Children of a New Earth

by Eliason, R. J.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part One - Freedom Ranch

  Chapter 1 - Storm Break

  Chapter 2 - Expedition

  Chapter 3 - Death on the Plains

  Part Two - The Quiet Earth

  Chapter 4 - Roger's story

  Chapter 5 - Ten Thousand Warriors for Peace

  Chapter 6 - The Quiet Earth Society

  Chapter 7 - Lexa Greenbowe

  Chapter 8 - Tir-Na-Nog

  Chapter 9 - The Dog Boys

  Chapter 10 - Robin's Nest

  Chapter 11 - The Cult of the Iron Mother

  Chapter 12 - Sabotage

  Chapter 13 - The Stewards

  Chapter 14 - Jake

  Chapter 15 - The Bitter End

  Chapter 16 - The Choice

  About the Author

  This novel is actually the first novel I wrote, though I’ve published several later novels already. It’s gone through more overhauls and re-writes than anything else I have written. Some of those re-writes have been deep, so deep that readers of the early versions may barely recognize the finished story. The process of editing this manuscript taught me much about the writing process, but for a long time I hesitated to put the final version out. However a small team of friends kept pressuring me to get it out, so here it is.

  I dedicate this book to all the friends and family that read various versions of this novel. Thank you for continually poking and prodding me to get it published, long after my motivation gave out.

  PART ONE

  Freedom Ranch

  Chapter 1

  STORM BREAK

  Outside, the thunder rolled on the mountainside. A cold rain beat against the heavy sod roof. Lightning flashed, illuminating an old glass window. Within, a girl stirred fitfully and rolled over in her sleep. She pulled the threadbare quilt closer around her so that only the end of her long, blond braid was showing.

  In her dreams, Amy turned her face skyward. Never in waking had she seen a place so flat or a horizon so wide. Her eyes were drawn into the vast blue bowl of the heavens.

  “Hey, sister,” a female voice laughed, pulling her attention back to the ground. The girl could not have been much older than Amy’s seventeen years. She had bright red hair, cut short almost like a man’s cut, but with no hint of masculinity about it. She smiled, a small mischievous smile, as she held her hand out toward Amy. Her eyes sparkled.

  Again the thunder boomed, this time so close it rattled the window. Amy jerked awake. For a few breathless seconds she stared around the room, trying to see what had woken her. Lightning flashed, lighting her room for a split second.

  Mittens, her sister’s gray tabby, shot off the dresser and disappeared into the hallway. Nothing else moved as the thunder rolled yet again.

  Amy climbed out of bed, wrapping the quilt around herself against the frosty night air. A rough-hewn chair creaked as she settled herself down in front of the window. The thunder was almost a constant now, and the lightning leapt across the ridge over the valley. Amy was no stranger to wild mountain thunderstorms; she saw them every year about this time. But this one was incredible, even by her standards.

  A flash lit the far ridge. The outline of her dad’s solar array could barely be seen. Amy was filled with a strange sense of foreboding at its sight. Something was wrong out there. That surge had struck close—too close to the array.

  Amy peered into the gloom, fearful now. After what seemed a long time, another flash hit the ridge. There was the array, right where it always was. She sat back and sighed, but the sense of foreboding did not leave her. She felt a tingle go down her spine. Was it some sort of premonition?

  Amy snorted. She had given up premonitions long ago. It had been a game between her and her sister. They had told each other their dreams, had spoken of what they saw in those moments between sleep and waking, and had even tried to read the crushed mint leaves at the bottom of their tea cups, just like Grandma once did years ago—or so Dad had told them. She was his mother, Elaine. Amy had never known her, had never known any of her grandparents for that matter. All she had were a few faded photographs to offer a glimpse into a world that no longer existed.

  She remembered how mad her mother used to get about their games: “The devil’s work,” “blasphemy,” “evil,” “witchcraft.” Each was a declaration punctuated with an open palm. Somehow, the beatings never stopped the girls. If anything, they were part of the game, making it both a secret and a danger if caught. Besides, they got hit for so many things.

