Hideaway (Book 2): An Emp Thriller

by Hayden, Roger

  James shifted in place. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  “Sure,” Davis said, looking around. “There's a room in the back.” He opened the door into the nave and led them inside. Heads turned, watching them as they followed Davis down the aisle.

  “I don't see Bill,” James said as they continued.

  “We've got him in another room. He's banged up pretty bad, but we're taking care of him.” Davis pointed ahead toward the stage with its grand podium and a large cross affixed to the wall behind it. Sunlight glowed inside through the stained glass windows. A group of small children rushed toward them from the stage, colliding into the sheriff as he hugged each of them.

  “Easy there, kiddos,” he said. “Be careful with all these people around.”

  James and Marla couldn't help but smile as they watched.

  “We'll go outside in a little bit, okay?” he said, patting one of the young girls’ heads. They hurried past James and Marla. Davis glanced at them again with a smile. “They've been cooped up in here for a while, but they’re doing okay.”

  James looked around the spacious church with its twenty or so occupants, wondering how they made it all work. The sheriff was eager to move them along as he assured the people that James and Marla were visitors who needed help. One couple who looked to be their same age watched them from a middle pew, where they sat with a blanket spread over their knees and a hunting rifle resting nearby. Davis led James and Marla up the steps to the altar and behind the podium. There were two doors in the back, on both sides, and empty chairs against the wall.

  “Who runs the church?” Marla asked.

  “Pastor Phil,” Davis said. “He's around here somewhere. I'll have to introduce you.” He opened the door and invited them in. Down three steps was a red-carpeted, minimally furnished room with bright white walls. As they entered, James noticed crates of supplies stacked in the corner. There looked to be at least six months of canned foods, among other things. There were suitcases and boxes piled in another corner.

  Someone had boarded up the windows and it was dark inside. A lit lantern on a nightstand provided some light as Davis shut the door. He pointed to two empty chairs near a work desk and asked them to sit. James absently took up a Bible resting nearby as he sat down, with Marla next to him. The sheriff took two bottled waters from a case and handed one to each of them. James thanked him while flipping through the thick Bible and its tabbed pages.

  Davis pulled up a seat and sat with a sigh of relief. “You're quite the man of mystery.”

  James lowered the Bible and smiled. “Am I?”

  “You never told me what happened with Bill Mosley. I got the story from Bill mainly in his own delirious way. The escaped prisoners attacked him, and you came to his aid. Does that sound right?”

  “Right place at the right time,” James said. “Depending on how you look at it.” He noticed Marla staring. There was no sense in hiding it from her any longer. But James also knew that he had done nothing wrong. He had acted in self-defense, as he so often told himself.

  Marla displayed a disquieting stare, her eyebrows arched, her eyes narrowed. “Why didn't you tell me this?”

  James scratched his head and leaned back, rocking his chair back against the wall. “I didn't want to upset you.” He paused, finding the story difficult to explain to his impatient audience. “There were six of them,” he began. “Maybe more, I can't remember. I walked up to Bill's front door just as they threw him through his own window. Then they started beating him. They weren't going to stop. I had to do something.” He paused again, unable to go on.

  Davis then cleared his throat and spoke up. “These escaped prisoners are everywhere. They've terrorized the area, and I wish there was more I could do. But they'll move on eventually. They have to.”

  “Most of them, yes,” James said. “But there's at least two hundred that aren't going anywhere. They're a cult, and their leader's name is Julian Monroe. He engineered the riot that took over the prison.”

  Davis turned to him with an inquisitive look as though whatever James was saying was news to him. He then leaned closer to the desk and took the same Bible. “When we went out to Bill's, we found three dead. I'm assuming you did what you had to, but you should have told me.”

  James squeezed Marla's hand, trying to get his own thoughts together. They had returned to the church for a reason. In their current circumstance, it was the only place they could go.

  “I guess it would have been best to tell you,” he admitted. “Right now, we need a place to stay,” he began. “Just for a couple of days until we can move on.”

  “You mentioned that you were in danger,” the sheriff said, curious about their predicament, but also concerned how it might affect the people in the church.

  James glanced around the darkened room, the way it was interconnected with other areas, and realized that they were in the pastor's quarters. Only it had been converted into a temporary storage room. “Have you heard of Julian Monroe? He was an infamous cult leader responsible for all those murders in the 1980s. He's serving a life sentence at the prison, and up to his same tricks.”

  Davis set the Bible onto the desk and opened it as he rested his forehead into his palm. “I've heard of him, yes.” He then leaned closer, his brows arched. “How do you know all of this?”

  James and Marla glanced at each other. “After I left here, my wife and I were ambushed. They... they took Bill's car. We escaped, but not after taking a few of them out in the process. They'll be looking for us. We just need temporary shelter, and then we'll move on.”

  Trailing his finger across the open Bible, Davis stopped in the middle of the page and began reading in a hushed voice. “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.” He looked up from the page at James and Marla. “Mean anything to you?”

