at the bright side of armageddon.
He looked through the windshield, which was now only a thick wire mesh without the glass, and in the distance saw the outskirts of Liz Town’s hated enemy, Harrisburg. Since the Empire enclave in Carlisle had broken away to join the Free Republic—thanks in large part to the supplies the Confederation had given to the refugees—Empire shipments to Harrisburg had stopped almost entirely. Their once mortal enemy was on its last legs.
Carl saw that their wall was pathetic, and felt disgust at the uneven, haphazard, half-finished line of rubble. But then again, Harrisburg hadn’t ever expected to get invaded from this side of the river. They once had far too many people to feel threatened by the likes of Liz Town, but with the advent of spring, Carl had begun to hear rumors of illness sweeping through the town. Apparently, when the squirrels and rats started coming out again with warmer spring temperatures, populations blossoming, the little varmints brought Harrisburg a gift of their own… Plague.
Interestingly, Carl had expected the unburied dead to lead to a second epidemic, but that hadn’t happened. He had asked a Timber Wolf doctor about it last month and had been told that it was a myth and rotting bodies created no new diseases. The plague remained the only threat. Carl asked if the rotting bodies themselves could make people sick, but the doctor had said one would need to eat over twenty grams of a corpse’s rotting flesh to get ill. So long as their water supply remained uncontaminated, the bodies were smelly but not dangerous.
Liz Town had waited patiently for the plague to run its course, which had taken only a couple of months. His spies now reported there had been no new victims in a week. He learned that the Harrisburgers had taken to separating each household from the others as far as possible, spreading among the many vacant houses throughout the city, and had burned every house where an occupant had fallen ill. It stopped the epidemic, but not before half of Harrisburg’s population had died horribly. Without antibiotics, bubonic plague was a deadly, implacable killer.
The Lizzies were bouncing off the walls in their eagerness to get revenge, in typical Liz Town fashion. The preparations for the upcoming attack had turned into something of a party, with barbeques and beer everywhere. Many of the warriors made bets with each other on who would die first, and who would get the most kills. Carl loved the way Lizzies approached life.
He glanced to his left and saw the Kodiak Band’s lead vehicle, which was painted in a brown-based cammo pattern. To his right was the Sewer Rats’ battlecar, painted entirely in an almost neon putrescent green. Boy did the Rats’ color stand out… It was the Band’s only battlecar, so Carl had assigned it to his own group. Bless the Clan for thinking up these Mad Max cars! They were perfect for the Lizzie mentality.
Behind him, Carl heard the foot troops’ hushed conversations, nearly a thousand of them. He knew that Diamondback had only sent half the troops that Mary Ann had demanded of them for this operation. Apparently, Diamondback would rather give up fines—a lot of their food stores and crafted goods—than risk their necks. Typical…
Tic, toc, the dashboard clock arms swept inexorably toward 5:00 a.m. At the ten-second mark, Carl began to count down with the clock, mouthing the words silently. And then it was showtime.
His heart leapt, and his face lit into a savage snarl. Now he only had to get inside, get through their walls. The gate would be his real target, and the real challenge. Since it had never been completed, Harrisburg had set up two 40’ cargo containers standing on end, in the space where the gate should be, filled with rubble for stability and sturdiness. They no doubt each weighed tons. If Liz Town attacked those directly, the cavalry or foot soldiers would have to do so under heavy fire, which didn’t sound like fun, they now had some battlecars of their own, each with more horsepower than all their horses combined.
He stepped on the gas pedal and the car surged forward. His unshielded engine’s beefy roar drowned out the war cries of the fighters behind him. He led the battlecar wing toward the haphazard gate.
At first, there was no visible reaction from those on the walls. Once Carl was about halfway to the gate, however, the defenders fired their first shots. Their muzzle flashes were starkly visible in the faint light of the dawning day, and he heard his gunner returning fire.
Because of the way the wall ran between the river and the gate, an S-shaped arc blocked his view of the gate itself. That peninsula of wall was where the defenders began to congregate, judging by the increasing flashes he saw. He led his wing in a lazy arc. They approached the tip of the peninsula, which was beginning to light up like Christmas from all the muzzle flashes. He heard the distinctive tink, tink of bullets striking his car’s armor plating, but he ignored them. Unless they hit him with a fifty-cal, the rounds would never penetrate his thick armor. His gunner just had to take his chances, though.
To his left, the wall peninsula seemed to loom larger as he continued to close the distance. He figured that he’d pass maybe fifty yards from the wall at the closest point.
