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

by A. K. Meek

  “You know Dog Pound?”

  “Of course. Most of us here do.” Her eyes swept over the others. “You’re in Zombie Land. That’s what they call this place. It’s where they send the rejects, like us. It’s pretty bad when you’re not good enough to be sold like a dog.” Her thin body rattled with sickly laughter. Kurt imagined this was what death would sound like if it could laugh at its own jokes.

  “Rejects?” he asked.

  “Contaminated. Radiation.” She held up a thin arm displaying boils upon boils. “At least that’s what Rainer thinks it is, in his professional opinion. Some type of radiation poisoning. Whatever it is, no one wants to be around it in case it’s contagious.”

  “If you know about the pound,” Kurt said, unsettled by the complacent defeat in her voice, “why don’t you leave, get further away? Nothing’s holding you here.”

  Ms. Momma scratched her pointed chin. She shrugged. “And go where? To a better life? There is no better life. Die here, die there. The dirt will taste the same.

  “Plus, a man at the pound told us if we stay in this area we’ll be safe. We’ll be left alone if we don’t bother anyone. There’s bad things, orange angels of death floating around. If we stay here we’re safe. He’s been right so far.”

  Ms. Momma had a cold logic, a logic Kurt didn’t want to believe, didn’t want to feel. He’d been so close to the same infectious thoughts that they would consume him if he dared to entertain them. So many people around town had already given themselves over to this idea. Kurt understood it as when you see your life like this, you’re apt to regard all life in the same low terms. You see everyone in the same miserable state as yourself. He struggled to resist this end of the world mentality, a way of thinking that had become chic in dystopic circles.

  After resting for a couple hours in Zombie Land as Rainer the EMT monitored Telly, Kurt became increasingly restless. They’d been sitting for too long. He had the screaming urge to move. But he stayed as his people were clearly exhausted and needed the break.

  In what seemed only minutes after he finally decided to close his eyes, the first crack of dawn over the eastern horizon cast the sky in pink and orange. But clouds still muted the sun. At any other moment in his life Kurt would’ve said it was a beautiful morning. But not today. Too many bad things had happened last night, and the day before, and the day before that. He wasn’t sure if he would ever think anything was beautiful again in this world.

  Once the excitement wore thin, Ms. Momma and the rest of her campers had picked up with the drudgery of living a shallow life waiting to die. They carried on like Kurt and the rest weren’t even there.

  They gathered limbs together, smaller branches snapped from trees, larger ones hacked off with crude stones or a hatchet that was well beyond its prime. The branches were chopped into pieces for the fire that burned day and night. Others collected leaves and whips of green vines to use for thatching a roof or whatever odd jobs they occupied themselves with throughout the days.

  Kurt inventoried the bed of Roscoe’s truck. Besides crushed beer cans and other trash, he found a couple boxes of military MREs, which looked to have been left outside for the past three years. The boxes were water damaged and falling apart, the typography on the faded green packs no longer indicating whether they contained an omelet or beef stew, having long ago faded to indecipherable smudges.

  Once Rainier gave them the thumbs up with Telly, Kurt had Clive give the boxes to Ms. Momma to distribute as she saw fit and with that, they left Zombie Land, headed back to Bartel.

  He made his way to the dirt road that would eventually merge into a two-lane market highway, or so he pictured in his head. He mentally ran over one-hundred different routes to get back to Bartel. Preferably ones that circled wide around the Dog Pound.

  Sandy held the high-tech shoebox on her lap. Earlier he’d spent thirty minutes investigating the outer case, trying to determine what it was exactly.

  The mysterious object reminded him of sci-fi movies, where future technology seemed to have curved edges, white panels with shiny silver knobs and handles. Numbers were stenciled on the side, but he didn’t know what they meant. Other Asian characters stamped on the opposite sides were just as indecipherable.

  Now he had power, he wished he had his cell phone. He had the idea that maybe if the truck had power the little high-tech shoebox could also power other electronics. Like the one in the pound powered the flashlights.

