Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus (27 page)

Having made a decision, he settled in to meditate again, more to pass time quickly than for any new enlightenment.

* * *

Spyder never enjoyed waking up early, but today he had no choice. That damn Colonel Ree had sent a man—at least, Spyder thought it was a man, you could never tell with those slant-eyes—to come summon him. Summoning! Him, King Spyder,
El Jeffe
of not one or two but of
four
city blocks. It was a damn insult, that’s what it was. But today wasn’t the day to get some payback on that
puto
. So, he had got out of bed and woke up Sebastian, his right-hand-man, and had to kick him in the ribs to get the asshole to wake up.

Ha, that’s what Seb got for staying up all night drinking and entertaining a couple
chicas
with nothing to trade for food but some fine ass. Well, Seb always fed hoes pretty good, if they put out good and didn’t complain too much about his screwed up fetishes. They always came back for more, next time they got too hungry.

The thought made Spyder smile, until he remembered where he and Sebastian were headed at nine in the damn morning. “So what you think Gook-Ree wants with me today, fool?”

Sebastian grunted. Hungover and tired, he wasn’t much for conversation today. Normally that would be damn funny, but any time Spyder had to go meet Ree he wanted Sebastian on point, not slippin’ like he was today. Ree probably knew Seb was crispy from partying, and that’s why he hollered today for this stupid meeting.

“He better not want more ‘volunteers.’ It’s getting hard to catch peeps. Yesterday we had to give Ree one of my own citizens to make quota,” Spyder said.

“Let’s just kill him,” groaned Sebastian. “No one could get through our walls now. They gotta be ten feet high, fool! Let him come at us. We strapped with his guns, too, yo. Like goddamn Tony Montana himself, yo.”

Spyder looked at Sebastian with a sneer. “Fool, don’t you know Tony Montana dies at the end? He says some shit about his little friend, then gets caught slippin’,
chingada
.”

Sebastian pursed his lips at the insult but didn’t reply, which was awesome. Sometimes Spyder just had to put him in his place like that. Good for morale. Spyder’s morale, anyway.

The two finally reached the raghead base and walked in without being challenged, which made Spyder feel important. But then they got to Colonel Ree’s pavilion and they were halted and told to wait, which just pissed Spyder off. “
Why do they call us in but make us wait?
” he asked Sebastian in broken Spanish.

Colonel Ree kept them waiting almost an hour, and Spyder’s frustration grew. He was about to complain to Sebastian for the dozenth time and was starting to consider murdering someone just to let out his anger when one of Ree’s guards came out.

“Colonel Ree wishes to see you now,” said the guard, and then spun on his heels, opened the tent flap to Ree’s chambers, and waited.

Spyder looked at the guard for a couple seconds, visions of slitting the man’s throat dancing through his head. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then marched forward without a word to Sebastian, who followed along like the dutiful pitbull he was. At least
that
made Spyder feel a little better. Only a little.

He walked into the tent and saw Ree on his stupid folding chair, and six of the ragheads lined up on both sides of the tent, sitting cross-legged and watching Spyder enter. He and Seb came to a halt in front of Ree, and Spyder gave the expected bow, but only a half-bow—enough to avoid risking Ree’s anger, but no more. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sebastian bow lower. Seb was dull as a hammer, but just as useful as one, and he was cunning. He knew how to inspire fear in Spyder’s soldiers and the civilians alike, and how to play some games Spyder was just bad at. Like this crap here, bowing and scraping to Ree.

“You called us, we came,” Spyder said simply, carefully trying to keep his anger out of his voice. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

Ree’s eyes narrowed, and a chill went up Spyder’s spine. Ree said through his translator, “I will assume you have not heard the glorious news. I am now General Ree. My commander was killed in glorious action in service to the Great Leader, when a terrorist sniper slew him. I have been elevated to his position.”

Spyder understood immediately that Ree meant the Resistance, or those damn 20s, but whatever. If it made the puto feel better to call them terrorists, it didn’t matter to Spyder. He was only mildly curious as to why they changed it up. “Congratulations, General,” said Spyder with mock formality. Thankfully the interpreter must not have relayed that sarcasm to Ree, because he seemed to relax a bit. Asshole.