  That was years ago. Peering through the gloom, Amy could just see the low mound and chimney pipe that marked Luke’s house. On the far side, out of view, was the community cemetery, where her mom had lain for the past five years. Amy had not experienced a premonition since.

  She snorted again. She shuffled back toward her bed. I am nearly a grown a woman, she thought sourly, too old for such nonsense. Tomorrow would be a busy day. With the spring rain here, the whole ranch would soon be busy with planting and working out of doors. She had no business spending half the night on premonitions or dreams about unreal places.

  Still, as she closed her eyes, Amy again saw the bright eyes, the upturned nose, the small mischievous grin, and the bright red hair.

  The air was acrid and sharp in the small, cave-like building. A dim beam of light danced on the dull concrete.

  “Damn, this one is no good either,” a voice said as the light faded away. There was a brief smell of sulfur, redundant against the smoky air of the room, as a match was lit.

  The brief flash of light was followed by the glow of a lamp. The smell of stale tallow joined the cacophony of scents. “At least these always work,” a second voice replied.

  The man holding the lamp had a strong, sharp face. His hair, cut in a short buzz, was gray and his face was lined and weathered. His eyes were sharp and his arm was strong and steady as he held the light out to the first man.

  The first man could not have been a bigger contrast. His hair was thick and dark, falling almost to his shoulders, his beard just as thick and heavy. His nose was broad and flattened somewhat, his eyes dark. His cheeks stood out red and flushed against the darkness. The hand that reached out for the lamp was broad and thick. Everything about Marlin was heavy and broad—a bear in coveralls.

  Despite his size, Marlin handled his tools with a speed and deftness that surprised those who didn’t know him. In moments, he had the control box open, peering inside, muttering to himself.

  “It’s every bit as bad as I feared, Amos,” he told his companion. “As soon as I saw the rod down,” he sighed and turned back, “I knew it was going to be bad.”

  “Is it fixable?” Amos asked.

  “Not likely.”

  “You know how important this is?”

  Marlin sighed again. “Yeah, I know how important this is. Don’t change a damn thing. The charge controller, the inverter, the batteries—they’re all fried.”

  “What about our backup?”

  “That was our backup.”

  Outside, a tall, thin woman waited for the two men. Her long, gray hair, usually worn in a tight bun, hung behind her in a ponytail. She pulled a faded shawl over her shoulders. She wore a long, woolen dress in light brown, which rustled slightly as she stamped her feet to stay warm.

  Later, when the sun had been out for a while, it would be warm, but this early in the year you could still see your breath in the morning. Last night’s rain had melted the last of the winter’s snow, and the lichen stood out green and bright on the rocks above, lending a feeling of spring, though the ground was still cold and dormant.

  Amos Deaton gave his wife, Theresa, a grim look as the two men exited the building.
r />   “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “Bad,” Marlin replied.

  “It looks like we are without electricity from now on,” Amos said flatly.

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “What about water?” Theresa asked.

  “The cistern is full, especially after last night,” Marlin said. “That should hold us well into the summer, possibly all the way to fall, if we’re careful.”

  “And then?”

  “There’s a hand pump. It’s a hundred-foot well, hard to pump by hand, but not impossible. There’s water farther down that’s closer to the surface. We’d have to haul it a ways.”

  “We did it before,” Amos put in.

  “What about the locker?” Theresa said, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. She nodded to the second concrete building, slightly larger than the one they had come out of. It was set even deeper into the hillside so that only the front wall stuck out. It housed a community meat locker, the only refrigeration they had.

  “We empty it,” Amos replied. “It’s mostly empty anyway. Divide up the meat between the families. Everyone should can as much as possible.” He shrugged. “Then we feast on what’s left before it goes bad.

