Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus (6 page)

In the meantime, knowing Cassy watched them made it awkward to spend time talking with Amber. That was a shame because Amber was a great woman, and he enjoyed spending time with her. If Jed would just make an actual move on Jasmine, Ethan figured, he could have a clear conscience when he did something real about Amber. His feelings weren’t love, exactly, but Amber was beautiful and clearly interested. Ethan hadn’t had a lot of women in his life over the years. More importantly, he could see that Amber was intelligent—too smart for Jed, for sure—and she had a razor-sharp wit. He enjoyed verbally sparring with her.

Most of all, it was refreshing to finally meet a woman who
understood
what all his prepping had been about. She didn’t look at him askance when he explained why he lived in a bunker, or why he even had a bunker in the first place. All she’d said was that it would have been great if Jed thought ahead like he did.

Amber made her way around the circle then, to sit next to Ethan. “Speak of the devil,” he said as she wiggled her way closer to him on the log “bench,” keenly aware of her leg brushing against his. Too aware, in fact. It was awesome and weird at the same time.

“What’s up, Dark Ryder?” she asked.

Using his hacker name was a bit of a joke to her, but she said it in a way that he felt was meant to be affectionate, not disrespectful. Just flippin’ perfect, his hacker handle turning out to be his pet name.

Ethan grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Just counting the hours until I can get back online and do some good for the U.S. of A.”

“You never really talk about what you do,” she said, but it was more a question than a statement. An invitation.

“Sorry, girl, I can’t talk about some of it. It’s just better if you don’t know the details. But basically, I keep communications open between survivor groups, isolated military units, and freedom fighters. And a few prepper compounds, too, though they don’t really do much that’s useful.”

“You were useful, Ethan. Maybe you just need to be smart enough to figure out how to use them right.”

“I could be more useful, you know,” he said with an exaggerated wink.

Amber snickered. “You’re incorrigible,” she said with a grin. “Although I can’t say I haven’t thought about it. About you and me, I mean. You always make me smile and laugh. I don’t feel so angry all the time when you’re around.”

“I think that may have something to do with you not being invested in your marriage anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. At least, that’s my reading from some of the things we’ve talked about.”

“That may be, hon,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “But Jed and I are parents, and we took vows.”

“Well, I’m not saying that I want you to leave your husband, but so what if you did? The world has changed. We’re a clan now, apparently. I don’t think that will change regardless, so you’d still have your kid. The vows you took in the old world, it seems to me, expired when it did. Relationships don’t exist in a vacuum, they exist in a context. The context of your marriage isn’t what it was a week ago.”

Amber sat in silence, looking pensive, and Ethan was content simply to sit by her companionably and let her think. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss her—just take her in his arms and let the chips fall where they may—but another part of him felt guilty for even thinking it. The world might change in a day, but people took more time. Amber was married. And yet…The old world they knew was burning, and if her marriage burned up with it, maybe that wasn’t so tragic. Her kid would still have his dad. Hell, the whole clan was acting like one big, extended family with the kids, and they seemed to actually be happy about it.

He was torn from his thoughts when Amber jumped to her feet. She faced him with that oh-so-wonderful smile and said, “I need to go check on the kids. Later you can tell me about one of your silly online castle raids, okay? I love how excited you get when you talk about that stuff.”

Ethan nodded and watched her walk away. Amber was in her early thirties and had a child, but her walk still looked amazing. Okay, maybe not so stunning to everyone, though she was cute by anyone’s standard. But her strong inner self shone out, and she lit up his world when she smiled, which only made her more beautiful. If only she would just tell him what she wanted… Ethan turned away to stare at the fire, his emotions jumbled and conflicting.

- 7 -

1930 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7

TAGGART FIRED TWO rounds and ducked back behind the derelict subway car. The ping-ping of return fire struck the car almost immediately. There were ten enemy soldiers when the shooting started, but now only one remained. Too bad this wasn’t Taggart’s mission target. It was only an unpleasant surprise along the way to the real ambush.

