Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall Read Free Page A

with anger, and stalked to his bat and picked it up. Turning, he grinned at the two women. It was a wolf-like expression. Sometimes, Peter mused, Jim was more demon than angel, despite what the man tried so desperately to portray to the world. “Jim! Stand down,” barked Peter.
    Jim stopped and then froze in place, trembling with the effort of controlling himself. “Yes, boss,” he hissed. Peter would overlook that mild insubordination, of course. One gave certain liberties to one’s right-hand man, after all.
    As the two women then fell upon their dead husband and father, wailing, Peter decided it was time to get things under control personally. “Dammit, you lazy sonsabitches! Get your fat asses in gear. If that load isn’t tied in the next five minutes, you’ll both join Eric. I hope you heard me because I’m not going to say it again. Get your asses up if you want to live. I don’t give two shits either way. The rest of our people matter a lot more to me than you two lazy bitches.”
    Slowly, the daughter regained her composure then pulled her scrawny mother up and away from their old, dead dad. Or husband. Whatever. In two minutes they managed to get back to tying the load. In five, they were done. About freakin’ time.
    Peter let out a whistle, and the train of people and wagons slowly moved out. Eric’s daughter and wife looked back on the body, which lay in the dirt unattended, with tears in their eyes. Peter nodded once, curtly. This was good; the rest of his people would remember this lesson well.
    With the entire body of people finally in motion, Peter rode forward whistling a cheerful marching tune. Of course Jim, riding a bit behind him, would take note of anyone foolish enough to chase Peter with hard stares. Yeah, Peter would clear those books eventually, but not until the time suited him.

    * * *

    Capt. Taggart, his combat promotion from Sergeant still feeling alien, grinned at Eagan’s clowning. The buck private had marched stiffly into the makeshift safe house wearing the wreckage of another invader drone on his head. Loudly, the soldier proclaimed himself King of New York and dubbed Taggart, his commanding officer, Sir Bigshit of Rank.
    “That’s treason, Lord Shitbird,” proclaimed Taggart with mock severity. “I shall indeed have you drawn and quartered.”
    Eagan held his nose in the air, standing nobly erect, and sniffed with disdain. “I’ll have you know, Captain Bigshit, that as King of these here domains it is I, the King, who decides what’s treason. ’Cause there’s nobody else left with a crown.” He looked briefly sad, maybe shadowed by personal ghosts, then squared his shoulders and added, “Besides, the Prez is probably dead somewhere, so who’s gonna complain?”
    Taggart replied, “Well, me, for one. You may be King, but you’re still just a trench monkey private, shitbird. Now go get that fuckin’ SITREP I asked for. We need intel on our ad-hoc half-company of troops.”
    Eagan laughed. “I can tell you without looking. The soldiers are squared away, except the lazy ones—mostly Mexicans. The Militia guys are leaking baby batter over the prospect of playing Real Soldier.”
    “First of all, we don’t have any Mexicans here. They’re mostly Cubans and Puerto Ricans. It’s New York, for chrissake. And what about the gangbangers and civvies?”
    “Well, the gangbangers are excited about comparing jail tattoos—they’re giggling like girls at a pajama party. You could say their morale seems fine. And the civvies have food, so they’ll be happy to go out and try to die for you.”
    Taggart frowned thoughtfully, impressed at Eagan’s rapid but observant report. It wasn’t like Taggart wanted these civilians to die. They just tended to die in combat, usually spectacularly and in the worst ways possible, because, as Eagan said, they lacked training. “Show some respect, Eagan. They’re fighting for their country, at least. All you do is pretend to check up