  “With the canned food we have and the first greens coming out of the greenhouses, we can make it until the gardens start producing. That meat was more of a luxury anyway,” Marlin said.

  “I know, I know.” Theresa sighed. “We’ll be fine this summer. What about the fall? What about next winter?”

  “We can more. We dry more meats. We make do,” Amos said. “We did it once before, we can do it again.”

  “I remember before,” Theresa said, her lips a tight thin line. Amos didn’t answer; he remembered too.

  When the ranch had been established, they had been assured repeatedly that they could be self-sufficient. Dozens of books had been consulted; many of them were still here in their library. More importantly, locals had been consulted. Some, like Larry Gatlin, were still here. His family had lived in these mountains since the days of the pioneers. Everyone said the same thing. They had enough land, enough livestock, and enough days in their growing season to be completely self-sufficient. It was close, this high up and this far north, but they could do it.

  They had done it, for several years even. But what no book had warned them, what none of the locals, after almost two generations of modern conveniences, had remembered was how hard it was. They survived the winter, but on a near-starvation diet. When the hunters brought back meat, they feasted. In a few days, however, it was back to nearly starving. The cold and the lack of fresh foods sapped their immune systems. Even a mild cold or flu could mean death. The young suffered the most. The Deaton’s had lost both their daughters to those hard years.

  Then Marlin had come, the outsider with his solar array and his knowledge of electronics. They had scavenged an industrial freezer and built the meat locker. From then on, they froze choice produce, preserving far more of its nutritional value. Their men hunted the ridges and forests of the mountain, bringing back wild sheep, elk, and deer to fill the locker each fall. The ranch had thrived for over twenty years.

  “Where’s Marlin?” James asked as Amy came up. He was quickly becoming the spitting image of his father, Larry. Both were thin and lanky, with curly, brown hair and thick, brown beards. He stood beside the old red Farmall tractor, looking thoughtfully at the horizon.

  “He’s busy,” Amy replied, a bit shorter than she had intended. It was, after all, a reasonable enough question—if she had been in the mood to be reasonable.

  “How are we going to get the tractor running now?” Mark whined from the tractor’s seat. He was broader than James, with dark hair, the straggly beginnings of a beard, and dark sunken eyes. Hung over again, no doubt, Amy thought in disgust. She held up her toolbox and stared pointedly at him.

  “We can get it to turn over, but it won’t start up for some reason. We took the battery pack out and jumped it, but that didn’t work,” James explained.

  “I wouldn’t want a girl working on my tractor,” Mark voiced loudly.

  Amy glared at him, her hands tightening on the toolbox.

  James just sighed. “Well, it’s a good thing it’s not your tractor then,” he said. “’Cause if we have to wait for Marlin, we’ll never get the spring plowing done.”

  “Fuck the plowing,” Mark growled as he hopped off the tractor and stomped away.

  Amy gruffly ordered James to take his place on the seat. As James climbed into the seat, two men appeared around the other side. The first was Larry Gatlin, an older, more weathered version of his son. With him was Jacob Clayton, a man with a hawkish face that looked as though it had been chiseled from granite. He had short, gray hair and was clean shaven. His build was thicker than Larry’s, but both had the look of men who spent most of their time in heavy, outdoor labor.

  “Where’s O’Malley going?” Jacob demanded.

  James shrugged. “Just stomped off.” The tractor chugged noisily as he turned the ignition.

  “What pissed him off now?” Larry asked.

  Amy stuck her head out from behind the engine block. “Guess.”

  “Where’s Marlin?” Jacob asked.

  “Busy,” James replied, sparing Amy.

  Larry just rolled his eyes. Neither man said anything further as Amy worked. James and his father weren’t so bad, but she could almost feel Jacob’s disapproval. Not that either of the Gatlins wouldn’t prefer Marlin. It made her so mad. Everyone knew she helped her father in the garage. Why didn’t they want her to do it out in the field?