Captain Taggart’s men for the mission consisted of Pvt. Eagan, two new resistance recruits, and two “experienced” resistance fighters. Taggart now understood that being experienced was code for Militia members, and so he didn’t trust them at all. Still, they had been obedient and disciplined so far. The Resistance was the only game in town for food, unless someone wanted to volunteer for slave labor with the enemy. Plenty of people did, despite the risks, now that the food was mostly gone.

The
crack
of a rifle signaled the end of the engagement when one of the Militia members, ordered to circle around the other side of the subway car, took off the enemy’s head with his Remington 700. A damn fine hunting rifle as far as Taggart was concerned, and today they were hunting in earnest.

“Listen up,” Taggart barked. “Gather their weapons, ammo, and any radios or food they have on them, and stash it in the conductor’s car. Toss these bastards into the passenger car. Eagan—don’t forget our new orders to spray paint the ‘Circle R’ so they know who did this. We go in three mikes.”

They were done in two minutes, and Taggart resisted the urge to smile at the eagerness with which these civilians followed his orders. Of course, the invaders hadn’t been able to fire back much this time, having been taken by complete surprise. How his civvies would handle being shot at by enemy soldiers on the bounce remained to be seen.

Well, he’d see soon. They were only a few blocks from where they would pop up from the subway into the city above, then it would be time to set up their ambush of a supply convoy heading out of New York to go to God-knows-where.

Twenty minutes later they were above ground and in place for the Op. Taggart and a Militia guy in a second-story window; Eagan and a new recruit behind a dumpster filled with rubble; and the last Militia man and recruit in another building on the first floor. The triangulation of fire would hopefully ensure the quick demise of the convoy defenders, without confusing his own untrained men. But before the shooting would start, two sticks of dynamite in a shoe box on the roadway would stop the convoy cold once Taggart pushed the button. Hopefully.

In ten mikes the convoy should go by (according to Mr. Black’s intel, which might well have come from the 20s, whoever
they
were). Taggart hated this part. As always, the waiting made it the longest ten minutes of Taggart’s life, at least until the next time. The minutes ticked by, each seeming like hours, but eventually he heard the roar of engines approaching. He clicked his radio. “Heads up. OpFor inbound. Tiger One, ready.”

The radio responded. “Tiger Two, ready.” Then, “Tiger Three, ready.”

There was a noise behind him; the scuff of shoes on linoleum. Taggart spun, bringing his M4 to bear at the same time. It took half a second to understand what he saw. Four civilians crept toward him carrying a bat, a chain, and two kitchen knives. They had hunger in their eyes, and desperation.

“Halt. Disperse immediately. This city is under Martial Law by decree of the Commander-in-Chief, and you are required to vacate the area immediately,” said Taggart with his best “Sergeant’s bark.”

Behind him the hum of an engine was becoming a roar of multiple vehicles; the convoy was getting close. Then his radio chirped. “Captain, hostile civilians approaching, request permission to fire.” That would be Eagan. As soon as the radio chirped clear, another voice called out, “Yeah, here too, Cap. Tiger Three about to be engaged by at least ten people with… knives n’ shit.” That would be the Militia guy.

One of the men approaching Taggart—the one with the bat—said, “I don’t give a fuck about them other guys, they aren’t with us. But you got food, and we’re gonna get it. You can’t stop all of us. Hand it over, or I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to you.”

Just great. The approaching engines were nearly in the target zone, too. “This is a mission, and there’s supplies in that convoy. Enough for all of you. Disperse until we take it.” Not that the other civvies would know if these guys agreed. He needn’t have worried, however.

The man sprung forward, bat held in two hands overhead to swing it down on Taggart’s skull. Abruptly two red flowers blossomed on the man’s chest, and he fell onto his face, then lay still. Taggart’s ears rang from his Militia companion’s double-tap. He glanced over and saw the wiry man holding an H&K pistol, now pointed at the remaining three.

