Survival EMP (Book 3): Solar Dawn

by Lopez, Rob

  Parson removed his helmet to wipe the sweat on his brow. “It’s privately owned,” he said.

  “Not anymore. I hereby confiscate this land for the Carolina Militia for the duration of the emergency. I’ll get the governor to sign an order to that effect. Have the tractor bring our stores down here.”

  “What about the rest of your people?”

  “They can go someplace else. Have the Housing Committee sort them out.”

  “We have a Housing Committee?”

  “There’ll be one set up soon. Report to the governor and tell him what I’ve just told you. I’m also promoting you to company commander. Pick three of your best men to serve as platoon leaders.”

  “We don’t have enough men to fill a platoon, never mind a company.”

  “We will. Report to me with your chosen platoon leaders at 16:00 hours. That will be all.”

  Parson was in no hurry to move, and he gazed up at Connors. “Is this all necessary? Running the place like a military camp?”

  Connors eyeballed him. “How do you suggest I run it, soldier?”

  Parson shrugged. “Just seems a little extreme. The people have survived a hard time, and I’m thinking it’s better to go easy on them. We’ve been running things okay. Why don’t you watch to see how things work before changing stuff?”

  Connors stroked his horse’s neck for a while. Eventually he said, “I appreciate your candor, soldier. Really, I do. But let me ask you a question. Do you really consider the current situation to be, as you put it, okay?”

  “I guess.”

  Connors showed disappointment. “See, it’s about standards, soldier. My standards are higher than yours. When I see people living like bums in a fine city like this, it makes me sad. When I see mothers carrying rifles as they walk their children to the food stations because they’re afraid someone’s going to rob them, I think to myself that something ain’t right. When the city’s split into dozens of little communities who have to lock their doors at night and mount their own security details, it’s a sign that all is not well. Life is not what you might call commodious, if you get my meaning.”

  “We’re doing the best we can, sir.”

  “Sure. And it could be better. Living without the fear that some yahoos from the hills are about to attack you would be a good start. Having everybody be more productive instead of leaving it to a dedicated few would be better. Bringing back some order and a sense of faith in the law gives people the freedom to move around with a little more ease. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Parson thought about it. “I’m guessing maybe I would.”

  “Then you do exactly as I tell you. Our first job is to pacify the rowdier elements, and for that you need some discipline and some direction. I’m here to provide both.” Connors sat up in the saddle. “Now follow my orders and I’ll see you at the briefing this afternoon. Dismissed.”

  Parson gave him a casual salute and walked off.

  Leon, Taft and Fick watched him go with barely veiled contempt.

  “He’s going to be a problem,” said Fick, leaning indolently in the saddle.

  “Not necessarily,” said Connors. “He just isn’t used to good command.”

  “Goddamn part-time soldier.”

  “He’s still a soldier.”

  “Rear echelon mofo, that’s what he is. You think you’re going to be able to do anything with these people?”

  “I don’t think. I know.” Connors eyed his subordinate. “You’d do well to remember who’s in charge here.”

  Fick squinted into the sun like he hadn’t heard anything. Leon and Taft sat impassive, unconcerned with little dramas.

  Connors gazed at the chateau. “Don’t doubt me, boys,” he murmured. “We’re building a great enterprise here, and we’re going to do it right. There’ll be no petty bureaucracy to get in the way now.”

  “What about Rick Nolan?”

  Connors glared at Fick. “What about him?”

  “He got in your way last time.”

  Connors’ anger flickered a moment longer, then subsided. “I suspect he’s long gone by now,” he muttered.

  “And if he isn’t?”

  “Then we’ll deal with him,” snapped Connors.

  13

  “I can’t believe we’re going to risk our lives just to deliver honey,” said Scott at the wheel of the Blazer. I-40 was clear in both directions as it made its long climb around Marion.

