Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus (7 page)

A building had been destroyed by a missile, and Steven’s group of workers was tasked with moving it from the site. Each day they had to carry a certain number of baskets half a mile north to the island’s coast, where their contents were added to the growing wall of rubble the invaders were building around the city. Of the twenty-odd men who had begun the task with him three days ago, only eleven remained—but those eleven were given plenty of food and water every day that they worked. As long as he kept trudging, Steven’s family got to eat.

He had to remind himself of that fact, chanting it in his mind over and over. It was the only way to keep going, and to ignore the growing string of heads stuck on poles and fences along the route between the building site and the rubble wall. The heads were the invaders’ way of warning the remaining workers not to slack off or fall out. Steven was tired, but at least he wasn’t a head on a stick yet. Last week Steven was an accountant, but that life seemed very distant already.

Ahead of him, a short and wiry young man staggered to his knees. Steven had thought the man would break on the first day, but somehow he had kept up while others dropped out.

“Get up, Mark,” Steven urged in a half-whisper.

“I’m trying,” said the young man. He looked at Steven, and there were tears streaming down his face. “I can’t make my legs move anymore!”

“They’ll fucking kill you, Mark. Get up and your family eats.”

The Foreman noticed the delay. He turned and strode toward the man with a sneer on his face.

“Goddammit, Mark, the Foreman’s coming. Get up!”

Mark groaned and struggled to rise to his feet. The heavy basket creaked as the rocks within shifted around. He got one foot under him and tried to rise, legs quaking, but the man’s tired, abused muscles wouldn’t do it. His leg gave out, and he fell to the ground on his side.

The Foreman arrived, and Steven shut up. One did not talk while the Foreman was around. The soldier had short hair and a long beard and wore a black shemagh around his neck, which matched the black fatigues he wore. “What you are doing? Get up, son of bitch.”

Steven watched as Mark turned his head to look at the Foreman. Tears running down his face, Mark cried out, “I can’t move anymore! God, please, just give me five minutes. I swear I’ll get up in five minutes.”

Steven flinched at the raw terror in Mark’s voice and eyes that were wide with fear, and at the Foreman’s sneer. The son of a bitch looked happy, and that meant only one thing.

“God will not help you. Allahu akbar! Get up or face justice.”

Mark didn’t move. Steven watched in mute horror as the Foreman pulled a large knife from a sheath on his belt, knelt down and grabbed Mark’s hair, and pulled the victim’s head back to expose his throat. Mark screamed in terror, an inhuman sound that Steven had heard nine times before. The Foreman paid no attention, however, and seemed not even to hear Mark’s cries. With one smooth motion, he drew the wicked knife across Mark’s throat, and a spray of blood splattered into the dirt.

Of course, thought Steven, none of it hit the Foreman. That bastard made sure he was behind his victim, so the blood sprayed away from him.

Then the Foreman shoved Mark forward, face down into the bloody dirt. As he did so, he wore a smile, a happy fucking smile, and muttered his “Allahu akbars” over and over. Steven wished he had the courage to kill that smiling, evil bastard. But that would be suicide, and so Steven stood mutely and looked away from the familiar scene.

Like clockwork, the Foreman waited ten seconds after Mark stopped twitching in the bloody mud, then leaned down again to finish his grisly work. In short order, it was all over, and the soldier stood with Mark’s head in his hand, held by the hair, and raised it to the sky with a great cry of victory. Steven didn’t know what he was saying, but it sounded like the same thing every time this scene had repeated itself.

The Foreman walked over to a wrought iron fence and gently, almost reverently slid one iron spike up into the head through the grisly neck. Then he turned and faced the remaining workers.

“Ten of you remain. Do not be lazy! You have duty to job. Soft Americans, you must work harder now. Half you failed Allah’s test, and rest of you son of bitch must do twice the work. Say prayer to Allah for this man, and get back to work.”

The Foreman turned and spit on Mark’s impaled head, but the workers who remained only resumed the long walk to the rubble wall.

Maybe they’d get more slaves to join them soon. For the love of God, let there be more slaves soon, he thought. If they didn’t get more people to help, there was no way he could keep up the pace much longer.