  He decided on a narrow road, more of a trail, that ran between a couple of peanut fields. It should meet up with Hwy 80 West, which would skirt well outside of the Dog Pound, while getting them close to Bartel, which was to the south, south-east of Zombie Land. He headed in that direction.

  “Look over there.” Sandy pointed.

  Across the field, three does had been startled by the unexpected sound of a truck and bounded over fields once green with flowering peanut plants. It surprised Kurt to see wildlife, as wildlife pretty much dried up once a first world nation turned into hunter gatherers virtually overnight.

  “This must be a good sign,” Sandy said and smiled, showing all her teeth.

  Kurt couldn’t help but also smile. Maybe there still were beautiful things left in the world, like deer running in the field, or a girl smiling with joy. But then the blood drained from her face. “What’s that?” she asked.

  In the field, sprigs of plants were becoming engulfed in an eerie orange fog.

  At first, it was a thin smoke that faintly resembled the morning sky. It rapidly deepened and thickened into a swirling, unnatural-looking fog.

  The three deer ran into the thin edge of the rolling fog bank. Each of them bucked wildly then dropped to the ground. They didn’t move anymore.

  “Hey!” Clive banged hard on the roof of the cab, denting it. Kurt put his eyes back on the road in time to see they were driving straight into the orange fog. He slammed on the brakes causing Sandy, unbuckled, to slam her head into the dashboard. The seatbelt across Kurt’s chest dug into him as he recoiled violently. Telly and Clive crashed into the back of the cab.

  Roscoe’s truck skidded to a stop thirty yards from the fog.

  Kurt threw the truck into reverse and crushed the gas pedal. The truck skipped as it withdrew from the fog. Once he put several dozen yards between them and the orange fog of death, he risked turning the truck around on the narrow path. Cranking the wheel hard right caused the CV joints to squeal again. He floored it in the direction they’d just come.

  In two minutes, they were back in Zombie Land, smoke from the fires trailing into a windless morning sky. Kurt came to a quick stop and yelled out the window, “Momma, you gotta get out of here. Get everyone away from here. There’s something bad coming for us all.” Kurt pointed to the fringes of the orchards. A slight discoloration could already be seen.

  Slowly, passionless, she straightened from where she was stooping over a cast iron pot. It appeared she’d been grinding some plant into a grey powder. Narrow eyes searched the distance before she sighed. “I’ve heard about this. I knew it would come sooner or later. This is what we’re meant to be, this is where we’re meant to die.”

  “No!” Kurt shouted. “This isn’t how you’re meant to die. Not like this.”

  Other campers who’d been standing around with detached looks finally cracked. Their faces transitioned from a dull nothingness to wide-eyed fear.

  “Get out of here!” Kurt yelled. “Run away from here.”

  He pulled his pistol and fired three shots into the air.

  A man grabbed a woman’s hand and darted into a line of shrubs, disappearing from view. One industrious lady, older and not as thin as the rest, grabbed a thick pecan branch just above her head. She hoisted herself up and scaled several stories into the heart of the tree. Someone inspired by her yelled, “To the trees,” and many more followed the lady’s lead and began to climb.

  All sought refuge except Ms. Momma. She sat back down at her crude bowl and went back to grindi
ng plants into dust.

  “Let’s get to the trees,” Sandy started to open her door.

  “No,” Kurt said, “We can’t get Telly up there in time. I’m not leaving him.”

  Just then, Rainier came in a full sprint, or near a sprint for someone with a bum leg, anyway, yelling, “Go,” waving at Kurt. He had come up behind Ms. Momma and attempted to pick up her thin frame even as he continued moving toward the truck, not allowing her a moment to resist him.

  Seeing Rainier’s attempt to rescue the matriarch, Clive leaped from the truck and ran to them. He swept Ms. Momma up like he was lifting a bag of chips, and put his arm around Rainier to spun him on. They three it to the truck. “Go!” Rainier repeated even as he was still hanging half outside the bed.

  “Hold on,” Kurt said as a warning to Sandy.

