Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall (39 page)

That thought brought up a surge of grief that threatened to overwhelm Mandy’s senses, and her heart began to race. In her pocket, she clenched the grip of a 9mm pistol that some of the White Stag people had smuggled in to her. They’d brought guns and knives to a lot of the Clan, in fact.

She recognized most of Joe Ellings’ co-conspirators in the circle of guards around them. The Lord would surely bless men like Mr. Ellings and the people who supported him, people who did all the good they could in this evil world.

Mandy whispered to Frank as Peter put on his show. “Tell me something, Frank. Do you feel in your heart that the Lord can forgive someone who kills another human being? I mean, if the reason is great enough? Can even Jesus wash that bloody stain of sin from a person’s soul?”

Frank looked pale and his breathing was shallow, but his low, deep voice was steady when he answered. “Mandy, you believe the Lord forgives those who kill in cold blood, through Jesus, yes? How much more, then, will He forgive someone who kills to protect His flock? Do you love your neighbor more than yourself, like the Bible says, if you just let the ravagers have their way with the innocent? Yes, I think if there’s a God, then He will sure forgive whoever kills this bastard. I just hope someone has the guts to do it soon, or there won’t be any of us left come spring.”

Mandy was shocked by his words. Frank was no preacher, not much of a believer in fact, but what he said rang true in her heart. God would forgive her when she rose up to smite Satan with her pistol as her daughter died. It would be her only opportunity, more than likely, and there was no way she’d squander the chance. Even if it did cost her soul, it would be worth it to save the Clan and avenge her daughter.

And then she heard Peter say the Clan children would be shot if they didn’t watch. How could anyone… No. The Lord Himself had said that anyone who harmed a child had a special place in Hell waiting for them. Maybe this was why she hadn’t died from her diabetes yet. Maybe she’d been spared in His wisdom, so that she could be the one to sacrifice herself for all their lives. Their retribution could be spent on her and her alone, but it was no loss. She was half dead already.

“Lord, forgive me of my sins,” Mandy said with a trembling voice, “and spare the righteous here today.” Then she pulled the sleek blued pistol out of her pocket. It didn’t have a hammer like her .38 had, but Michael had told her this brand, a Glock, didn’t have a hammer you could pull back.

Why was she thinking about that right now? How odd. In fact, everything looked odd. The sky was blue as Heaven, and birds chirping nearby were a choir of Angels singing. She’d never felt this sort of serenity before. The Lord was with her—she had no doubt now. She would be forgiven, and the Lord would give her the strength to pull the heavy trigger despite her declining condition.

Without another word, she raised the barrel and aimed at Peter’s chest for as long as she dared—half a second—and knew God would guide her aim. Surely He would.
 

She squeezed the trigger twice.

* * *

Jaz saw sudden movement among the Clanners—Grandma Mandy raised a pistol toward Peter. She cried out as the older woman fired. Just as suddenly, a riot of noise from multiple gunshots and people screaming reached her ears. Jaz scanned the area through her scope and then froze. A cluster of guards were firing at the Clan, but what shocked her was the sight of a cluster of guards firing
at the other guards
. It must be Joe Ellings and the sympathizers. Clanners ran in all directions.

Damn, Mandy had forced the resistance’s hand when she’d shot at Peter. Cassy was face down on the ground next to Peter. Mandy may have saved Cassy’s life, but the several bodies that remained when the Clan members had scattered showed that the price was steep indeed.

Then she saw that a half-dozen of the Clan, including Michael, Sturm, and Mueller, were also armed, and firing at the loyalist guards from their position behind and to the south of them. Jaz sighted in on the unfinished house; a guard’s head was visible.
Bang!
Jaz’s shot took him in the face.

She became aware of a bass-heavy barking noise from all around her. It reminded her of the Hellhounds she’d seen in a horror movie and for half a second she almost panicked, until she realized the noise came from the Marines she was with. They were charging toward the farmhouse, barking, moving in a peculiar leapfrog kind of way; one knelt and fired while another advanced, took a knee, began firing, and the first Marine then advanced. It was brutally effective; the White Stag loyalists outside were mowed down from the onslaught of Marines, Clanners, and Joe and his sympathizers.