  James and Marla nodded in agreement, neither wanting to speak out of turn.

  “I think it's pretty obvious,” Davis said, closing the Bible as someone knocked suddenly at the door. “Just a minute!” he called. He then looked alternately between James and Marla, deciding something and looking them squarely in the eye. “I'm responsible for the safety and well-being of everyone in this church. This is what's left of our town, and I refuse to abandon them or Winslow. And if you need shelter and protection, you've come to the right place.”

  James and Marla felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief, both thanking him profusely as someone knocked a second time. Davis got up to answer as the door opened and a man walked inside, wearing a white dress shirt and gray slacks. From his demeanor, it was clear he was the pastor. He was of average height, with light scruff on his face and dirty blond hair thinning at the top. He had greenish eyes that shot across the room as he walked in, examining the new guests. “I was told you were talking to some newcomers.”

  “Yes, this is James and Marla,” Davis said.

  The pastor approached them with a welcoming smile, though the bags under his eyes and disheveled hair indicated exhaustion. “Welcome to the First Church of Winslow,” he began, extending his arm toward James. “My name is Phillip Lynn. Just call me Phil.” They shook hands, and he turned to Marla with an even greater smile. “Pleased to meet you both.”

  “Thank you, Pastor,” Marla said.

  He stood back for a moment, not quite sure what to make of these obviously worn-out strangers before him. “I didn't mean to interrupt anything. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  “It's quite all right,” James said. “We were just chatting.”

  The pastor glanced at Davis and then returned his focus to the couple. “Where do you two hail from, if you don't mind me asking? I'm awfully curious on how things are outside of town.”

  “St. Louis,” they said.

  The pastor nodded slowly. “How'd you get all the way out here? Do you have a working vehicle?”

  “Unfo
rtunately not,” James answered.

  The sheriff then interjected. “Do we have some extra mattresses and maybe some blankets? They'll need to stay with us for a couple days.”

  “Yes, of course,” Pastor Phil said. “It was nice meeting you two,” he said, leaving the room. “Anything you need, just let me know.”

  “He's a good man,” Davis said after the door shut.

  The room went quiet as James leaned forward with a question that had been on his mind all morning. “Do you know of any other working vehicles at your disposal?”

  Davis thought to himself and shook his head, saddened. “Not that I know of. The supply team has been out there looking. Even went to Pat's junkyard to see if we could find any.” He rocked back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Doesn't matter to most of us. This is our town, and we're not leaving, regardless.” The room went quiet again as James and Marla looked around, polite expressions on their worn faces. The sheriff ran his hands through his white hair and then rose from his seat, ready to leave. “Anything else of pertinent discussion?”

  “That's all for now, Sheriff. Thank you,” James said.

  The sheriff nodded and walked toward the door. James took Marla's hand as they followed him outside. Beyond the altar, it was business as usual, with people sitting in the pews, some reading and some sleeping. Despite the bleakness and danger that surrounded them, he still saw hope. It had been a little over a week since the EMP strike. If St. Louis hadn't been vaporized in a nuclear EMP attack, there was a good chance they could return home. Fifty miles on foot or on bicycle wasn't an impossibility. They always had that option.

  They continued down the steps of the altar toward the aisle. Sheriff Davis stopped and held his arms up, calling for the group’s attention. “I just wanted to introduce James and Marla Weller. They made it here from St. Louis and need a place to stay for a bit. Please welcome them.”

  A lanky man in a flannel shirt suddenly stood up from one of the pews. “St. Louis? What's it like there?”

  “Tell us, please,” a woman shouted.

  “Give them some time to settle in,” Davis said, waving his hands. “Ask them all the questions you want during today's barbecue.”

  “That's all right,” James said, stepping forward to offer a brief explanation. “St. Louis was evacuated like all major cities. We were hit with an EMP that took out the power grid. And these attacks have taken place all over the country.”

  Gasps of disbelief followed as collective murmurs of alarm rose among the whisperers. The sheriff asked for calm as he continued down the aisle with James and Marla. The news was naturally upsetting for the room to hear. James didn't want to dampen their spirits, but they had to know. It could take weeks or months to restore power. And once that happened, their vehicles would need to be repaired or replaced, along with whatever else was destroyed.

  They entered the outside lobby and walked toward a door marked “Reading Room” on the left. Sheriff Davis opened the door and led them inside. The room had bookcases against the walls on all sides, along with religious art, landscape paintings, and reading chairs set up throughout. What made it odd were the various sleeping bags and single mattresses on the floor. There were people inside reading, curiously glancing up from their books. Sheriff Davis opened the nearby door and they entered a furnished office with a bed in the corner.

  There was a young woman seated next to the bed, reading. She looked up, and James recognized her as Abby, the sheriff's wife. Next to her in the bed lay Bill Mosley, but his face was bandaged on one side. Abby closed her book and stood up, stretching. She seemed to recognize James as well. “You came back.”

  “Yes,” James said. “Nice to see you again.”