  He cranked the wheel, steering the truck to the east. The orange fog hadn’t reached there yet.

  Between dying pecans he drove on, the truck bouncing over tree roots near the surface. The deadly fog closed in on them.

  The orchard let out to a ridge with hedges. Clear of the trees, Kurt sped up. He busted through the hedges, then struggled to keep the truck under control as it tried to fishtail.

  Fifty yards in front of him, rough ground ended where a stream about fifteen feet across bisected the farm and. A rough earthen bridge had been constructed to bypass the stream. Kurt turned the truck and aimed directly for the bridge. Through his rearview he could only see orange.

  He shot over the bridge and put it fifty yards behind him. When he looked back, he saw something that made him unconsciously let off the gas.

  As the fog hit the stream it curled upward, dispersing as easily as cotton candy under water. Cloud banks beat against the stream but didn’t pass. It kept the Orange Angel of Death at bay.

  Kurt didn’t know for how long, and didn’t want to wait around to see.

  Finding the nearest paved road, he jumped the shoulder onto welcome asphalt and sped home, to Bartel, leaving the Orange Angel of Death far behind.

  05.01

  BARTEL ON FIRE

  Bob took a different road to the giant tank on legs than the path Roscoe had taken.

  After sitting in the passenger seat of an older SUV quietly for a few miles, the uncomfortable silence became too much for Johnny as he mulled over Bob’s words of being a scapegoat for the Chinese. He needed something else to focus on and decided to make light conversation with his employer. “You’re taking a different direction than Roscoe. Are we going somewhere else?”

  Behind the wheel, Bob acted like he didn’t hear the question. He kept driving, body leaning forward like he was intently studying the road ahead, or could barely see it. Finally, after a minute, he shook his head. “No, we’re going to the same place, just by a different route. Not so close to Zombie Land. We need to steer clear of that place for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Because very bad things are happening there right now.”

  Johnny waited for a minute to see if Bob was going to elaborate. But after it was apparent Bob wasn’t saying anything else, Johnny went fishing for more info. “Does this have something to do with the Orange Angel?”

  Bob simply nodded.

  Johnny shifted in his seat, but he couldn’t get comfortable. “You were just kidding about me being sacrificed, right? For what happened at the Dog Pound, right?” He tried to laugh, but it came out like a muffled burp.

  Bob didn’t reply.

  Johnny curled up on his side of the seat and watched the landscape scroll by. In the lull, he focused on the multiple injuries wracking his body with pain. He also worried.

  Another forty minutes felt like an hour and forty-five minutes. Then Bob turned off the winding two lane onto a dirt road vaguely familiar to Johnny. He thought it was the road that led to the Chinese soldiers hiding in the bushes. Another couple of miles and Bob pulled the SUV onto a narrow shoulder and stopped. This was definitely the place Johnny had been before.

  Bob took his revolver from his holster, all while keeping his beady eyes on Johnny, and loaded two bullets to replace the ones he fired back at the pound. He holstered his weapon then got out of the SUV. So did Johnny. They followed the trail into the thick Georgia forest.

  When they emerged in the clearing, it appeared the Chinese expected Bob. Three soldiers, men in camouflage uniforms that served them well in the thick vines and sapling trees, stood in front of the giant machine. They didn’t look happy. Someone was just behind the machine, almost hidden by a gigantic metal leg.

  Bob gave a slight bow, his imitation of showing respect in an Asian way. One of them intercepted him. Bob had at least a good foot in height and probably a hundred pounds in weight, but you wouldn’t have guessed by the way the soldier grabbed Bob’s arm, manhandling him. The soldier spoke in harsh broken English, his displeasure coming through in waves. The soldier glared at Johnny, turned back to Bob, then grabbed an extra tight grasp of Bob’s arm and led him behind the machine.

  Shouting.

  Several accented Asian voices joined the discussion. Johnny couldn’t make out what they were saying. But from the sound, it wasn’t good. Standing by himself in front of the giant mechanical machine, he took a moment to study the behemoth.

