EMPowered- America Re-Energized
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Hu activated the emergency braking system. The locomotive bucked, its wheels screeched against the rails, and he braced himself.
Was it an earthquake? A collapse?
A black, swirling shadow engulfed the train.
The locomotive slammed to a stop. Hu was catapulted into the control console, the impact simultaneously extracting breath, blood, and urine. He could hear steel grinding and moaning against ancient rock, could feel train cars pounding, compressing the diesel engine like an aluminum can.
A curtain of flames was devouring oxygen, replacing it with dense sooty smoke.
I’m going to die inside this mountain, he thought, along with a thousand Chinese soldiers.
6
District Ten, Idaho
SYBIL STOOD FROZEN, watching blue-helmeted peacekeepers upend drawers and rummage through closets, voracious looters stripping everything of value. Her father’s guns. Her mother’s jewelry.
A brawny hand clutched Sybil’s elbow and hurled her onto the floor. She landed hard on her back. “What are you doing? Get out of my house!”
The front door slammed shut.
A combat boot settled against the base of her throat, pressure increasing, making her struggle for air.
A Chi-pad flashed. A photograph?
One of the peacekeepers had a syringe.
The needle dove deep into her arm, and a teeth-gnashing ache branched from shoulder to fingertips. Her poisoned dog flitted through her mind, the listlessness, the vomiting, the diarrhea.
Will that happen to me?
The boot retracted, and as Sybil greedily snorted in a lungful of air, the front door swung open.
“Dad!”
The word withered, overpowered by the blast of a firearm.
Her father’s head lurched to the left.
Spatter materialized on the white door like a burst of spray paint with ghoulish bloody fingers trailing downward.
Then she felt an agonizing thud, the vibration of his lifeless body bounding against the floor.
7
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
ABBY REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, certain she had been abducted by at least two Islamic terrorists. Dazed and unnerved, her mind succumbed to a crippling fear. The life, the future she would never have flashed through her mind. A reunion with Bradley, holidays with her family, her father giving her away on her wedding day, becoming a mother—each unrealized milestone thickened and solidified like setting cement, weighing her down, entombing mind and body.
All those hours I trained, she thought. For this—to die without even firing a shot.
The realization was a sobering slap to the face.
All those hours I trained FOR THIS!
The paralysis shattered, and she began assessing her situation.
A black hood hugged the contours of her face, tied snugly around her neck. Abby was lying on her back, legs bent at a right angle, suspended by ropes that pinched her ankles. The soles of her bare feet pointed skyward; and bound beneath her torso, her hands felt numb and tingly.
Birds were chirping, and a cool breeze was skimming her legs.
I’m outside, she decided. Good news if wooded cover was nearby; bad news if she was out in the open.
She tilted her legs forward, straining against the ropes, and lifted her hips. Her hands inched along her backbone, fingers worming beneath her T-shirt toward her concealed weapon.
Something crashed against the sole of her right foot, and the stinging pain made her gasp.
The blows alternated left and right.
Abby writhed and arched her back. She kicked with exaggerated movement, using the foot whipping to mask her true objective. Elbows splaying outward, she rotated her wrists. Rope dug into flesh, and her hands began to throb, a bass rift for the crescendo of pain tearing through her feet. She continued rotating until the fingertips of her right hand touched her left forearm.
“How are TEradS teams tracking believers?” demanded a voice with a Middle Eastern accent.
Abby didn’t respond. Her right thumb dove beneath her bra strap. She spun the sheath of duct tape and maneuvered it into her palm.
The foot-lashing blows escalated in frequency and force, diminishing any chance of a barefoot escape. Sweat drenched Abby’s body. Eyes clenched, she held her breath against the pain, then gulped in mouthfuls of air, choking and coughing.
“What is your countersign?” the man snarled.
The sign and countersign were words exchanged between a sentry and an approaching soldier, a secret challenge and password to distinguish friend from foe. The correct countersign would instruct a sentry not to fire, creating a hesitation that would allow an enemy to slaughter him and punch a hole through perimeter security. The knowledge was considered so dangerous that under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, its improper disclosure was punishable by death.
Ignoring the question, Abby wrestled the ceramic blade from its sheath and began hacking at the rope binding her wrists.
“You will tell us!”
Abby smelled a strong odor, familiar and disturbing.
Panic ricocheted between her sinuses and her brain.
It was the unmistakable scent of diesel.
Suddenly, Abby’s feet were wet. Streams of fuel spiraled down her legs slithering like snakes. She kicked against the ankle restraints to disguise the frantic sawing motion of the blade. She was halfway through the rope. Just a few more seconds.
“The most heat-sensitive skin is on the sole of the foot. That makes foot roasting a very effective means of torture.”
Inches from her face, he struck a match, and Abby could smell the sulfur.
“Last chance. The countersign?”
“Go. To. Hell!”
“Then let the righteous flames of Allah devour the infidel!”
8
District Eight, Colorado
THOUSANDS OF FRIGHTENED residents swamped the hospital. All available personnel were administering vaccines; and to ease public anxiety, the UW commander promised that no one would be turned away, even if it meant working through the night.
