Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus (8 page)

“Does it feel like fire running through your leg? Not like getting poked, but like your leg is on fire?”

“It… It’s starting to burn,” Mary managed through her tears, but she looked only more frightened now, Frank saw.

“Good, that’s one hurdle down. It wasn’t a coral snake, thank God Almighty. Did you hear a rattle noise, like a buzzing?”

“No,” said Mary with a new hope in her eyes, but she was still pumping adrenaline. Frank thought she looked ready to lose her mind.

“It could still be a rattlesnake, but no buzzing noise is a good sign,” said Cassy in a calm but friendly voice—the same voice Mary used when their son got really hurt but had to be kept calm to examine his ouchie.

Cassy then used the mini-flashlight on Mary, shining the light into both eyes for several infinitely long minutes, then looked up at Frank. “No eyelid droop. We have a real good shot that it was only a copperhead snake.” She looked up and said, “Michael! See if you can find the snake!”

“Aren’t copperheads venomous?” squeaked Mary, and her face looked to be torn between relief and fear of the other shoe dropping any moment.

“Sure as shit, yes they are,” Cassy replied, but then she smiled and glided her fingers over Mary’s hair, and moved a stray lock out of her face. “But, no one dies from a copperhead bite unless you’re real young or real old, or already half-dead from something else. You are healthy.”

“But what happens? Will I lose my leg? Should we go to a hospital? What about my kids?”

Cassy held up both hands, palms toward Mary. “Whoa. Calm down, take a deep breath. First thing’s first. Keep the bite below your heart. Sorry honey, you sleep sitting up tonight. But, no ice, no cuts, no sucking out the poison. That shit works in movies, but these days we know better, okay?”

“How do you know all this, Cassy?” asked Mary quietly. Her shoulders slumped as the tension and fear receded, and she wiped a tear from her eye.

“I’ve just taken a lot of classes and done a lot of studying. Woodcraft, alternative and emergency medicine, farming… Lots of stuff. And I read a lot. Snakes that live in my area seemed like a good thing to get familiar with.”

Frank swept Cassy into his arms and nearly crushed her in his grateful embrace. “Thank you, Cassy,” he whispered into her ear. He saw goose bumps rise up all over Cassy’s neck and shoulder, but said nothing. Instead, he stepped away and kneeled next to his wife, and held her hand. Cassy grinned at the two.

Michael returned then and held the corpse of a snake in his hand. It was about two feet long and bore the distinctive hourglass pattern of a copperhead. Frank felt a sudden relief; having a venomous snake slithering around when there were kids nearby was a recipe for disaster.

Cassy nodded at Michael and mouthed the word “thanks,” then said to Frank, “Listen, she’s not completely out of the woods. She almost certainly won’t die or lose her leg, okay? But, she will probably have some difficulty breathing and might vomit. The leg may or may not swell up depending on how much venom the copperhead used, but any swelling shouldn’t be severe. Here’s the important part, Frank. Someone has to check her breathing, pulse, and temperature every hour, because if she goes into shock, we’ll have to risk making her lie down with her feet elevated. Shock can be fatal quickly, Frank, but the venom would make treatment dangerous. Do you know how to check her temperature and pulse? Ethan has a glass thermometer and a wind-up watch that still works.”

Frank only nodded. He had a kid, so of course he knew how to check a temperature, and he’d been an athlete before his son Hunter came along. Checking his pulse was second nature to him. Thank God that wonderful woman knew what the hell to do, and how to tell what kind of snake had bit Mary. If Cassy hadn’t been there, Frank would have moved heaven and earth to get his wife to the nearest hospital, in Elverson some eight miles away, even though it would have meant risking moving fast through a forest at night. That would have been a recipe for more injuries…

“Father God, thank You for sparing my wife, and for bringing Cassy into the clan when You did. And we thank You for all Your blessings, especially those we don’t know about. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

Mary raised her hand and lightly stroked the growing stubble on her husband’s face. “I was scared to leave you and Hunter,” she said. Then her eyes got that slightly squinty look she got whenever she was feeling mischievous, and Frank grinned even before she continued, “I mean, he’d starve without someone to make sure he eats, and I haven’t forgotten the week you made nothing but chili when I was visiting Mom!”