  It loomed forty feet high and reminded Johnny of a transformer, one of those toys that could change from a car into a robot. The legs, sturdy towers, ended in wheels similar to tank tracks. Or some kind of massive futuristic roller skate. Arms extended down its side, and where its hands should have been there were barrels. Very big barrels. Johnny didn’t want to be on the receiving end of those.

  Many other metal boxes, tubes and hoses ran from various parts of the body, some mishmash of salvaged auto parts.

  Thousands of tiny dents riddled the machine, like it had endured a hailstorm head on. In a couple of places on its chest some larger bullet or grenade or bomb had struck it. Black burn marks streaked its chest. One place suffered a serious impact—a section had about a foot square ripped open. The metal had been beat back in place and a newer slab of metal covered the wound. A transformer bandage.

  This machine had seen battle. And the fact that it still stood there in front of him meant that it didn’t lose any of those battles.

  Five minutes later, Bob and the aggressive soldier emerged from the brush. The soldier was still screaming to the point his voice was shrill, almost feminine, his arms gesticulating wildly. If Johnny didn’t have such a sense of doom hanging over his head he would’ve laughed at the little man carrying on. With one final scream the man glared at Johnny. He pulled an object from his hip and charged. Johnny didn’t realize the peril he faced until the object extended outward to form a long dagger. Or a short, thin sword. As the soldier neared, the look in his eyes spelled death.

  Johnny could do nothing but brace himself.

  A commanding voice bellowed.

  The charging man stopped in place, almost on a dime.

  From behind the death machine the owner of the commanding voice appeared. He wore a uniform similar to the rest, but his had been trimmed with red braid. The way he moved and the way he commanded attention left little doubt he was in charge of the show. This must be the general.

  He spoke again in Chinese and the charging soldier turned. The sword-thing he held in his hand collapsed. He hurried over to the general and stood at attention before him, bowing his head. The general walked past without acknowledging his man and motioned for Bob to follow. Quickly, Bob moved next to him. The two approached Johnny.

  Up close the man was short. Maybe five foot three, narrow shoulders, a weathered face that in any other time and place would be viewed as full of wisdom. The general’s uniform wasn’t as majestic as he first thought. It was one, two sizes too large and someone did a hack job of tailoring the sleeves and hemming the legs.

  The general studied Johnny coolly, eyes up and down, forehead furrowed. He nodded like he’d finished his assessment, then said, “you bring t
rouble.” He sounded old now that he wasn’t yelling.

  Johnny shook his head. He took a step back. “No, not me.” Even Johnny knew what the man meant. The reason for the Dog Pound coming under attack. “The town I came from, Bartel, they’re the ones.”

  “Your brother, your family brings trouble,” the general insisted.

  Johnny continued shaking his head. He needed to disassociate himself from any ties with his hometown or his family. “I hate my brother,” he said. “There’s nothing with us.”

  The man stared at him quizzically, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Family means nothing?” He shook his head and studied Johnny for a couple more seconds before turning away. “This is why America falls,” he said as he walked away. Bob followed after him.

  As he departed, the general whispered some parting words to Bob. And with that Bob turned and hurriedly rushed toward Johnny. He swept past him and didn’t slow as he grunted, “let’s go.”

  Johnny was relieved that it seemed for the time being he wasn’t going to be slaughtered in the forest. Or sacrificed. But he was still curious as to what was happening. “Where are we going, what’s going on?”

  “We’re going to war,” Bob said matter-of-factly.

  Kurt found Highway 127 which arrived at Bartel from the southeast. Once he found a strip of roadway relatively free of dead cars, he took it to the outer edges of the town.

  Relief, but with some fear, came over him as they arrived at the outskirts of the walled in city. He drove up to the roadblock they had set weeks ago, the barrier of old cars and other trash used to keep anyone out. As the truck came to a stop, Clive and Sandy hopped out and started removing the obstacles from the road. When they had trouble moving the vehicles, Kurt used the truck to push them out of the way.

  With the obstacles removed, they barreled through the wall that really wasn’t a wall, headed for downtown.