  The sheriff turned to Marla, noticing her confusion. “Oh, I imagine James didn't tell you what he did.” She looked at him worriedly as if to say, “what now?” Davis laughed and touched her arm. “Don't worry. Some of those same rough-neck prisoners were harassing my wife Abby. Your husband stepped in, proving himself to be a gentleman of the tallest order.”

  “Thank you for that again,” Abby said, giving James a quick hug.

  “My pleasure,” James said, nervous with all the attention.

  Abby went next to Marla and shook her hand, introducing herself. James moved beside the bed and looked down at Bill, whose one uncovered eye began to flicker open. “Hey there, Bill,” he said.

  Bill muttered something that James couldn't hear. He leaned down closer. “What was that, Bill?”

  A faint whisper followed from Bill's chapped mouth. “My car. Where's my car?”

  James wasn't quite prepared for the question but tried his best. “I... I took your car, Bill. Those men who assaulted you, there were more of them, and they took it from me.”

  Davis walked over, eavesdropping. “Hell, Bill. I told you what happened. Why are you harassing the man?”

  The bed shifted as Bill sat up, suddenly more animated than before. “Relentless sons of bitches, aren't they?” He then rocked back down, tired out. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “It was the least I could do,” James said.

  “Come on now,” Sheriff Davis said. “Let's let Bill rest.”

  James stepped away from the bed and went to Marla, who was patiently waiting for him near a big oak desk. She smiled at him and then placed a familiar object onto the table, unfolding it.

  “Your map,” she said with a hint of pride.

  “Larry's map?” James said.

  “I think I have a plan.”

  James looked at her, surprised. “Plan? What plan?”

  “Later,” she said. “Let's get settled in first.”

  “We're cooking today,” the sheriff said, walking over to them. “Deer meat is on the menu.”

  Deer meat. They walked out of the room together as the sheriff invited them to join in later. Their decision to come to church seemed better all the time. Perhaps they were better off there for a couple of days. They left the reading room and went back through the nave, which had four rows of pews on both sides. Davis led them through the aisle and to a back exit that led outside. The fresh breeze was an immediate relief. The blue sky and white, floating clouds gave no indication of the unrest and upheaval surrounding them.

  Out back were benches and picnic tables, a privacy fence that surrounded the area, lawn toys, rows of bicycles, and, farther in the back, a smoking grill. There were a few people outside, preparing food for what looked like an outdoor picnic. The church seemed an entirely different world of its own, isolated like Larry's cabin, but with a human touch or charm that made it more appealing. Davis led them to a bench and sat down with them, asking them about themselves. The vetting never stopped, it seemed. All James could think about, however, was what their next move was going to be.

  10

  Blood Moon

  After dinner, they were given a mattress to rest on and blankets. They were one of many people relegated to the floor of a crowded church and lying in the corner behind a row of pews. There was a family sleeping not far from them. Despite the dangers that still existed for them, James felt like he could sleep for days. He was stuffed from the baked potatoes and deer meat, which had seemed plentiful. The church had a well-water pump which had proved invaluable. They’d even been able to wash up.

  The townspeople seemed to have what they needed to sustain themselves, and there was a consensus that things could be far worse. The EMP strike had decimated their technology and that of most of the country, but they were still alive. Had nuclear warheads been launched instead, they wouldn't even have a chance. There was no radioactive fallout to contend with, no fear of nuclear war. This was an entirely different crisis, though the attack had effectively created total anarchy.

  Candles rested along the wall shelves and atop the altar, providing a comforting glow. Despite the harmony between the townspeople, there was an undeniable tension in the air. They all seemed to get along with one another and work together
well, but fear was ever-present. The children were generally well-behaved. Nothing seemed too far out of the ordinary, but the calm couldn't last forever. It was obvious that they wanted their lives back. Operating in constant limbo with just enough to survive on had its limits. That evening, however, everything seemed at peace.

  Volunteers stood guard outside, keeping watch over the church. The townspeople had a fair number of weapons and ammunition. Sheriff Davis had provided the rest from the police station. James lay in bed with Marla sitting up beside him with the map and a flashlight. Her heightened diligence had been on display all evening. She had mapped an escape route back home toward the highway after a ten-mile hike through the woods. They'd travel east for that distance and soon get far enough from the area that the prisoners would no longer be an issue. Or at least she hoped.

  “This could be our safest route home,” she explained to him as they lay in bed. “We'll dump our things, travel light, and only take the necessities. Two decent bikes, and we can pedal home for all I care.”

  “I'd still like to get a vehicle,” James said. They spoke softly, theirs being one of several quiet conversations occurring around them. “We don't know who we'll encounter on the way,” he said. “Fifty miles is no cakewalk, and on bikes, we’d have to stay on the road, exposed.”

  She turned her head from the map and looked directly at him. “It sounds like you don't want to go home yet.”

  He launched up, rising next to her. “They evacuated St. Louis. For all we know, it's completely wiped out.” He paused as his voice echoed through the room. Heads turned in their direction as James waved and apologized.