“Gwen Ling? Is that you?”
She stared at the fortyish man with friendly brown eyes and a blond beard, baffled, until he smiled.
“Sam? Sam Klein?” Gwen stood on tiptoe to compensate for her four-foot-seven frame and wrapped her arms around his neck, accidentally ensnaring the double barrel of his shotgun in the embrace. “I haven’t seen you since college. How are you?”
“Alive.”
“Well, that’s an accomplishment these days.” With her Chi-pad, Gwen captured his photograph. Facial recognition software immediately identified him, analyzed his medical records, and determined which serum to administer. Blue was prescribed for healthy adults and children; red, for those with underlying medical conditions; and she was surprised when the computer indicated red.
“Do you have any allergies? Or chronic diseases?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
Gwen attempted to open his medical file and was denied access.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, a roguish smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “The Chi-coms forget to hack my records before the EMP?”
Having emigrated from China at the age of eighteen, Gwen was not about to let the remark go unchallenged. “The U.S. government had all computerized data backed up in Hawaii, beyond reach of the pulse. And those Chi-coms you love to bash? They’re the ones who restored your electricity and provided you with this.” She displayed a syringe with a red label and scanned its barcode with her Chi-Pad, automatically updating inventory and Sam’s medical file.
“I appreciate that, but the pillaging and plundering pisses me off. It’s like we traded one set of terrorists for another.”
“Don’t you dare equate humanitarian aid workers with religious extremists.” Gwen swabbed his left arm with an antiseptic wipe and jabbed the needle in with more force than necessary.
The pain and embarrassment in his eyes dissipated Gwen’s ire. Her mind drifted back two decades, to the night of college graduation. Sam had surprised Franny Marion with an engagement ring; and she had shocked him by declining his proposal and committing to the Army.
“She took off a year ago,” Gwen told him. “Her daughter was killed last May in a tragic accident. And she just disappeared.”
“Franny had a daughter ... ? How old?”
“Sierra was, I think, eight maybe nine. Listen, Sam, we’ll have to catch up another time. Things are crazy here today.”
As Gwen greeted her next patient, a worrisome feeling pulsed through her, guilt mixed with regret, the overwhelming sensation that she had just made a terrible mistake.
9
District Ten, Idaho
SYBIL STARED VACANTLY through the bay window of an unfamiliar guest room. Darkness was stealing across the sky, a malevolent emptiness devoid of hope. She had cried for hours; and now, even her tears had forsaken her.
“Sybil ... ? Honey?” a gentle voice asked.
It belonged to Mrs. Bissel, a neighbor who had become more like family after the EMP. She and her ten-year-old son, Israel—who went by Izzy—had fought beside Sybil and her dad back when terrorist cells massacred a quarter of the town.
“I know your father intended to leave the district,” Mrs. Bissel said, sinking wearily onto the denim-cushioned bench seat across from her. She brushed a strand of earthy brown hair behind her ear. Her compassionate hazel eyes were still glassy with tears.
“Izzy and I planned to tag along as far as Salt Lake City; then find our own way to Barclay Air Force Base in Colorado, where my husband is stationed.”
Sybil nodded politely. Izzy constantly bragged about Mr. Bissel. He was a hero, part of the Terrorist Eradication Squad.
“We’re still planning to make that trip.”
Sybil’s gaze swung toward her, alarm and desolation prickling along her neck. “You’re, you’re leaving?”
“We have to pass through Salt Lake City, where your Uncle Kevin lives and ... and you’re welcome to come with us.” Her hand clasped Sybil’s shoulder and gave a reassuring joggle. “Take some time. Think it over.”
“Could I bring Star?”
“That would be a great idea. We could pack her saddlebags with bottled water and whatever rations I can scrounge up.”
A sense of purpose began to grow inside Sybil. Her father wanted her out of the district, wanted to spread the word about the peacekeepers, and she vowed to honor those wishes. “When can we leave?”
“How about Wednesday morning? That’ll give us time to pay our proper respects to your father.”
“Mrs. Bissel ...” Her voice fractured and trailed into a whisper. “Thank you for ... for not leaving me here ... Alone.”
Sybil melted into her motherly embrace; and a rush of discrepant tears dampened her face, grief intertwined with hope, anger with gratitude, fear with determination.
Once Mrs. Bissel had said good-night, Sybil pulled on her jacket and climbed through the ground-floor bay window. She tiptoed past her house, ghostly silver in the moonlight, and her eyes gravitated to the blood-spattered front door. Her mind recreated the scene hidden behind it, her father lying in a heap on the foyer floor.
The soldiers had branded him a criminal and told gathering neighbors that they had shot him in self-defense.
“Lies,” she muttered. “I’ll make it right, Dad, I swear. I’m going to write down what really happened in that journal, the one we bought for Mom’s birthday. I’ll make sure people know the truth.”
Feeling foolish for talking to herself, she trudged into the barn. Minutes later, the white Arabian horse was saddled, and Sybil guided her north through the heavy scent of freshly overturned soil. Spring crops would be planted this month, transforming barren circular patches into lush fields of green; and come harvest time, into a militarized zone.
