Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus by J.J. Holden, Henry Gene Foster Page B
Authors: J.J. Holden, Henry Gene Foster
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air and struck the door with his right boot near the door handle, smashing it open. His momentum carried him through the doorway and into the unit. Inside, two women hiding from the window by crouching behind the couch turned toward the surprise visitor and screamed.
Taggart kept going. He brought his pack up from under his arm and held it before him as he vaulted up to the back of the couch, landing on one foot, and leapt again straight through the large window. His backpack protected him from most of the glass, though he felt a few burning slices in his arms and legs, and fell like a rock. Two stories passed in under two seconds, and he hit the ground hard. Taggart rolled as though this was a parachute landing, as he’d been taught, and came up on his feet. The adrenaline blocked the pain of any injury he may have sustained, thankfully, and he sprinted toward a nearby alley. He heard rifles firing behind him, and as he passed into the alleyway he heard the sharp sounds of bullets striking brick next to him.
And then he was out of their view. He didn’t stop running. Part of him wondered whether the others had escaped, but he had no time to dwell on it. The enemy would surely be coming after him, and it was time to run for his life.
- 8 -
2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7
STEVEN WALLACE STUMBLED under the weight of the basket strapped to his back, which was filled with rubble. A moment later the pain of 50,000 volts of electricity struck him in the arm. With a convulsive full-body twitch he flopped forward and landed on his face, without even the ability to use his arms out to break his fall. The rubble from the basket cascaded over his head painfully, and he heard riotous laughter nearby.
Steven’s face flushed with anger, but as soon as his body would let him he rose to his knees, took off his basket, and began shoveling debris back into it. The Foreman, as the workers had named him, would sooner put a bullet into his head than wait for a slow worker. Back on his feet, Steven began the trudge once again, this time with a quicker pace.
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
Taggart kept going. He brought his pack up from under his arm and held it before him as he vaulted up to the back of the couch, landing on one foot, and leapt again straight through the large window. His backpack protected him from most of the glass, though he felt a few burning slices in his arms and legs, and fell like a rock. Two stories passed in under two seconds, and he hit the ground hard. Taggart rolled as though this was a parachute landing, as he’d been taught, and came up on his feet. The adrenaline blocked the pain of any injury he may have sustained, thankfully, and he sprinted toward a nearby alley. He heard rifles firing behind him, and as he passed into the alleyway he heard the sharp sounds of bullets striking brick next to him.
And then he was out of their view. He didn’t stop running. Part of him wondered whether the others had escaped, but he had no time to dwell on it. The enemy would surely be coming after him, and it was time to run for his life.
- 8 -
2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +7
STEVEN WALLACE STUMBLED under the weight of the basket strapped to his back, which was filled with rubble. A moment later the pain of 50,000 volts of electricity struck him in the arm. With a convulsive full-body twitch he flopped forward and landed on his face, without even the ability to use his arms out to break his fall. The rubble from the basket cascaded over his head painfully, and he heard riotous laughter nearby.
Steven’s face flushed with anger, but as soon as his body would let him he rose to his knees, took off his basket, and began shoveling debris back into it. The Foreman, as the workers had named him, would sooner put a bullet into his head than wait for a slow worker. Back on his feet, Steven began the trudge once again, this time with a quicker pace.
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
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