  She knew the answer, of course. The ranch had definite views about a woman’s place. The garage wasn’t it. As long as they didn’t see her, they could overlook it. They had no choice really. There was too much for Marlin to do by himself, and he had no son to help him. They were not about to admit that most of the work that came out of the garage was done by a woman, however. Amy’s face grew hot as she worked, and not from the fumes of the engine. The tractor continued to chug but not start.

  A man came walking across the field toward them—nearly a man anyway. He was full grown: tall, lanky, and almost painfully thin. His brown hair was cut in a butch, exposing much of his scalp. His face was a study in awkwardness. It was lean and angular, having lost the roundness of youth, but still lacking the weathered lines that would lend it strength in years to come. His bright blue eyes shone with curiosity and youth.

  Amy glanced at him briefly, favoring him with a slightly less disgruntled snort, and returned to her work.

  “Thought I’d come see if you were planning on coming to class today,” Luke said.

  Amy didn’t answer at first. She had missed two days this week already; it was a busy time. If she missed too many more, Amos would come have a talk with her father. Then there would be no choice; she’d have to go.

  “I got to get this—” she began. The tractor roared suddenly, the beleaguered choke catching at last. She stared up at the tractor like it had betrayed her.

  “Good,” Luke said. “I’ll help you with your tools and then we can walk up together.” He reached for her toolbox.

  “I am quite capable,” she snarled, grabbing it away. She stomped off. With a sheepish look toward the men, Luke followed.

  “Men!” Amy exclaimed as she threw her toolbox down.

  “What’d they do now?” Luke inquired.

  “Mark stormed off because it was me, not Dad, who came out to help,” she raged.

  “Mark? He was probably just looking for an excuse to leave. He hates to work.”

  “I hate men!”

  “You shouldn’t judge all men by Mark. He’s an ass.”

  “He’s the worst, but most of them aren’t much better.” Amy continued to fume. “Jacob barely tolerates my presence. James is civil enough, but he’s afraid to be seen with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know, Luke, but you’re not—”

>   “I am eighteen.”

  She stared hard at him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re not like them.”

  Luke sighed. “Mark certainly has no sense of decency or honor,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder why they even let his dad in.”

  Amy snorted loudly. “I don’t think they had a lot of candidates.”

  Luke shifted uncomfortably. The ranch’s school taught that they were elite, sent up here to guard the Nations and their way of life from the infidels and the Jews. The ranch’s library had a handful of books, written by various founders of their movement, spoke of the New World Order, the Jewish Conspiracy, and the coming Race War.

  Amy’s dad had come later, not one of the Nations at all. He told Amy and Luke that the Aryan Nations had, in fact, not been a popular cause before society’s collapse. He claimed the collapse had been brought on by a variety of environmental problems, not any race war. Nor was there any New World Order waiting in the ruins of civilization to attack them.

  Luke couldn’t bring himself to say that the history they were being taught was a lie. Still, he trusted Amy and, more importantly, Marlin. Besides, he had read most of what was in the ranch’s library. A handful of general history books barely mentioned the Aryan Nation, or dismissed them out of hand as a small ideology believed by only a few people. Environmental problems, on the other hand, were mentioned frequently in almost every survival, backwoods, or gardening manual they had.

  The ranch had been built several years before the collapse happened. By the time things started to unravel, their contact with the outside world was already limited. Could they have been misinformed? And if so, what did that mean for them? Had they lived up in the mountains for years, hiding from a threat that wasn’t there?

  About half a dozen kids were already lounging in front of the community hall when Amy and Luke arrived.

  “Well, look who’s joined us today,” Mary Gatlin drawled as Amy threw herself down on the steps. Mary was short with curly, brown hair that she wore tied up with a faded red ribbon. She had brown eyes and a short upturned nose on her rounded face. Her eyes sparkled with malevolence as she watched Amy. “The tomboy’s come to school. Did Mr. Deaton have to threaten your dad again?”