Read Online Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus by J.J. Holden, Henry Gene Foster - Free Book Online
Authors: J.J. Holden, Henry Gene Foster
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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,
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,
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