“I have been advised,” said Ree, “that the Resistance fighters who escaped the territory you occupied last week remain at large. Were you not instructed to find them, and to kill them?”

It was Spyder’s turn to tense up. This wasn’t a good start to the conversation. “Well, yeah, but every time we figure out where they’re at, they run and hide. It’s like they know we’re coming, yo. I mean, sir. But they ain’t bothering us no more. I think they bounced out, ran away for good. We don’t gotta worry about them, sir.”

All of which was true. Angel and his pendejo followers were pretty good at hiding, and running. They were probably long gone. Spyder would have been long gone, in the same situation.

Ree said, “That is not what my agents have told me. They are regrouping, rebuilding. So they will return and it will be more difficult than ever to locate their base of operations, next time. I do not wish to hear your excuses, American. I have given you instructions and if you will not follow them then I will be forced to reconsider our relationship.
You are dismissed
.” Ree’s face might as well have been carved from stone; Spyder couldn’t read it. But the edge of danger in Ree’s voice was unmistakable. Shit was getting out of control, and fast.

Spyder and Sebastian backed out of the tent like good little lapdogs, but once they were out of earshot Spyder turned to Seb. “We need to get this monkey off our backs, yo. Seb, get our homies ready. Maybe a day, maybe a week, but soon we’re gonna remind Ree what’s so dangerous about America. We gonna crash his party, you know what I’m saying? Him and his ‘sandy’ friends, yo, they gonna learn.”

Oh, yes indeed. Spyder thought about the coming “party” and smiled. Yeah, Ree and his sandy buddies were gonna learn alright. And Spyder was determined to make it a short damn lesson, yeah.

* * *

1500 HOURS - ZERO DAY +19

Ethan walked beside Frank as they left the meeting. Everyone in the Clan had been required to attend the emergency get-together, save for the Jepson family and the other half-dozen people who had joined them in the past week. Cassy’s brilliant idea had been to have these Clan meetings once each week or as needed, and it was a great idea. It reinforced Cassy’s vision of the group being like a
real
clan, where everyone who earned it had a voice, and where the leadership—Cassy and Frank, mostly—were only the “first among equals.” But, you had to prove yourself to the Clan to earn that privilege, and the Clan as a whole voted on whether to admit a newcomer to their ranks. They’d only been at Cassy’s farm for about a week, yet this system and the others Cassy and Frank had put in place seemed to be second-nature now. Ethan once read a book in which that dynamic, where early leaders had a profound effect on the society they began, was called the “Founders Principle.”

Ethan shook his head to clear his thoughts, and realized Frank was talking to him.

“…so I don’t think he’s a spy, but Michael disagreed about releasing the little guy.”

“Oh, the Asian guy the Marines knocked out, tied up, and dragged into camp? I don’t think we’re his favorite people after the handling he got from our noble defenders.”

Frank chuckled. “Still with the anti-authority crap. I get it, I guess… The more self-reliant a man gets, the less he tolerates other people telling him what to do. But you can’t blame our Marines. When you’re a hammer, every problem is a nail.”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah, but now if we don’t just kill the guy they found, we’ll have to work harder to get him not to hate us. I have a feeling he’ll be worth the effort to make him a friend. He’s the wrong race to get along with those red-raggers and he didn’t take part in the fight, he just watched. Didn’t struggle when he was caught, either, though he had to be scared to death at the time.”

“Well, that may be, son. But he’s one of those Monks, right? At peace with the flowers and so on? I don’t think he
can
hate us.”

“Buddhist, from what we know of him and the few things he’s said. They aren’t supposed to hate anyone or anything, but ‘people is people,’ as you like to say. Still, I’m told he didn’t run when they found him, and didn’t fight back when the Marines knocked his skull with a rifle butt. That’s promising.”

“Hey, Ethan… Do they have Buddhists in North Korea?”