* * *

Luis “Spyder” Acosta was king of his world, now. Three blocks along West Cumberland and North 33rd were now indisputably his. Luis and his crew had fought or absorbed every other crew in the neighborhood, and now his gang owned it all. It was hard to get drugs now, but his bitches were raking in a fortune—all in trade for food, bullets, anything useful. He had his street-level guys herding the sheep people, which was anyone not in his gang, building a barrier around his turf with abandoned cars and rubble. Once they were done, he would start gobbling up blocks one at a time, walling them up, and moving on to the next block. Soon his dream of becoming “King Spyder” could become a reality.

That was, of course, if the damn invaders let him. He was never sure whether they’d allow something until he tried it. If they didn’t care, then the food kept coming. If they didn’t like it, though, it would be a hungry couple of days; they’d said they would not deliver food for several days every time someone in his crew screwed up.

So far raping, beating, and even killing had not upset the ragheads. As long as his crew lit up anyone with a gun, turned over or killed anyone wearing a U.S. military uniform, and delivered two slaves a day, the invaders left him alone. Those two slaves were easy to catch from the turf of that puto, Angel, a block south. Angel’s block would be the first to go, Spyder decided. That dumb son of a bitch wasn’t even building a wall.

Better yet, because of the deal he’d brokered with them, the invaders would deliver two or three days of food for his neighborhood three times weekly, and drop it off practically at his doorstep. If the losers who lived in Spyder’s territory wanted to eat, they better cough up something he wanted. The women had it easy, at least if they were young and hot, and even if he wasn’t in the mood to get laid then he could pass ‘em off to his crew to keep them loyal. Them ugly bitches could trade like all them dudes had to. And Spyder wasn’t no racist, neither—anyone who could trade work or goods would eat under Spyder’s rule, hell yeah. Keep them hungry, but fed, and they’d be too fucking afraid to fight back.

The only real challenge for him, as far as keeping the invaders happy, was all the damn “Resistance” fighters running around. Every time they raided the invaders, the ragheads got all riled up. And that was just one more reason to take Angel’s territory because that weak-ass brotha wasn’t able to fight off the Resistance. Rumor had it that Angel’s turf was crawling with Resistance putos. Well, hopefully not for long…

There was a knock at Spyder’s door, and then Sebastian walked in. Big, dumb, and mean, Sebastian was a good lieutenant, but he never waited to come inside after knocking.

“What is it,” Luis snapped.

“Spyder, we got the first stuff from the ragheads. I had the boys make some peeps carry it into the lobby downstairs like you said. But, there’s a problem.”

Luis waited for Sebastian to continue, but the dumb fuck just stared back. “Great, Seb. So, tell me, what the hell is the problem?”

Sebastian nodded, oblivious to his boss’s irritation. “Well, there’s like twenty peeps outside, demanding food. They got knives and bats n’ shit.”

“Listen, Sebastian… You’re my main guy, right? Because you know how to bust heads and keep peeps and the crew in order. So, go bust some fuckin’ heads. Feel free to shoot a couple, if you want. Use as many of our boys as you need to get the job done. I want these putos to remember that I’m in charge. This is Spyder’s territory, and they all belong to me. Make the survivors remember that, Seb. Tell the crew to have some fun with it.”

Luis watched Sebastian grin and then leave without another word. Yeah, Seb was a big, dumb animal, but a useful one. And loyal as anyone could be since Luis saved his life, and then did two years in the pen rather than rat Seb out to the cops. Hell, if he had ten more guys like Sebastian, he wouldn’t need any of the others at all.

There was another knock at the door. “What the hell do you want,” he snapped, and the door opened. It was Charlene, who was one fine piece of ass. Spyder had tried to get with her a while back, but she was uppity back then because she had gotten some two-year degree somewhere. Fat lot of good it did the bitch now. “I said, what the hell do you want, bitch?”

Charlene looked at the floor to avoid Luis’ eyes. Smart bitch.

