Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus (28 page)

When he got back, Ethan immediately pulled out his laptop and plugged in his USB drive, loaded with goodies. It took only moments to set up his randomized proxy chain through the satellite backdoor, using still-online VPNs and such, and the familiar text box popped up. It downloaded a small .txt file in seconds, and Ethan opened it in a Virtual Machine, sandboxing the file in case it contained spyware or other nasty surprises. He ran some of his tools to scan the file, then the output, and found nothing alarming.

But, the file was in code. Another tool—which had automatically downloaded to his machine the first time he’d made contact with the 20s after the EMPs went off—quickly deciphered it. Oddly, there was still a big block of alphanumeric characters that made no sense. None of his tools knew what to make of it, either, so he stared at it for a long time, for the moment ignoring the rest of the message content.

Then an inspiration hit him; all the
number
in the jumble ranged from 0 to 26. What if this was a stupidly-simple cipher? He pulled up one of his tools, which he’d coded himself after putting together a framework made of snippets of open-source code available on the internet, and instructed it to offset each letter by a number of positions equal to the previous numeral. If a string of letters and a number read “3BHV,” each letter would be offset by three positions, and decoded as “YES.” When coded, Y would become #Y>Z>A>B

Bada bing, money shot! The decoded message popped up. As Ethan read the hidden message, his eyebrows rose, and then rose again. So. Surprise, surprise… The 20s had a leader, and he was American. Apparently, a Lt. General with black ops experience. That was worthwhile news. Moreover this general, named Adam Houle, was putting out a call for hackers and crackers to compile and improve on chunks of Unix code. It didn’t say why, but Ethan suspected that, when all the chunks were improved and sent back, they would comprise some new program to use in the war against the invaders. No doubt related to the cryptic references earlier about “Operation Backdraft.” Hot damn! Better than online castle raids. Almost. For the moment he put aside his curiosity about why Lt. General A. Houle had revealed his identity at this time. Heh, General A. Houle—that
had
to be a fake name, or the man’s mother hated him.

“Well then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Ethan muttered with a smirk, and opened a second attachment. As he suspected, it contained a large, discrete chunk of code for him to work on. Finally, something useful
and
fun to do. Sometimes, being in the 20s was worth the hassle. Even if he was now certain that he was working for The Man, any disappointment in that revelation was lost in the excitement of a new challenge to conquer. One that didn’t involve digging dirt, tending to crops, or getting shot at.

* * *

1900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +19

Out of breath and covered in bruises and scratches, Peter straddled the man, who lay on his back with fear in his eyes. With his knife held blade-down, Peter gave his last ounce of strength to deliver a solid right-cross to the man’s jaw—the blade left a deep slice in the other man’s chest.

Then, face twisted with rage, Peter brought the knife point-first back across to his right, driving it deep into the other man’s neck. Peter wrenched the knife hard and to his right, and the knife sliced its way out of the man’s neck, showering Peter with blood and gore. The victim, whose blood now added to the crimson color of the shirt he wore, twitched and convulsed for half a tick, then fell still.

Peter struggled to his feet and looked around. Surrounding him were the bodies of the fallen; two from White Stag Farms, but most were these red-clad bandits. Peter and his two scouts had given far better than they got when, while scouting, they were leapt upon by half a dozen half-naked men painted in red warpaint and wearing red bandanas, red shirts.

But Peter was alive. Damn right, alive! No way God was going to let him fall, any more than He had let Moses fall. Not when his mission was incomplete. Then the sheer joy of being alive, the
last one
alive, overtook him and he raised his knife high into the air, heedless of the blood that dripped from it onto his face and hair, and let out a terrible cry of victory and rage. Fuck you, raiders!
God
was on his side. Who the hell could stand against
that?

Peter saw the rest of his group, now numbering almost seventy people if the stragglers he’d picked up were counted in, approaching. Their eyes wide with fear, anger, or a dozen different reactions that played across their faces, Peter’s followers watched him with something approaching awe.

He liked the way they made him feel. This was
Peter’s
moment. This story would grow in the telling, and could only enhance his image and reputation. So much the better. Let’s give ‘em a show, he thought, and reached down, dipped three fingers into the hot blood still seeping from the dead man’s neck, and reached up to paint three stripes across his face. He watched as his followers either looked away or stared, eyes wide. Let them look. He’d written his victory in blood for all to see.

Jim separated himself from the crowd and approached just as Peter heard a rough burst of coughing from his left. Reflexively, he lowered into a half crouch, knife between him and the source of the noise, lips pulling back into a savage grin. But there was no real threat, Peter realized. One of the red-clad men was regaining consciousness. His whole body shook from coughing, and despite a bit of blood bubbling from the man’s mouth, Peter had no mercy or pity in his eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Peter turned his head to face Jim. “You see? God has provided, and has been my shield and my rod, if you believe in such things. Jim, take this man far aside and get answers any way you want, but do get them. Find out how many of his people remain, where their camp is, and whatever he knows about their leader. If we can talk to their leader we will, but if he’s not the talking sort, I need to know that.”

Jim would pretend to hate the task, of course, but whatever. He was the only one Peter could trust to do the job right, and not to keep the info close to his vest—he’d tell Peter, no matter what the guy spilled to him. Jim was mostly a good man, pretty damn bent but loyal, and easily convinced that the unsavory things Peter tasked him with were necessary in this freakin’ hell of a new world. He seemed to need the excuse, and Peter had no qualms about providing him one. Well, Jim’s kind of loyalty was hard to find even before the shit hit the fan. It was more valuable than gold these days. As long as Peter kept giving Jim the noble excuses the twisted bastard needed to indulge his inner self, he would probably die for Peter if he asked him to.

Jim nodded, lips pursed as he mentally prepared himself for the task ahead, which might well get very unpleasant. He was good at this. He could be very, very persuasive when Peter ordered him to be. Peter knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for the information.

Peter turned again to the growing crowd of his people, raised his knife into the air once more, and screamed his bloody, victory roar. None now dared return his gaze, and Peter allowed himself a satisfied smile. Why not?

It was all going the way it had to go. And he’d be a legend before this was over.

# # #

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