Outside, Taggart heard popcorn going off—the sound of the other teams being engaged, and firing. Taggart opened fire at the remaining three men. In under one second, all three were down and dying or dead. The sounds of his other teams firing echoed off the buildings and faded; they too were now either dead or victorious.

The Militia man turned to Taggart even as he dropped the pistol and took up his hunting rifle, nodded once, and turned toward the window. Taggart jumped toward the window and flipped the switch on his small transmitter box, and was rewarded with the deep
boom
of several sticks of dynamite going off. A secondary explosion told Taggart the bomb had taken out a vehicle. There was the screech of tires as the other convoy vehicles halted, and then more popcorn; the distinctive sounds of AKs, as the enemy panic-fired in all directions. A loud, clear voice called out in Arabic, and the enemy fire dwindled to nothing. Must be their commander getting his ratfuck soldiers in order.

By the time Taggart could get back up and peer over the window ledge, the enemy had stopped and dispersed. There were at least thirty of the bastards out there buzzing like hornets to every available piece of cover. Engaging them now would be suicide. Fuck and damn and every other curse word he could think of.

Taggart clicked his radio. “Abort, abort. Rally at exit B or C if you can. Good luck.” He turned to his Militia companion. “Bug out time, soldier. Grab your gear and retreat,” he said, more loudly than he’d intended. Adrenaline, yeah.

But his companion snarled at him, instead of moving out. “Traitor! Kill them or die,” he cried.

The man actually had tears in his eyes, Taggart noted, a damn strange thing to notice right now. Taggart was done. There was no way he could get his weapon into play before this Militia fanatic punched Taggart’s ticket permanently. Taggart tried to be as calm as possible and said, “Listen, brother, go easy. We’re on the same team here…”

The Militia man’s chest exploded, showering the room in crimson gore. Then Taggart heard the deep thump of a heavy machine gun firing from below. Some raghead got a lucky shot in, taking the rabid Militia man out. Thank God.

Taggart grabbed his pack under his left arm and ran, leaping over the civilian bodies. He sprinted out of the apartment to the stairs and was about to leap down to the next landing when he heard glass break below, and a flurry of noise and voices. The enemy was on their way up. Taggart checked his momentum, bouncing painfully off the railing, and flew down the hallway to the unit on the end. He didn’t slow down, just leapt into the air and struck the door with his right boot near the door handle, smashing it open. His momentum carried him through the doorway and into the unit. Inside, two women hiding from the window by crouching behind the couch turned toward the surprise visitor and screamed.

Taggart kept going. He brought his pack up from under his arm and held it before him as he vaulted up to the back of the couch, landing on one foot, and leapt again straight through the large window. His backpack protected him from most of the glass, though he felt a few burning slices in his arms and legs, and fell like a rock. Two stories passed in under two seconds, and he hit the ground hard. Taggart rolled as though this was a parachute landing, as he’d been taught, and came up on his feet. The adrenaline blocked the pain of any injury he may have sustained, thankfully, and he sprinted toward a nearby alley. He heard rifles firing behind him, and as he passed into the alleyway he heard the sharp sounds of bullets striking brick next to him.

And then he was out of their view. He didn’t stop running. Part of him wondered whether the others had escaped, but he had no time to dwell on it. The enemy would surely be coming after him, and it was time to run for his life.

- 8 -

2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7

STEVEN WALLACE STUMBLED under the weight of the basket strapped to his back, which was filled with rubble. A moment later the pain of 50,000 volts of electricity struck him in the arm. With a convulsive full-body twitch he flopped forward and landed on his face, without even the ability to use his arms out to break his fall. The rubble from the basket cascaded over his head painfully, and he heard riotous laughter nearby.

Steven’s face flushed with anger, but as soon as his body would let him he rose to his knees, took off his basket, and began shoveling debris back into it. The Foreman, as the workers had named him, would sooner put a bullet into his head than wait for a slow worker. Back on his feet, Steven began the trudge once again, this time with a quicker pace.