Town on Fire: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Series, 25BF Season 2 (25 Bombs Fell)

by A. K. Meek

  Town on Fire

  25 Bombs Fell, Season Two (Book 2)

  Copyright © 2019 A.K. Meek

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration © 2018 A.K. Meek

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  Contents

  Episode 01: Bartel on Fire

  01.01 The Burning

  01.02 Life in a Small Town

  01.03 Death’s Road

  01.04 Courthouse

  01.05 Home Sweet Home

  01.06 Aftermath

  Episode 02: Locked Down Way of Life

  02.01 The Wall

  02.02 A Kidnapping

  02.03 The Lesser Brother

  02.04 Forest Interlopers

  02.05 Falling Out

  Episode 03: Caged Rats

  03.01 Lonely Road

  03.02 Life in a Southern Town

  03.03 The Dog Pound

  03.04 Uncaged Rats

  03.05 The Hunted and the Hero

  Episode 04: Assault of Reality

  04.01 A Pleasant Ride

  04.02 Band of Four

  04.03 Dear Johnny

  04.04 Zombie Land

  Episode 05: The End Isn’t the End

  05.01 Bartel on Fire

  05.02 The Last Act

  05.03 March to Glory

  05.04 Brothers

  A New and Fiery World: 25BF Book 3 Excerpt

  About the Author

  01.01

  THE BURNING

  Each blow sounded like a shotgun blast and Johnny’s head was the paint-filled milk jug. He winced as his hammer missed more of the nail head than it connected. The two by four that was to become part of the deck frame was getting the beating of its life.

  The scalding Georgia sun and the fact his pasty white body was still recovering from his mid-week, one-man party last night left him hungover and dehydrated, which didn’t help his lousy depth perception and minimal carpentry skills.

  He cursed as his hammer bent the nail to the point he had to pry it from the board. He hoped no one else saw. He’d been screwing up plenty.

  But on the other hand, he wouldn’t care if Bob, the on-site general contractor, the man who stupidly gave him a chance in a moment of pity, fired him. Then he could go home and sleep off his hangover, maybe even be ready for tonight. His kids were going to their friends for a sleepover, so he could start his weekend a little early.

  “Do you hear?” Bob’s baritone smoker’s voice carried over the deck construction. Nail guns and dump trucks could be heard in the distance—a new housing community springing to life.

  Johnny paused and wiped his sweaty head with the off-white Led Zeppelin Swan Song shirt he had stripped off an hour ago. He’d been wearing it over his sunburned neck as a poor man’s scarf. “No,” he said, just loud enough so as not to echo in his skull any more than necessary.

  Bob’s head was cocked to the side. His chubby brow furrowed like he was straining to remember his sixth-grade locker combo. “Hear that?” He put a plump finger to his rosy, sunburned cheek. “Sounds like explosions.”

  Thinking the drunk from the night before was creeping back, Johnny shook his throbbing head so that he could hear what Bob heard. Sure, his hammer sounded like a shotgun, but that was cause of the Budweiser. “You heard that?” He held up his hammer and studied it, like he’d suddenly grasped Mjolnir with all its amazing power.

  Bob shot him an annoyed look. “What’re you babbling about? Listen.” His ear went higher in the air. “In the distance. Sounds like bombs. I think I felt the ground rumble.”

  At that point Johnny decided he wasn’t the only one to have a mid-week binge. He looked around, up in the cloudless hot morning, to see if he could find any proof of Bob’s delusions.

  High above, several objects—not much more than metallic glints—darted across the sky, fading into a hazy horizon. He shrugged. “I don’t hear anything,” he said, then went back to beating the life out of the two by four.

  From the corner of his eye he watched Bob go to his truck and slide into the seat. He grabbed his CB mike from where it dangled over his visor, and spoke into it.

  Hammer.

  Hammer.

  Miss.

  Hammer.

  Miss.

  Glancing again at Bob, Johnny saw his face change from curious to concerned. He slid the rest of his oversized butt into his truck and slammed the door.

  His truck fired up.

  He rolled down his window and yelled, “Roscoe, keep these guys working. Something’s going on in Haven.” He threw his F-250 in gear and fishtailed away from the construction site, spitting gravel.

  Haven was the town nearest Bartel, about six miles away.

  Roscoe, a thirty-year-old truck driver fired after his third DUI, worked at the other end of the deck. He stopped, scratched his backside, spit the chew from his mouth and ground it in the dirt like a cigarette butt. He gave Johnny an apathetic look, said, “Keep working,” then went back to securing his section of framing.

  They were used to Bob making quick exits since he was a part time deputy sheriff, which he reminded everyone of at every opportunity. But everyone knew he only was one because his family owned half the town. Integrity or upholding the law definitely weren’t a factor.

  Instead of pulling the nail out, Johnny decided to hammer it completely into the board. Bob wouldn’t know, Roscoe wouldn’t care.

  Hammer.

  Hammer.