A blinding flare appeared up at the top. Had someone hit it with a grenade? No—that was backblast. A rocket grenade? Carl swerved right, hoping not to be where the shooter had intended in case his car was the target. As he jinked to the right in response to the rocket, the entire battlegroup followed suit. Then there was an explosion, and a pickup truck two cars away flew ass-over-end and landed upside down, aflame. It had been a Wolverine car.
The battlecar gunners poured streams of rounds into the rocket launcher’s position, and no further rockets came their way. Then they passed the outcropping and the wall seemed to sweep away back toward the gate.
Now beyond the outcropping of wall, Carl veered left to head straight at the cargo containers. Because the containers were full of rubble, blowing them up wouldn’t likely open up access to the ripe pearl of Harrisburg beyond, so they had to be brought down another way. Spies had reported that the temporary gate didn’t have a lot in the way of attachment points, which presented a problem, but Lizzie engineers had built him a solution that was crude but hopefully effec
tive. Puma’s two battlecars stopped abruptly in front of the gate, back ends mere feet away from the cargo containers.
The rest of the wing concentrated heavy automatic fire at the top of the wall to keep its defenders occupied. The idea was to create multiple threats so the defenders had to further split their forces. But the longer this took, the more town defenders would awaken, grab a rifle and get their butts up on the wall. This part of the operation had to go quickly.
Carl spared a glance at the Puma crews by the cargo containers. He saw one man drop, but the others kept busy. Two used pickaxes to punch holes in both sides of one container. Two more, with massive hooks made of rebar, slid the hook points into the new holes. The crews sprinted toward their vehicles.
Carl had to turn right to avoid the opposite wall, which took the Puma crews out of view again. Movement farther to his right caught his attention—a Wolverine car barreled straight at him. Carl veered left and the city wall loomed in front of him. He veered right again, and he heard a crash behind him.
His gunner shouted down, “Driver got shot. We’re good, they’re not.”
Damn, that was close. Carl tried to regulate his breathing, willing his heartbeat to slow. It didn’t obey, at least not right away. He continued to circle back, ready to make another pass, when he saw a glorious sight. The cargo container had been hooked, and the hooks were chained to the Puma cars. With their huge V8 engines, the cars strained against the chains.
Those containers, thought Carl, were where Harrisburg screwed up. They were full of rubble and were top-heavy. Once they tilted even a little, their center of gravity crossed a threshold and physics took over.
The chained tower creaked and moaned, and as it began to topple, the bottom edge buckled, speeding the process. A moment later, that huge metal-and-rubble monster crashed into the ground with enough force that Carl felt the ground shake through his steering wheel. He let out a low whistle, then glanced back and saw a flood of Lizzie fighters on foot streaming around the wall outcropping, sprinting toward the newly made gap.
Carl grinned. The real fighting was about to begin.
* * *
Ethan balanced his orange plastic food tray precariously, travel mug of juice on top, as he punched in the bunker door code. When it popped open, he almost dropped his whole breakfast, but his reflexes were fast enough to salvage it without losing more than a couple small bits of egg and a splosh of juice. He’d have to clean all that up, of course. He let out a long, frustrated breath.
Setting his tray down, Ethan got a rag and cleaned up his mess. Then he slid into his usual office chair, now super-comfy and molded perfectly to his own butt, and dug into the chow while his computers booted up. It still amazed him how much better this tasted than the supermarket food back in the day. Before the EMPs came, he didn’t know the difference, but now he wouldn’t have gone back to food raised the old way even if it were an option.
As he finished his breakfast, he wondered where Amber was. She often joined him for breakfast down in the bunker because it was one of the few times each day when they could be alone. No kids, no Clanners underfoot. She was supposed to meet him today after she finished her morning chores, so he figured she’d come down whenever she was done, but wondered what had delayed her.
As he sipped at the last of his juice, he watched his main laptop finish up its load routines. As soon as it was done, however, the green ASCII chat box popped up and Ethan growled. This morning was one damn frustration after another. The chat box meant that bastard Watcher One was finally back online. Good.
Ethan clicked the waiting message that said Watcher One was asking to chat. He noticed that his hands were shaking, he was so angry. “Calm down,” he told himself. “Nothing good will come of losing my temper now, only bad things. But how I hate this sonovabitch.”
Watcher1 >> Hello D.Ryder It has been awile Lets chat
D.Ryder >> I feel like u said whats on ur mind already. A few days ago.
Watcher1 >> I wasnt the driver for that package delivery. But the driver is missing. Have u seen him, he might still b in ur neighborhood. Also, we might have another package for you, not sure. It’s in ur delivery zone but it could get cancelled, dunno.
Ethan paused to think. It appeared the 20s didn’t know for sure that Michael had captured the drone pilot who had been fleeing east, but Ethan considered the possibility that they might have a third one nearby.