  “We’re not just going to deliver it,” explained Packy, as if to a child. “I have samples. I’m going to gain their interest in what we have, negotiate some prices and see what they can offer in return. We seal the deal. Then we deliver the honey.”

  “They’re not going to give two shits about honey.”

  “Au contraire, my obnoxious friend. Honey is high in energy, easy to store long-term and is reputed to have medicinal properties. It also tastes damn good, and who doesn’t want great-tasting food in these times? Besides you, that is.”

  “Can’t believe you let this asshole talk you into this,” Scott said to Rick.

  Ignoring the conversation, Rick maintained his vigilance. “Stop,” he said suddenly.

  Scott, who’d been taking it easy, slowed the vehicle to a gentle halt. Rick leaned out and focused his binoculars on a distant bridge spanning the interstate.

  “That the one?” asked Scott.

  Rick observed two armed guards on the bridge. “That’s the one.”

  He got out of the vehicle, leaving his M4 inside. Packy got out too, checking the contents of his bag.

  “This the group Doug told you about?” Rick asked him.

  “I think so,” said Packy. “The Ashworth group, he called them.”

  Rick leaned in to talk to Scott. “Take the vehicle to that rest area we passed and stay hidden. We’ll come find you.”

  “I’ll give you till nightfall,” said Scott.

  Rick nodded. If he hadn’t made it back by then, it was probably because he couldn’t. The consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Scott drove off and Rick turned to Packy. “You’d better be good at this.”

  “Have no fear,” assured Packy. “I’m the best I know.”

  “You don’t know anybody.”

  “That’s why I like to use that metric. I get to be unique.”

  Or delusional, thought Rick. “Just don’t get us killed.”

  It was a long walk. Halfway there, the guards on the bridge reacted to their presence. The shrill note of a whistle carried in the still air.

  “Time to get our calling card out,” said Packy.

  From his bag he pulled out a large white bed sheet. Taking an end each, Rick and Packy stretched it out, unfurling the sign that Packy had painted on it: We come to trade.

  It wasn’t the worst idea that Rick had ever seen, but it did make them an even bigger target. As he walked forward holding the sheet, he watched as other armed figures appeared, both on the bridge and in the trees by the exit ramp. Whistles continued to blow in the distance as word spread.

  They stopped before the bridge, all rifles aimed at them.

  “Who are you?” shouted a voice.

  “We are peaceful traders, sir,” called back Packy. “Bearers of bountiful goods, rare produce and choice delicacies.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Packy sighed. “Education these days,” he muttered. Raising his voice, he shouted: “I got some good shit for you.”

  Rick wasn’t impressed with his sales technique so far. The Ashworth community, on the other hand, looked pretty organized as more rifles rapidly appeared. They were also unduly paranoid as earnest faces showed themselves and aimed all their weapons at just two guys. It was unnecessary overkill, and Rick guessed that they’d been attacked so many times that they were jumpy. Still, it showed a poor grasp of tactics, displaying themselves like that.

  “Have you seriously come to trade?” said the head guard.

  Packy n
odded toward the sign. “Exactly what it says.”

  “What have you got to trade? Besides your lives, that is.”

  “Let us come up and I’ll show you.”

  “You wait right there. If you move I’ll blow your head off.”

  They came down en masse to search them and grew a little more suspicious and belligerent when they found Rick’s Glock. They were even more baffled when they found the jars of honey, soap and makeup, among other things. Herded up the ramp, they were taken down a tree-lined road to a construction supply yard, where various materials had been used to make a fortified encampment. Through the trees and from houses, more people kept coming to gawk at the strangers.

  Seated under a corrugated sheet metal canopy in the yard was a man with rough features and the hands of a construction worker. Standing by him was a thin young woman. The confiscated goods were laid out on the desk in front of him, and he cast a slow eye over them, settling on the Glock, which he picked up. Ejecting the magazine, he checked the rounds, slammed it back in, and looked directly at Rick in his uniform, as if trying to figure him out.