  Sirens grew from background ambient, and within moments police cars zipped past the new development’s access road. Lights flashing, sirens wailing, all heading in the direction of Haven. As the cars disappeared from view, Johnny wondered if there was an accident on Highway 127, like the overturned beer truck trailer last week. He’d managed to score a couple of cases.

  “Hey.”

  He turned to Roscoe, who was holding his cell phone to his ear. “Sirens are going off in town.”

  Scanning the clear sky again, Johnny’s slow, pickled mind attempted to process the statement. “There’s no clouds. How can there be a tornado?”

  “I didn’t say a storm,” Roscoe responded. “We need to get back to town.” He moved with an urgency unlike any Johnny had ever seen in him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to prickle. That prompted him to follow Roscoe’s lead, quickly gathering their tools. They loaded them in Roscoe’s truck.

  Johnny slapped his greasy shirt back onto his nutrient-deprived shoulders, then climbed in the bed of the truck. He found the comfortable spot on the spare tire then leaned against the cab.

  Roscoe opened the door and rubbed behind the ears of Rascal, a stray Rottweiler the size of a small horse. He snapped his fingers and motioned for the dog to move. The dog obediently shifted himself from the driver to the passenger side of the bench. Roscoe jumped in and started his truck.

  Johnny didn’t mind giving up the passenger seat after Roscoe found the dog, he just wished he had the cooler from the front so he could grab a beer. The truck sped back to Bartel.

  They
heard the end of the world before they saw it.

  Sirens began again, drowning out Roscoe’s misfiring engine. The disaster alarms had gone off once, maybe twice in the past couple of years. That was for a summertime exploding supercell that threatened to drop a tornado on the small town.

  This time, though, the siren warbled in an odd way. Johnny thought maybe a pigeon had made a nest in one and got stuck.

  Cars zipped past, heading away from town. As they neared Bartel, drivers became more erratic, more aggressive, like everyone needed to be somewhere other than where they were at that moment.

  Maybe it was the cars, maybe it was the sirens, or maybe the continual throbbing hammer blows in Johnny’s head, but his skin began to crawl with apprehension. The kind of apprehension you feel when you stuff a carton of smokes in your jacket before leaving the Seven-Eleven, hoping the Pakistani cashier didn’t see.

  A courthouse presided over the heart of Bartel. A town square of small shops and professional offices surrounded the old building. People streamed from the businesses toward the courthouse.

  Cars skidded sideways into parking spots. Some jumped the curb onto the lawn. Drivers rushed out and shot into the building. Parents dragged slow, crying children by tiny arms.

  A siren mounted on top of the courthouse wailed menacingly for another second, then cut out. Screams and panicked voices replaced the siren.

  “…under attack…”

  “…bombed…”

  “…shelter…”

  And the panic that swept over the small town nestled between peanut farms and pecan orchards also swept over Johnny.

  He traded his hangover for a sudden fear of whatever everyone else feared, even though he didn’t know what it was yet. But the fear was as real as the hangover that it had replaced. He needed to run like everyone else needed to run.

  He slapped the back cab window for Roscoe to slow. Johnny leaped from the truck bed and sprinted for the courthouse, joining the frightened crowd. He neared the marble steps that led to the double doors. Bits of conversation bounced in his head.

  “…Haven bombed…”

  “…we’re next…”

  “…the apocalypse…”

  “…fallout shelter…”

  That clicked with him; he remembered stories he’d read in the Bible as a child. The end of the world. And all the stories that made good end of the world flicks were now happening to this unsuspecting town. Just like in the movies.

  His stomach spasmed. He pushed others out of the way as he fought up the crowded stairs to outrun the unknown.

  “John!” Someone grabbed his arm.

  He spun wildly, ready to punch whoever was keeping him back but almost tripped over his own feet.

  Tom, a man he only knew slightly, but still resented because of his seemingly perfect life, held his arm.

  “Where are your girls?” he asked.

  Johnny’s face must not have reacted because Tom said again, but more slowly, “Annie, Abby, are they still at school?”

  In a sudden moment of clarity, Johnny remembered he did, in fact, have two girls. And they were still at school, probably freaked out of their little minds.

  Rather than acknowledging he was a crap father and had forgotten about his kids altogether, he looked at his left and then right hand in a vain attempt to make it seem like he had just lost them.

  “I’m going to get Justin,” Tom said. “Do you want to come?” Tom’s wife ran up to him and clutched his arm. She had been crying and makeup had run down both cheeks. Her hands visibly shook as she held onto her husband.

  Johnny nodded even though he didn’t want to go.

  Tom hugged his wife and pressed his face against hers before wiping one cheek. “Go get my son,” she said in a trembling voice.

  His face, grim but determined to achieve the given task, turned away, his eyes saying he would find their son or die trying. “C’mon,” he motioned to Johnny. He shot back down the stairs. Johnny followed, struggling to keep up.

  They rounded the courthouse, dodging people scattering in every direction. Many stole glances as they scurried about. Many more appeared to be running nowhere in particular. They ran because everyone else ran. All were swept up in the emotion. Just like Johnny.