Jaz swept her rifle around seeking a target, checking windows for snipers on the earthbag buildings. She moved back to Cassy and Peter, but Cassy was nowhere to be seen, nor was Peter.

* * *

Peter Ixin cursed. His bulletproof vest had stopped the old lady’s bullets, but he’d been out of commission for a bit. When he came to his senses, there were gunshots all around, and everyone was scattering. Some of his guards were firing at other guards, but he had no idea why or who were the loyal ones. There was a chaotic barking sound all around that freaked him out.

He pulled his .45-caliber M1911 and searched for a target, but the Clanners were darting around like rabbits fleeing from a fox. His gaze then settled on Cassy; she lay motionless, face down in the dirt, hands still tied behind her back, but she was alive and breathing.

Cassy had led the invaders to the White Stag farms, killed his people, evaded him, embarrassed him, and refused to say where she’d hidden the food stockpile. The bitch’s mom had shot him, and he was pretty sure he had cracked ribs from that, despite the vest. Enough was enough. Peter staggered to the still-twitching body of the would-be executioner and picked up his axe. He walked over to Cassy as he holstered his pistol and kicked her savagely in the side. She cried out and curled into a ball. So the bitch still lived. Peter smiled and then bent down to grab a handful of her hair. He forced her to her feet, and she hardly resisted. She must have been too worn down from the treatment she’d received during her captivity. Good. He resisted the urge to slit her damn throat with the axe. She might deserve that, but it wouldn’t serve his purposes.

Peter looked around again. A handful of Clanners stood with a few of Peter’s own people and a cluster of soldiers, firing at the unfinished farmhouse. They were prone or in cover, and Peter had only ten rounds in his pistol, so he didn’t bother firing at them. Inside the building, loyal White Stag people popped up into the windows, returned fire, and then ducked down again. Peter wished he could help them, but they’d dug their own grave by getting holed up in a building with one exit. Stupid. There was no room for stupidity in this dark new world. At least they’d distract the attackers long enough for him to escape, so it wasn’t a total loss. Maybe the defenders would even win, but he doubted it.

By the main farmhouse, however, he spotted Jim, who waved at him frantically and held the door open. An ally was just what he needed right now. Peter pressed the axehead to Cassy’s throat with one hand, still gripping her hair with the other, and forced her toward the farmhouse. “Let’s go, bitch. Jimbo and I are gonna hightail it out of here, and you’re our exit visa. Your people might get the farm back, but they’ll be celebrating without you.”

* * *

Cassy struggled against Peter’s iron grip, but not too hard—the sharp axe blade against her throat prevented more than a token resistance. It was maddening—and terrifying. Peter certainly wouldn’t hesitate to cut her throat if it suited his purposes.

She considered drawing the knife a sympathizer had slipped to her, but she didn’t dare to draw a hand away from Peter’s. Not with that axe against her throat. In the back of her head, she was convinced that if she moved one hand away, the sudden slack would make Peter cut her throat. For now, the game was to play along and look for an opportunity to strike.

Adding Jim to the picture was a complication she didn’t need but could do nothing about.

Peter rushed through the doorway, and Jim slammed it shut behind them, then Peter roughly shoved Cassy into a wall. Peter and Jim were now between her and both the front and back doors. The overwhelming sounds of a massive firefight continued unabated.

“Anyone else in here with us?”

“No, boss. Two Clan kids ran out the door before I could nail ’em. How long you think we need to hold out?”

Cassy was struck by the irony of these two pompous asses hiding in
her house
, still believing they were in control of the situation. Her terror and fatigue slammed up against the hilarity of the situation and shattered. Someone began to laugh, rising louder and louder, and whoever it was sounded completely hysterical. She realized the two men were staring at her. She was the one laughing. She tried to stop, but just couldn’t. Screw it. She was going to die anyway. Might as well have a little fun first. “You two…” she said between torrents of laughter.