Frank forced a laugh for his wife’s sake, but inside he was churning. This had been such a close call, and if not for Cassy’s knowledge he might have made the bite wound worse, and spent hours trudging to the nearest hospital even knowing that it was likely looted or even occupied. It could have been a calamity.

If his clan was to survive, they would have to knuckle down and make sure everyone got at least a bit of training in all their people’s combined skills. It was a damn wake up call, that’s what this was. The time of overly-specialized people who knew nothing about surviving without CNN and microwaves… That time was over. Possibly forever. Frank wondered whether that would ultimately be a bad thing.

* * *

Peter Ixin sat with the woman spy in his scope, dead center, but his inner struggle kept him from squeezing the trigger. As much as he wanted—no, needed—to see the bitch die, he had a responsibility to his own people. He had to keep following her and her dipshit people to find whatever it was they were moving so purposefully toward. Then, and only then, he would return to the Farms, or whatever was left of them after the invaders had attacked it, and lead his people to safety. They would wash over this bitch and her companions like a rising flood, wash out the filth, and leave the spy’s refuge as a new Eden for his own people. It just
had to work
. It was like God himself was guiding him, and he had no doubts about how this would play out. The spy would die, and he, Peter Ixin, would be a savior and the new leader of his people. They would start again, but with Peter in charge. None of the damn leftover stupidity of the ways of the “modern world.” It would be bliss. But first, he had to follow her and get back to his own people…

Peter sat back down comfortably in the small wooden shelter he’d built with fallen tree limbs, boughs, and mud. He set his rifle down and then hung up his wool blanket using makeshift clamps to fix them to a thin cross-branch.

The clamps were nothing more than six-inch bits of thick twigs, cut halfway through the middle, and split along the length from center cut to about a quarter of the distance to each end. Bending the green twigs caused the cuts to separate, but when the tension was released the cuts closed back up again to firmly grip the edge of his blanket.

He had a small Dakota fire hole going for warmth but ate his meager food cold. The smell of food cooking would travel far and could give away his presence if the wind shifted. The fire itself, however, was almost undetectable beyond a few dozen yards at most. It burned mostly underground, and only faint wisps of smoke escaped so long as he didn’t put on too much wood at once. Just keeping the coals going would give him all the warmth he needed for the night.

Peter rose up again and peered through his scope at the spy’s camp. There was some sort of commotion going on with the plump wife of the group’s apparent leader. A minute later he saw a muscular man, who just had to be a soldier of some kind, walking into camp holding a vine. No… Not a vine. A snake, about two feet long. So, the woman must have been bitten. Good, it served the bitch right. That was God bringing a Holy Can of Whup Ass unto them. If the woman died from the bite, the enemy would be weakened, which was good. And if she lived, they’d have to travel slower for at least a couple days, even if she only got bit by a copperhead. There were only three venomous snakes in the region, and since she still seemed coherent and able to move by herself it was probably not a rattlesnake bite. Either way, this would make it easy for him to follow them, even if he lost sight of them. Hell, he might even have enough time to forage for some berries or maybe a rabbit. He’d been carrying a stupid rabbit stick all day without seeing one damn bunny.

Yes, this was just proof that God meant for Peter to triumph, to start a new world with the good people of the Farms. He would be a generous leader to his people. Peter smiled as he thought about the terror he’d see on the face of that fat bastard who had tried to confine him to his quarters. If the pig begged enough, maybe Peter would even be merciful. Mercy was a good trait in a leader, he reminded himself, so long as it was used only sparingly.

- 10 -

2100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7

CAPTAIN TAGGART TRUDGED wearily into the safe house Mr. Black had provided. Eagan was there already but sat next to his rifle and pack. Still sweaty, he must have just arrived. Clever one, that Eagan. Taggart decided to revise his view of the soldier. Maybe he would be useful for more than carrying a rifle.

