The Last War: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller

by Ryan Schow

  He really needs that thing clean and stitched up.

  It’s in this brief moment of safety that I start to consider all the other dangers around us. If the drones don’t kill us and the bombs don’t kill us and the gangs don’t kill us, chances are pretty good—when enough people get hungry enough and desperate enough—that our own kind will set upon us as a last resort.

  This is what we’ve feared most: the moment society turns on each other. I’m surprised it’s not worse than it’s been, but the truth is, it’s bound to get much worse before it gets better.

  If other cities are enduring this the way we’re enduring this, then that begs the question: will we live long enough to see “better?”

  If civilization truly has fallen, come we back from this?

  For all of our insecurity about our future, for all our fears, Rex has given us combat wisdom and Stanton has blessed us with his business acumen. Rex got us this far, but now that he’s gone, we need to rely on Stanton and Stanton seems to have the right idea about how to handle things.

  Crouched down, waiting for a clearing, and a plan, I can’t stop thinking of something Stanton said a few days back. He said the business world is proving to be a lot like the apocalypse: if you’re not the hunter, then you’re bound to become the prey.

  As I sit here feeling like prey, I realize our survival depends on me becoming the hunter. For whatever reason, maybe because Rex is gone and Stanton is injured, I find myself stepping up to the task. Standing up, I tell Macy and Stanton it’s time to go. I’m not exactly sure where we’re heading, only that doing something—even if it’s the wrong thing—is better than hiding here and doing nothing. We can always self-correct.

  “Slow down!” Macy says as we trudge through the trees and meadow grass toward a clearing, and a neighborhood. “Wait!”

  Me and Stanton turn around and level her with raised eyebrows.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, like she can’t grasp the reality of this situation.

  “We’re going to circle around and see about Rex, and after that, I don’t know. There’s a hundred houses to choose from. Maybe a thousand. Basically we’re going to find some place where we can clean your father’s head wound before it gets infected and we have to amputate.”

  Wait, holy crap. Did I just say that? Wow. Talk about terrible gallows humor! Even for me. Stanton and Macy just stare at me. I don’t blame them.

  Then after that awkward pause, I make a proclamation. “We’re leaving this godforsaken city one way or another. I’m not sure how we’re going to do it, but mark my words, it’s happening.”

  Macy looks up at me, then beyond me, and what my daughter can’t say in that moment is that we might not be going anywhere. Seeing her eyes shocked wide open, seeing myriad emotions cross her face in lightening quick progression, I turn and follow her gaze.

  Not fifty feet away, tromping out of the same grove of trees are five creeps with guns and hard eyes all the sick signs of trouble. To relief, and my horror, they have Rex. He’s on foot and alive! But he’s being held at gunpoint and not looking terribly happy about it.

  “This gringo piece of mierda here says he doesn’t know you people,” the guy holding him hostage says, “but by the worried look on that cute little blonde’s face clearly says he does.”

  This scumbag, this bald thug with a tattooed face and piercings and a criminal’s sense of fashion (white sneakers, grey slacks, white tank top so the story of his life—as written all over his body in ink—can be read), he clanks the barrel of the shotgun on Rex’s head one, two, three times.

  “Yeah, I knew by the look,” he says to me, head turned sideways, chin jutted forward and pointing a finger at me, “I saw it in your eyes, you guys are lovers.”

  Rex shakes his head and says, “That’s my sister, bro.”

  “So that’s your niece then?” he asks.

  Rex nods. “It is.”

  And everyone starts to laugh, not boisterous, but like they’re in something that will be good for them, but not us. You don’t have to be a genius to know what any of these fools is thinking.

  “Looks like it’s play time ese,” he says, his body saying yes to all the many things he’s thinking.

  My blood is officially boiling. I can’t stop the rage building inside me and I know right now I need to keep a cool head. But the way his predatory eyes are giving Macy the once over, it turns my stomach and ignites something in me, a violent protectiveness I can’t explain. To my sheer horror, looking back at all the times we’ve been confronted by men, their eyes always go to me, to Macy. Is this a symptom of the future? Will my daughter’s good looks always make us a target?