  “Howdy,” said Packy.

  The man turned to look at him, but didn’t say anything.

  “These goods are just a sample,” said Packy. “Having been in business for, well, a few months, I have developed the talent of acquisition. You won’t find a better supplier this side of the Mississippi, or, dare I say it, a more talented or resourceful business partner. If I say I can get something, you can be assured of prompt delivery, because my word is my bond.”

  The man stared at him for a while, then gestured his hands in sign language.

  The woman interpreted. “What do you want?” she said.

  “Oh wow,” said Packy. “Can he understand what I’m saying? Like, can he read my lips?”

  The man signed, his hands moving in brusque, cutting movements.

  “Don’t talk like I’m not here,” said the woman.

  “What, you mean you? Or him?”

  Affronted, the man signed some more.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” said the woman.

  “That is so cool,” said Packy. “Are you two, like, together? Man, the pillow talk must be great.”

  More furious signing.

  “Mind your own expletive business,” said the woman.

  Packy laughed. “That is amazing! You can swear in sign language?”

  The man flipped him the bird.

  Rick had seen enough. “Packy, shut up.” He looked directly at the man. “He’s here to trade goods if you’re interested. If not, we’ll be on our way. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  “Whoa, dude,” said Packy. “A little more diplomacy is needed here. This is a mission of goodwill.”

  The man scrutinized Rick, then signed his question.

  “What’s your story?” said the woman.

  “I’ve got another reason to be here,” said Rick.

  “And what is that exactly?”

  “I want to know what problems you’ve had with the raiders.”

  The man pondered his words, then signed back: “Send the idiot with you away, and we’ll have a talk.”

  *

  “My name is Lou, and this is Farah,” said the woman, interpreting.

  Rick took the offered seat, wondering how to address this incongruous conversation. “What’s your role here, besides interpreter?” he asked her.

  “Lou’s my partner,” said Farah candidly, “and this is, or was, our business. Lou handled the external materials, and I handled the interiors like carpets and flooring. I don’t like your friend. He’s very rude.”

  “He’s not my friend,” said Rick. “He works his side of the street, and I work mine.”

  Lou signed, “Are you really a soldier, or do you just dress like one?”

  “I did my time.”

  Lou picked up the Glock, gazed at it with a certain nostalgia, then slid it across the table to Rick. “So did my brother,” he signed. “He died in Iraq.”

  Rick holstered the pistol. “I’m sorry. What unit was he in?”

  “I don’t remember what unit. I only remember my brother.”

  In spite of being invited to sit down, Rick sensed antipathy. “You want to talk about the raiders?”

  “No.”

  “You have to understand,” added Farah. “It’s a sensitive subject. We’ve lost people to those animals. Very good people.”

  Lou signed: “I want to talk about what you know, and how you’re going to help.”

  Rick felt that Lou had stolen his line. “I know where the raiders are based. I know they’ve got vehicles, and they strike out along these roads. I know they take women as hostages. I know Old Fort asked you for help against them in the past.”

  “Old Fort is far away. We have our own problems. Nobody helped us.”

  “Old Fort’s been wiped out. The survivors have been driven out of their homes.”

  “It’s Old Fort’s problem.”

  “Are you being attacked by the raiders?” asked Rick.

  Lou glowered at him.

  “Then it’s not just Old Fort’s problem,” said Rick.

  “We’re not fighters, Mr. Nolan,” said Farah. “We cannot leave our homes undefended, and we cannot afford to lose any more people. It was impractical to send anyone to Old Fort.”

  “We defend what we have,” signed Lou.

  “You’re a sitting target, while the raiders get to go where they want,” said Rick. “How many women have been taken from here?”

  Farah was about to answer when Lou cut her off with a wave. “What do you want from us?” he signed.

  “An alliance,” said Rick.