Ethan grimaced. “Yeah, I’m certain they do, but they’d be well hidden I imagine, like a Jehovah’s Witness would have to be. They don’t like religion there. Opiate of the people, didn’t the Bolsheviks call it? But this guy seems like he’s American, which meshes with his story about his parents immigrating here from South Korea. Michael isn’t so certain, of course, but it’s his job to doubt everything. Which, I think, would be a terrible way to live.”

Frank laughed out loud at that. “Says the pot to the kettle! You doubt everything too, unless it’s a conspiracy theory.”

Ethan didn’t reply. He couldn’t tell Frank the things he knew, or suspected. And it didn’t seem like the right time to point out that he’d been right about a lot of things, as confirmed by their present circumstances. Well,
one
of his theories had been right. Not exactly Nostradamus.

With a wave, Ethan headed to his “comm center,” which currently was a bicycle with a car battery and ham radio strapped to it, and a big antenna sticking up from the back. Time to reach out and see how things were going in the bigger, wider world outside the farm.

A half-hour later, riding along a gravel road well away from the farm, he found a likely place with cover and rode toward it. Being away from the farm was riskier by the day due to the Red Locusts—those bastards needed to burn in Hell—but until it became impossible to ride out, he had to take the chance from time to time. Michael was at least a hundred yards behind him, on a low hill with one of Cassy’s bolt-action hunting rifles, covering Ethan just in case. The man was
scary
good with that rifle.

Ethan put the thoughts aside and lugged his gear to the top of another low hill with some foliage on it for cover, set up the car battery, inverter, and HAM radio, and flicked it to one of the “prepper” channels. He was rewarded with bits of communication, mostly in code like his own transmissions were when he broadcast for the 20s. He did that with the other network of bigger antennas, of course, and got much longer range than he tended to get with his bike setup.

When the chatter calmed, he went out. “Watcher One, Watcher One. Dark Ryder reaching out, conf 1-8-0-8-1-9-Delta-September-Romeo. Please respond. Over.”

A few seconds later he was rewarded with the sound of a familiar voice. “Dark Ryder, this is Watcher One, confirmation 1-8-0-8-1-9-Alpha-Sam-Tango. Over.”

“Good to hear your voice, Watcher. I’ve been off air a bit. What’s the latest?”

Watcher replied, “Can’t reply too much over air. Check Comm Protocol Beta for additional, over.”

Ethan frowned. Beta protocol meant logging on to his VPN maze and talking to the 20s via computer. Although it was easier and safer than ham, it also usually meant he had to do a scramble-cast with updated info for Resistance groups, which carried its own risks, not least of which was the need to broadcast from the big antennas. He reminded himself he had only three more broadcasts that he could count on to be relatively safe; after that, the invaders could figure out his general area by triangulation and process of elimination, assuming they were monitoring the radio waves. He figured they almost certainly were.

“Dark Ryder, Watcher One: Roger that. Will check that soonest. What
can
you tell me?”

Watcher One replied, “20s took a hit in the Big Apple but rebounding. Orlando OpFor, I mean, the enemy there, they’ve been drawn to a complete halt by 20s and Resistance operating from bases in the swamps all over the state. Invader buildup underway in Orlando, probable winter offensive coming.

“Mixed reviews coming out of Alpha-Kilo and November-Charlie, some say the invaders there are almost done consolidating, others say they’re like Orlando, and still others say there was no invasion of the West Coast. 20s think the first option is likely.

“Last thing, check your Protocol Beta. Some juicy Two Zero India there.”

Ethan felt a surge of excitement. 20s intel? Hells yeah. It was hard to sit there and finish logging radio chatter and so on—which he’d mine for intel and cross-collaboration of rumors later—when all he really wanted to do was ride like the Devil was after him, back to the farm to check his computer traffic. Also, Watcher One had just revealed, accidentally or otherwise, that he was tied into the 20s, himself. Ethan had suspected as much, of course, but now he was certain. Which, frankly, put a lot of their earlier conversations into a whole new light.

After a while, finally satisfied that he had enough chatter to dissect for the moment, he lugged the gear back to his bike in such a hurry that he almost fell down the hillside, and then pedaled like crazy back toward home.