Peter’s eyes narrowed, and he strode up to her in two steps to tower over her. His face was flushing, turning red. “Shut up! What the hell are you laughing at, bitch? You’re gonna fuckin’ die here, you know that?”

Oh man, he looked a little like Santa Claus now, with his jolly nose all red. A skinny cowboy Santa with no beard. Hilarious. She struggled to catch her breath, but managed to stammer, “You two! You’re funny. Little Santa Cowboy and his little Helper Elf!” She lost the battle with herself and burst into fresh laughter.

Peter turned to Jim. “Get upstairs. I’ll deal with Crazy Girl. Get on the rifle and start sniping anything not White Stag.”

“What about the traitors? How will I know?”

“Moron. Our people are in cover. Anything moving around is fair game. Kill everything you can.”

Cassy, cackling madly, watched as Jimmy the Elf ran upstairs to help Santa deliver deadly presents to all the good little boys and girls. Then Peter faced her again and raised the axe. He grunted and thrust the axe’s eye—the nub of wood protruding from the top of the axe—straight into her left cheek. Cassy felt the bone crunch beneath the blow, and in only seconds, she could no longer see from her left eye.

As the pain burst throughout her head like fireworks, she gripped her knife tightly to the side of her leg. She had a present for Santa, and it wasn’t milk and cookies. Again she was overtaken with a fit of mad laughter. Some part of her knew she was losing her mind, yet there was a part of her—clinical, detached—that allowed the madness to rise. It was useful. One step closer, Santa…

Peter was screaming at her, she could see his cheeks puff and his face turning a beet red with rage, but she couldn’t make out his words. It just sounded like “womp womp,” like the teacher in a Charlie Brown Christmas Special. The detached part of her understood he was about to kill her, that he somehow thought that if she died, he could regain control of the situation. Fool. No matter what happened in the next few seconds, his time on earth was nearly done.

Axe in his right hand, Peter reached down with his left to clench a fistful of hair. He lifted her head up so that she looked directly at him and raised the axe high. And then the look on his face changed. Anger turned to confusion and disbelief. The axe fell from his hand; he reached across his body and then held the now-empty hand in front of his face. It was dripping crimson. His blood, the color of Christmas. Slowly, he tilted his head to look down to the left, and when he saw the knife handle sticking out from his armpit, his gaze snapped to Cassy’s eyes.

“You… bitch…” he managed, before he fell over. Cassy’s hair slipped from his grasp as he fell to his side and lay there moaning in agony. Peter still had that idiot look of disbelief on his stupid asshole Santa face.

The clinical part of her mind decided it was time to get her shit together, and slowly, her laughter subsided. She grinned down at Peter and wiped laughter tears from her eyes to her chin. “Peter the Great, my ass.”

Cassy struggled to her feet. Her body felt suddenly heavy, like her legs were full of lead. Adrenaline crash. Her hand shook uncontrollably when she pulled her knife from under Peter’s arm; he groaned, but didn’t move. Experience told her the shakes would last several minutes, but with Jim on the top floor sniping from the window, lives were in the balance. There was no way she could run out even if she’d wanted to. Jim would see her and shoot her in the back once she got outside.

Instead, she’d have to kill the bastard or die trying. Even if she lost, the time he spent away from the window to deal with her would save lives. Hopefully, she’d have another shot of adrenaline when she confronted Jimbo the Elf. If only she had one grenade, but she’d have to make due with Peter’s own pistol. If there was a God, then He would see to it that she killed the pig upstairs with his master’s gun.

With a sigh, she turned to face the stairwell and steeled herself for what must come next.

* * *

Cassy took a tentative step toward the stairwell, pistol in her good right hand and knife in the left with the point down like an ice pick. She vaguely remembered that Michael once told her not to do that unless she was a master knife fighter, but in her mind’s eye she envisioned Jim leaping at her from the left side of the stairwell when she went up. She’d have no leverage with the standard grip Michael had taught her if that happened.

Or maybe her wits were just addled by fatigue, pain, injury, starvation, and raw seething hatred. Either way, she had no time to over-analyze it. Enough already—it was time to go upstairs. Her people needed her, even if her help came at the expense of her own life.