“Spyder, I’m sorry I said no, before. I was hoping, like, you might like to put it down, because I’m so damn hungry. And I know you don’t hold grudges, and stuff, so…”

So. Char wanted to trade a piece of that fine ass for a meal. Served the bitch right for turning him down before. Oh yes, he would trade, but when he put it down on her, she was gonna walk wrong for a week. Teach her a lesson about manners when she talked to him, Spyder, King of the neighborhood.

“Yeah, girl. Show me what you got, first, and then you know what I want. I’ma make your eyes water before I put it down with you, and none of that fake choking noise bullshit. Just take what I give, and then you can have some food.” Life was good, Luis thought. Maybe he’d actually give her some food later if she was a good lay. “Damn, it’s good to be a gangsta…”

- 9 -

2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7

FRANK SAT WITH his wife Mary, talking about the clan, plans, and journey. As they finished off the last of their meal, Frank thought about how much Mary hated MREs and smiled. Not much of a meal, those MREs, but at least they had calories. Mary’s round, ruby cheeks flushed even redder when he smiled, a trait Frank found utterly charming.

“Oh, you think watching me eat this crap is funny, do you?” she asked, fists on her hips and brows furrowed, but the sparkle in her eye and slight upturn at the corners of her plump lips told him she was only being playful.

“Well, there’s no TV here. I got a twenty dollar bet with Jed that you’re going to ralph up an MRE one of these times, and I gotta watch to be sure I get my money. You know how Jed is with a bet!”

Mary laughed and punched Frank in the arm. “Well, if you win that bet you’re buying me a double-shot tall Irish Cream mocha. You better, mister, because I may not be able to kick your butt, but you have to sleep sometime!”

“Maybe if you let me, you know, do stuff to you, I’d roll over and fall asleep, and then you could steal the twenty from me.” Frank wiggled his eyebrows at Mary with an over-the-top wink.

“Ha! You wish. Give me the twenty and
maybe
I’d let you do your gross guy stuff to me.”

The sounds of gagging and retching came from behind them. Frank looked back and saw their son Hunter pretending to gag himself with one finger. “Ew, gross! I need bleach for my ears. Quick, who knows a good therapist? Grownups are weird!”

Frank pursed his lips, and one side of his mouth turned up into a smirk. “Yeah right, son. You think I don’t see you watching all those Disney shows with cute girls in them? Someday soon, you’ll
wish
you could do gross grownup stuff.”

Mary playfully punched him again. “That is
so
inappropriate. I swear, sometimes it’s like I’m raising two boys. No matter the age, man or boy, there’s no difference.”

The sounds of two kids arguing broke the moment, and with a heavy sigh, Mary got up to track down the squabblers. She walked only about ten feet away before Frank saw her suddenly look down, and freeze. Her whole body stiffened, and he heard her whimper.

“What’s wrong, Mary…” he began but was cut off when his wife let out a terrible shriek of fear and pain. As he bolted to his feet, she leapt away from where she had been standing. She got some fifteen feet away, then stopped and turned, still shrieking.

Michael leapt to his feet and sprinted to where Mary had been standing even as Frank and Cassy ran to Mary’s side. Cassy got there first and put her hands on Mary’s shoulders.

“What’s wrong,” Cassy shouted over the din of Mary’s cries, just as Frank arrived at his wife’s side.

“Sn… Snake bite,” was all he could understand through her tears and whimpers.

“Get my knife!” Frank shouted at his son, who ran off toward their shared bedding.

“No,” said Cassy, face red with adrenaline. “And no damn tourniquets!”

Frank was stunned and confused, and froze. That was his wife, and she’d just been bitten, and Cassy wouldn’t let him help her. Anger rose up, but Cassy just continued talking in that forceful “mommy voice.”

“Mary, sit against that tree, right now. Calm. Relax. Frank, get me a flashlight.”

When Frank returned with his little Stinger mini-flashlight, Mary was sitting with her back against a tree, and Cassy was looking at something on his wife’s leg with her lips pursed, jaw clenched, brows furrowed. He handed the woman his flashlight, and she examined Mary’s leg again.