“Eagan. Glad you made it, son. Any of our civvy friends get back alive?” Taggart cocked his head to one side to show interest, even though in his exhaustion no enthusiasm could be heard in his voice. He leaned against a wall and slid down it, taking a seat to rest.

“One. The Militia guy who was with the other civvy made it. He said the rest were killed, but that he didn’t think anyone was taken alive. Surprising, from green civs.”

“Aff. They did better than I’d thought, but Black said they were fighting to feed their families. I imagine the deal holds if they die for the cause, but not if they get captured.”

Eagan shrugged, then lay his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Taggart did the same. He thought about debriefing Eagan about how he got through the desperate people who had turned the simple ambush into a total clusterfuck but decided against it. Time enough for that later. Right now they needed rest and a catnap.

The door slammed open, and Taggart heard a flurry of curses directed at no one in particular. He let out a deep sigh and fought to open his eyes. He even managed to open one of them. Through his one open, bleary eye he saw Mr. Black storming back and forth in the room, pacing. “All present and accounted for, Black. Only fifty percent casualty rate. Of course, that’s also the fatality rate.”

“Not really, yo. Militia Boy came in with his arm shot up. He won’t be able to fight for weeks, yo. Great job, fuckers. You screwed up a simple hit. What the fuck, soulja boy? I thought you was all tough and gung-ho, ’n shit.”

“The mission was going A1 until a bunch of starving civilian shits got in our way. Nice job with the intel, by the way. It would have been nice if your 20s buddies told you about that. Or maybe they knew about it and didn’t say. Do you know them? No.” Taggart’s jaw clenched tightly. “But they did manage to get three of your so-called troops eliminated, so you know, at least they have that going for ‘em.”

Eagan started to snicker, but a withering look from Taggart shut him up. Mr. Black didn’t seem to notice, and still paced; he was now clenching and unclenching his fists. Bad sign. Time to change the subject.

“Black, how did the other missions go tonight? What’s the operational situation, now?”

That seemed to do the trick. Black stopped pacing. He put his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, and took three deep breaths before again looking at Taggart.

“They went well. The intel was almost entirely straight dope. Fifteen jobs, fourteen came back clean, with only two dead. Both were volunteers, so no big deal. We got a lot from the bastards—maps, code sheets, radios, guns, food. You’re Army, so this might be bad news, yo, but D.C. is all theirs now. The White House got taken early on, sorry to say. No Commander-in-Chief for you, anymore.”

Taggart smiled. Just before the lights went out, they’d gotten word that POTUS was safe in some unmarked survival shelter, and most of the rest of the civvy command structure was en route to other safe spots. Taking D.C. was a pointless gesture. Enjoy the mosquitos, fuckers. Not that Taggart much cared for the current President or any of the assholes in Congress or whatever, but with them alive there was still a chance at getting the lights on, and getting the invaders the fuck out of the U.S. of A.

“We’ll make do, Black. Eagan, go radio the other safe houses and get a SITREP. Black, will you please make sure I get the maps and other intel you picked up from the OpFor? I need to get a grip on where things stand.”

Black nodded. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Fuckin’ maps, okay? Bullshit. But they’re yours. I’ll have ‘em sent to your room, along with some food. You look like shit and smell worse—wash up before you come back down.” Then he stormed out of the room.

Eagan opened his eyes again and looked at Taggart. “You know, taking D.C. was awesome of them. Maybe they did us a favor and wasted my Senator. I wrote him a letter once about my bank fucking me over, and he only sent back a stupid form letter.”

“You’re a frikkin ‘Private Pyle,’ you know that? You’re supposed to write your congressman for that shit. Senators are like fleas. They irritate you for a while, then go away, only to be replaced by new fleas who do the same damn thing. Anyway, the Commander-in-Chief is safe. Remember the intel we got with our last order before the shit hit the fan.”

“I can always hope, Cap’n. There’s always hope.”

Taggart chuckled and spared a weary smile for the Private. “Eagan, you are one unsat shitbird, you know that?”