Why had Watcher mentioned that he wasn’t the driver? And could Ethan take the chance of believing Watcher One when he said he hadn’t been responsible for the deadly drone attack? Too risky.
While he considered how to respond, Ethan ran a tracer routine to check Watcher One’s IP address. The software automatically compared that to previous ones, and it took only a second for the IP to pop up. It was shaded red—it didn’t match any previously used IPs on file. Most of Watcher One’s chats came from one of three IP addresses, but this one was new. Interesting, but not very informative by itself.
D.Ryder >> The last package got sent 2 the wrong person. A kid. She wasn’t old enough to sign, but they left it with her anyway.
Watcher1 >> That’s 2 bad. I did warn u it was coming, tho. You’ve been a naughty little elf.
D.Ryder >> U said another 1 is coming?
Watcher1 >> Probly. Last 1 might have been a warning. Next 1 probly won’t b.
D.Ryder >> I thot the manufacturer needed me to 4ward other packages for em.
Watcher1 >> The market is weak. Company is downsizing. Seems like they r shutting the northeast regional office. Too expensive, not enuf R.O.I. from u.
D.Ryder >> I should get a severance package, not a pinkslip. I’ve been useful.
Watcher1 >> Like I said, sales are down too much. Can’t afford a severance package.
D.Ryder >> Maybe they wud allow me 2 just retire. Then there is no conflict of interest.
Watcher1 >> You wud leave ur office? W/out a pinkslip? Maybe they would go 4 that. Cheaper than pinkslip, with all the deliveries and expenses, u know.
D.Ryder >> Yup. I signed an NDA, remember? That’s valid whether I retire or get fired
Watcher1 >> U would have 2 leave ur office without complaining, tho. It would b a requirement.
D.Ryder >> Yup, I got that
Watcher1 >> I will see what they say and let u know either way. If they still want 2 send u a pinkslip I will let u know when u should expect it tho, so u can get ur office in order b4 u get it.
<
Ethan’s mind, prone to seeing conspiracies, definitely saw one now, and he cursed out loud. So the 20s, working for General Houle, had murdered the fourteen-year-old girl Ethan had been working with just to deliver a warning. And another drone attack might be imminent. But Watcher One was going to see whether Houle would spare the Clan from another such attack if Ethan would walk away from the Clan and everything else. Why would Watcher One help him like that? He suspected that Watcher hadn’t been involved in the attack, and had only been told about it after the fact. Why else would he hint that he might forewarn Ethan if another drone attack was coming? That assumed Watcher One would know about the next one, though. It was all so confusing.
Ethan decided he would need to stay in the bunker from then on, at least until the situation was resolved. If Houle sent another drone, it might kill more people, but if Houle accepted his offer to retire, he’d have to leave the Clan forever.
He glanced at his bugout bag, sitting in the corner as always, and wasn’t sure whether he hoped to retire or not. If Houle agreed to let him go into exile, the consequences if he backed out on the deal would be severe, for him and for the Clan. Something big enough to demolish a lot of Clanholme and kill many Clanners. That, Ethan couldn’t abide. He had already decided he would leave the Confederation if Houle would let him. Maybe he’d head east and join up with Taggart’s forces. Bringing a radio would buy his admission if he could make it there alive, possibly by stealing a battlecar. It was only a thing, an o
bject, and Ethan would rather the Clan lose it than lose lives.
“I won’t allow the Clan to pay for my mistakes,” he said aloud, suddenly very certain.
“What mistakes would those be?”
Ethan jumped at the woman’s voice behind him. Startled, he spun around, but saw that it was only Amber. She had finally made it down. He smiled at her. “Oh, just 20s business. Nothing big.”
How had she gotten in without him hearing the locks disengage? Then he recalled that he hadn’t locked the bunker door, hands being full at the time. A damn foolish mistake, given how tight security was supposed to be surrounding the bunker’s very existence.
Amber put her hands to her hips, jaw set. “Yeah? Why are you worried about the Clan ‘paying’ for it, then?”
Why’d she have to be so smart? Ethan forced himself to smile casually, trying to be nonchalant. “If I don’t give them some information they want, they’ll zap my computer remotely.”
Amber’s eyes narrowed and she said, “The Clan needs that computer.”
“The easy fix is to just email the file, though. No worries.” Until he was certain which way Houle would decide, he sure didn’t want to tell her he might have to die or leave. If he had to leave, he wouldn’t tell her anyway—he’d leave a note so she had closure, but to tell her would invite either her insistence on coming with him or begging for him to stay. Nope. He cared for her too much to put her through that ordeal needlessly.