  Refusing to show fear, I lock eyes with him, and only then do I become afraid. There is nothing in those eyes. No sense of right or wrong, not an ounce of benevolence or humanity, only an emptiness born of greed and the need to hold everything around him in a stranglehold of his own making.

  He sees me seeing him, thinking this, and he laughs. It’s a sick, sanctimonious chuckle that tells me all I need to know: he has no soul.

  We’re screwed.

  Looking from Macy to me, and never really at Stanton, he says, “You two girls are going to clean up nicely. I can tell. You’re going to be the two prettiest princesses we’ve ever had. We’re going to pass you around over and over and over again (pointing to each of his boys as he says this) until your insides fall out from all the fun we’ve had with you. And then you won’t be pretty princesses any more. You’ll just be a couple of mutts we pulled in off street.”

  Two or three of his pals snicker, grabbing my attention. They’re all a bunch of soulless thugs, entertained only by the humiliation and tormenting of others.

  In situations like these—unimaginable situations, downright terrifying situations—you can’t even find the words to say, much less utter a single intelligible sentence. This is why Stanton shot those boys back on The Exorcist stairway. Now that the roles are reversed, the choice becomes easy. I would shoot every single one of these men in the face.

  But five on four?

  Not so much.

  Instead of pulling my gun and going all Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, I find myself tumbling through a flurry of horrifying possibilities. I’m looking at the men promising to rape me and my daughter into oblivion and I’m thinking of all the viciousness I’m going to unleash, but then I realize it’ll do no good because his friends are like him in that they like the fight, that they want the fight, and so whatever I have, I know it’s not enough.

  It won’t ever be enough.

  The torrent of possibilities ripping through me quickly become just one acceptable truth: whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be bad. And if by some miracle we survive to see the other side of this thing, we won’t be the same people. We won’t even know who we were before all this.

  “My God,” he says looking right at me, wonderment and humor in his expression. “You just rose up against me then fell into defeat right before my eyes. We haven’t even had an ounce of fun yet and already you’re beaten.” Turning those ugly, hooded eyes on Macy—not even bothering to mask his intentions—he says, “Let’s pray this little slice of heaven has more fight in her than her mother.”

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he says, all eyes on Macy. Macy turns her scared eyes on me.

  Frantic, a wicked frenzy building inside me, I turn to Stanton and he’s got that murderous look tucked away behind almost blank eyes. I look at Rex and he’s looking defeated, although I pray that’s not the case and he’s just playing possum.

  “Don’t look at her!” the guy holding Rex barks at Macy.

  I look at Macy and her eyes are dancing with fear. Macy doesn’t move, but mine prepares itself for war. No way this prick is taking my daughter.

  “I got an idea,” he says, racking the shotgun and jamming it into Rex’s face, “you get you’re little titties over here or I swear to God almighty, I’m going to pull the trigger and m
ake a meat sauce out of your uncle’s face.”

  “Mom?” she asks.

  “Do I have to count to three?” he snaps, impatient, irritated that none of us are complying. No one says anything and you can see how much this pisses him off. “Okay, fine. Let’s do it the hard way.”

  Pause.

  “One.”

  I look away from Macy to Rex. He’s playing possum better than ever and this concerns me. Is this a ruse for him, or is he really afraid? Oh God, how hurt is he?

  “Stanton?” I say.

  His cheeks are trembling with rage and his eyes are obsidian stone. Is he getting ready for this? For the guy to just kill Rex before he makes a move?

  “Two,” the creep says.

  That’s when the cushy boom! in the sky draws our attention to the heavens. It’s different from the concussion bursts we’ve been hearing closer into the city—the sounds of missiles destroying buildings.

  Then, all the way up Presidio Avenue, the bulbs in the overhead street lamps explode, the shattering glass tinkling all across the street.

  In the distance, down the hill, transformers blow and fire runs down the phone lines in showers of sparks.

  That’s when the first arrow comes. The guy with the shotgun to Rex’s face, the one with the dirty mouth and a head full of sexual depravity, his skull is suddenly skewered. The arrow goes in the temple and exits just above the hinge of the jaw. Meat and drizzle drip off the razor sharp tip.

  What the hell?