Last fall, the UW peacekeepers had introduced “food safety standards” that prohibited the personal consumption, donation, trade, or sale of crops. Under the rationale of security, all production was purchased by Chi-Mart, the only entity equipped to conduct extensive testing for chemical and biological toxins.
Incensed by the law, an armed rebellion arose, but the town’s vitality had already been undermined by waves of terrorists and military inductions ages sixteen to forty. Six hundred residents fought in the “Food Rebellion,” including Sybil’s father, and nearly four hundred souls were lost in a brutal UW suppression.
Live safely or we’ll kill you, she thought caustically.
While Star grazed on wild grasses and guzzled her fill of water from the reservoir, Sybil studied the constellations, pondering the concept of heaven.
Are my parents watching over me? Or am I alone?
Her Chi-phone rang and she reached for it, expecting that Mrs. Bissel had discovered her absence. Given the time of night and all that had transpired, she hadn’t bothered to ask permission to feed and water Star. Mrs. Bissel never would have approved.
The phone’s touch screen was blinking red, and a computerized voice began to speak.
“Sy-bil Lud-ing-ton, you have strayed beyond the limits of District Ten ...”
10
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
THE FUEL IGNITED.
Abby heard herself shrieking, an involuntary response to the excruciating heat; then a cloth smothered her feet, extinguishing the flames.
Panting and light-headed, she focused on the ceramic blade.
So close to breaking through. Come on!
With an unexpected jerk, Abby was hoisted upward feetfirst. Dangling upside down, ropes grated against her ankles, and a high-pitched metallic squeak cut through her.
A swing set!
Visions from the past exploded like an emotional bomb. The teenaged girl dragged from her home to the elementary school, bound to the swing set, savagely raped and beheaded—the memory was so vivid Abby could smell the stench of the girl’s body decomposing in the Florida sun.
Hands groped her legs. A stubbly cheek grazed her inner thigh.
Abby’s legs snapped shut like the jaws of an alligator; her knees clamped around his neck, and she hurled herself upward in an inverted sit-up. A resounding crack of bone accompanied the head butt. She leaned back for a follow-up strike, and a forearm closed around her throat.
Realizing the last threads of rope had ruptured, Abby plunged the ceramic blade into the man’s arm, filleting it from wrist to elbow.
“Fuck!”
He immediately let go.
Abby swiped wildly, meting out a second gash.
“Webber, calm down!”
She ripped off the hood, blinking in confusion. Sergeant Villano lay on his back, fingers tented over his nose. Sergeant Zielinski’s chin dripped blood as he repurposed his belt into a tourniquet and applied pressure to his forearm. Both were members of TEradS Team 8A.
These are the guys I’m supposed to trust with my life?
Enraged, Abby heaved her exhausted body upward and latched onto the metal crossbar with her left hand. Her grip tenuous, blade hand shaking, she sheared the first rope. Abby began to slip; and fearful that a fall would injure her bound ankle, she lashed at the remaining rope. Momentum carved through the fibers in one fell swoop and sliced into her right shin.
“Shit!”
She jettisoned the blade, lunged for the crossbar with her right hand—too late. Her left foot hit first, her right a second later, like landing on a bed of broken glass.
Abby stood frozen, waiting for the pain to subside, then she settled onto the rubber swing. She removed the ropes from her wrists and ankles, inspecting the damage. The soles of her feet hadn’t bee
n set ablaze. The assholes had doused them with water and shot her with a millimeter-wave gun, a directed-energy weapon that heated water molecules in the outer layer of skin and agitated nerve endings. The high-tech pain ray hadn’t inflicted any real damage, but the whipping had left her feet swollen and tender.
Moaning, Villano sat upright. “What just happened?”
“You went off script,” Zielinski told him. “Thought you were funny, sticking your fucking face between her legs.”
“Script?” Abby shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We needed to know whether we could trust you,” Zielinski said, ratcheting his makeshift tourniquet tighter. “Whether you would give us up at the first sign of trouble. It’s about toughness.”
“Well, now you know,” Abby told him. “I’m tough enough to jack you up. Blindfolded. With my hands tied behind my back.” She retrieved her shoes and socks from the sliding board, and jammed her aching feet back into her sneakers.
Blotting his bloody face with the sleeve of his T-shirt, Villano said, “Are you gonna give us up? And go cryin’ to Captain Andrews?”
Abby walked past him, concealing the pain in each step, and said, “Good question.”
11
District Ten, Idaho
“Sy-bil Lud-ing-ton, you have strayed beyond the limits of District Ten into a terrorist enclave, where sexual assaults, stonings, and beheadings are common. Return to District Ten.”
They’re tracking me?
Sybil glared at the Chi-phone she had been so eager to attain, recognizing it as an electronic choke collar that allowed peacekeepers to censor her speech, restrict her movements, and preclude her from purchasing food.
A fusion of rage and vulnerability reached critical mass, and she flung the Chi-phone into the water. The splash was drowned out by a thwump-thwump-thwumping sound.
An inky shadow was gliding over the reservoir, only discernible by the disturbance generated on the water’s glimmering surface.