  “No,” signed Lou. “You want more. Who do we ally with? Where’s your army? You don’t have one. That’s why you come to us. You want us to fight for you. What do we get in return? Dead bodies. That is what we get.”

  “The raiders used to take our food,” explained Farah quickly. “But after the winter, they kidnapped people.” She squirmed uncomfortably. “Women. Some people here mounted a rescue operation, marching toward Old Fort. The next day, the raiders dumped their bodies on the interstate.”

  “Everybody wants our help,” signed Lou furiously, “but nobody helps us. The expletives at Lake James won’t even let us get fish there. They supply the raiders but they shoot our people if we try to go near the lake. It’s a big lake, but we cannot go there.”

  “It’s the lake on the other side of Marion,” added Farah. “The raiders blackmailed the community there to supply them with fish in return for taking no more hostages.”

  “They’re expletive cowards,” signed Lou.

  It seemed to Rick that the situation was more complicated than he thought. “How many more communities are around here?” he asked.

  “There’s a few,” said Farah, “but none of them are strong enough to take on the raiders.”

  “On their own.”

  “On their own,” conceded Farah. “They won’t cooperate, though.”

  “Forget your alliance,” signed Lou. “We’ve all got our own problems.”

  The answer seemed obvious to Rick. “The raiders aren’t invulnerable. If we work together, we can beat them.”

  “My brother died in Iraq because people like you in Washington used him to further their own interests.”

  “I’m not like the people in Washington.”

  “You are, and you want our people to die for your cause. Forget it. Fight your own battles.”

  Rick came away from the meeting without an agreement. On the way to the interstate he found Packy, who seemed a lot happier.

  “Got my first orders,” said Packy. “This is looking good.”

  “Glad you think so,” said Rick. “Look, there’s a bunch of communities around here. I want you to try to connect to them.”

  “See? You understand the need for trading networks.”

  “Not really. I just want to see who else is out th
ere and how friendly they are.”

  14

  Chuck and Josh foraged on the west side of the camp, where the hill sloped down toward Highway 70. Josh had his air rifle out, scanning the trees for squirrels. Chuck, on the other hand, was searching the ground, looking for fiddleheads. He’d identified a wide area of Ostrich ferns among the trees, and the curled, edible fiddleheads were sprouting through the dead matter on the forest floor. With his good arm, he snapped them off and put them in his bag. Elbowing back the slung shotgun that kept swinging around every time he bent over, he sidestepped down the slope. The tender shoots were everywhere, and he was eager to get as many as possible. Properly cooked, they were rich in nutrients, but once they uncurled and grew into ferns, they weren’t so good, and in the woods, they grew fast.

  The air rifle cracked and Chuck turned in time to see a squirrel tumble to the earth. “Good kill,” he said, stepping over a fallen branch. He wasn’t looking where he was going, and his foot settled on the side of a stone, sliding off. Still straddling the branch, Chuck struggled to maintain his balance. The heavy shotgun swung low, and he could feel himself going. He hooked one leg onto the branch, but it rolled with his weight. Impulsively, he reached for a sapling with his right arm. It was his bad arm, and as he stretched it out, he got a stab of pain from his shoulder, causing him to retract it hastily. By now, he was sliding down. He tried to plant his feet more securely, but the branch between his legs hindered him. The branch got caught between two trees, stopping abruptly, but the effect caused Chuck to trip over it. Before he knew it, he was sliding and rolling down the slope, fiddleheads raining over his head as his bag emptied. When he finally came to a halt, he was dazed and his ears were filled with a low roar.

  He thought it was because he’d knocked his head. Then he realized it was engines he was hearing.

  Below him, clear between the trees, was the highway. Vehicles rolled along it, and he saw armed men with their elbows out of the windows. One of them looked up to him, and in the next second the vehicles braked hard. A door opened, and a lanky individual in a leopard-print vest stepped out.

  “Hey you,” the man shouted to him, drawing back the bolt on his rifle.