  He recognized Tom’s red Mustang when the rich man pressed his fob. Headlights winked in acknowledgment and the doors unlocked. They hopped inside and his car roared to life. He crawled away from the parking spot because of the panicked humanity darting past heedlessly.

  Several times he gunned his engine as they crept along, a not too subtle way to encourage people to move. Then he resorted to laying on his horn.

  Johnny’s daughter Annie and Tom’s son Justin were classmates. The parents had only talked a few times, when the class had some event. Parent/teacher conferences or end of semester recitals. A couple times Annie brought home a bag of various canned goods. Tom had given her the bags saying they ran out of pantry room at home and needed to get rid of the food. It wasn’t charity.

  Johnny didn’t mind if people gave him food or handouts. He had drunk away any remaining pride two years ago. That was when his wife Lisa overdosed on meth.

  Once clear of the congestion that was downtown Bartel, Tom gunned his car and cleared the seven blocks to Nelson Middle School.

  Just like downtown, the school was total chaos. A siren mounted on a pole at the top of the gym turned on, sending another wavering blast. Parents moved with a renewed sense of panic.

  Tom screeched against a curb in the circular bus loading zone. He shot from his vehicle, headed for the main entrance. Johnny followed him inside. They were welcomed by screaming parents and crying children. Backpacks littered the floor, having divulged their contents of books and papers for everyone to trample.

  The two turned a couple corners, heading to Ms. Barker’s classroom.

  A teacher yelled for his class to keep their heads down. He’d already lined them up in the hallway. The children cowered, bodies bent with tiny hands over heads, like a tornado was about to rip the roof off.

  Who knew what was coming? In the past thirty minutes, Johnny had already heard of bombs, invasions from Russia, and aliens from space. No one knew anything, but everyone knew something was happening. And that made it more terrifying.

  Students were crammed into Ms. Barker’s classroom, an inner room with no windows. Kids hid under desks, huddled in groups. Many howled for their parents. A couple of the more daring laughed and peeked around, thinking it all an exciting game. There are always those who laugh when facing an uncertain, terrifying future. Even children.

  “Daddy!”

  Abby, his six-year-old daughter, saw him before he saw her. She fought to crawl from under the desk where she had been safely tucked. Her older sister, Annie, struggled to hold her in place until she saw why she was fighting to get away.

  One of the teacher’s aides that had been working feverishly to keep the kids calm started to hush the girls, but when she saw their father, allowed the girls to get up. She was happy to have two less children to worry about.

  “Daddy,” Annie said as she reached him. “They said we’re being attacked. Who’s attacking us?”

  Before Johnny could respond, a fire alarm split the air, drowning the civil defense warning.

  Kids screamed as sprinklers sprayed a fine mist over the class. Emergency lights strobed a dizzying white light. Johnny needed to get out of here. The lights, the alarm, the screaming. His head felt like it was getting ready to split.

  He needed a drink.

  But he grabbed his daughters’ hands and rushed them from the room into the sprinkler-soaked turmoil of the hall.

  Fortunately, they made it out of the school relatively easily.

  They raced across the playground to a chain link fence that separated school grounds from the surrounding community. The gate was locked, but there was enough give to the chain that he could flex the gate and squeeze his daughters and his own narrow frame throug
h.

  Here, in a suburban community of old ranch style houses, the streets were relatively clear. Most everyone was probably already hidden away inside their homes, or in their basements, like rats.

  Annie was able to keep up with him, but Abby couldn’t. He scooped her up in his arms. In a block and a half, he turned onto Magnolia street, and three houses down was his six hundred square foot, two-bedroom, Habitat for Humanity home.

  His brother, being sheriff, was able to pull a few strings and get him bumped to the top of the list. Johnny was happy with the free house, until he found out the free house wasn’t entirely free. That was why he had to take a job with Bob’s construction company. His brother didn’t tell him he’d have to pay for it in sweat.

  They entered and Johnny threw his house keys on the three-legged foyer table. Adrenaline had drained him to the point he wasn’t sure if they were being bombed or if it was all imagination.

  His daughters scrambled to their room and immediately set out to reinforce their fort, a blanket stretched across their bedposts. A makeshift fallout shelter.

  He went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cold Buds.

  If this was the end of the world, what could be done? He couldn’t change anything. Better to forget it’s even happening.

  Dropping onto his couch, he turned on the TV, popped his bottle, and guzzled half of it in one long, well-practiced swallow. He belched so hard his chest hurt.

  A red banner scrolled across the screen. A national emergency. The news anchor, a man with over-styled hair and an orange glow, shuffled creased papers.

  “These reports are unsubstantiated, but we want to pass as much information to you as possible—” he paused, pressed a hand against his earpiece, listening intently. He nodded. “We’ve just had reports over the wire that all communications with Los Angeles have ceased.” He took a second to catch his breath and slow down. His words were tripping over each other. “…is reporting a flash over Los Angeles, seen by multiple witnesses. That makes the fifth—”