  He staggers backwards a step. A knee buckles and he topples over into the weeds, but not before Rex can snatch the shotgun out of his hand. A second arrow sinks into a throat of a second man and Rex is already firing on the third. The shotgun blast has us all and jumping, but not before three new guns are drawn.

  Of the five ruffians threatening us, three are down, leaving two. The quietest man is the one who surprises us most. He never said a word, never cut loose in laughter, never put his eyes on either me or Macy in a malicious way. But now he’s got two guns out, lightening quick: one on Rex, another on Stanton. He quickly positions himself in between Rex and Stanton, using Rex to shield himself from the incoming arrows.

  Another arrow rips through the air, but the gunman now knows where they’re coming from so he inches to the right and arrow flies by. I go for my gun, but he says, “That gun comes out, your brother gets it in the face.” With the pistol, he motions me over toward Stanton.

  My hand comes away from my weapon; I move toward my husband, but only slightly. I keep waiting for Stanton to do something, or Rex, but moving on this guy means someone dies, so I understand why they haven’t moved, and how terrifying this is.

  “Who’s your little friend?” he asks, turning his body sideways to keep both Stanton and Rex in sight while shielding himself from the mystery archer.

  No one answers.

  I’m on the edge of his vision, but apparently I’m no longer a threat. Is there a way I can draw on him? Catch him off guard?

  “Either of you heroes decide to move on me, I don’t ask questions. I just shoot. Not to any of the adults though, I changed my mind. The first bullet gets the girl. Now everyone move in front me where I can see you.”

  With the shotgun aimed at this guy, Rex says, “Stay put. He shoots me he’s done. You hear that? You have a bullet. I have pellets.”

  “I know the drill,” he snarls. Another arrow zips by startling the gunman, but not enough to knock him off his game. Looking at his buddy—who also has a weapon on Rex, he says, “Get the others, tell them I have dessert, but come heavy.”

  The fifth guy takes off running.

  Macy is moving now, one inch at a time out of the gunman’s view. Inside, I’m freaking out because in her hand, behind her back, is the third gun. The one I never expected.

  Where did she get that?

  Just as another arrow rips through the air, Macy’s got the gun out in front of her and I can’t breathe. Looking over, Stanton can’t breathe either. Time slows to a crawl. A smile curves Rex’s mouth into a grin, and the guy’s eyes find Macy.

  She doesn’t even speak; she just shoots him twice in the spine.

  By now the fifth man is at the edge of the street. He turns to see what’s happened, but by then two arrows are headed his way. He sees them, drops and rolls out of the way, both missing their mark. Hustling to his feet, he sprints in a zig-zag pattern down the street.

  Two more arrows head his way, but both miss.

  “What the hell, Macy?” I scream, but she can’t hear me over the thunder in her ears.

  And the guy face down on the ground? She walking right up to him, a cold hatred in her eyes like I’ve never seen before. She aims down and fires, putting a bullet in the back of his head. Just like Stanton did with those two bullies on The Exorcist stairway.

  I stifle a cry, but it’s not enough.

  The dam inside me breaks open and that’s when I lose it. That’s when I go to pieces because Macy’s innocence is now gone. She’s no longer a child. No longer my little girl.

  Stanton’s got me in his arms, and Rex is taking the gun from Macy, who just saved our lives. He’s telling her she did good, giving her a hug. She has that faraway look, but Rex isn’t letting her bathe in it. He’s talking her back out, telling her she just saved us.

  I glance up and a young woman with a bow and quiver of arrows is walking our way. She’s tall (maybe five foot nine?) and thin but not frail. Her chestnut hair is pulled into a ponytail, a few strands hanging loose in her face. She slides the bow on her back and I can’t help but be impressed. Or scared. There’s nothing soft about this girl at all.

  She’s wearing black boots with black jeans and a black skin-tight tank top. Her body is lithe and competent, her look slightly athletic. The closer she gets, the more I can see her eyes. They’re like cold stones: steadfast, unfeeling.

  Yet she came to our rescue. My tears dry up as curiosity quickly replaces loss. All four of us watch her as she approaches.

  “You guys okay?” she asks.

  Her voice is a summer rain; it’s kind but strong, tempered yet poised to say more. We’re strangers though, and in the company of strangers you’re never really your authentic self.

  “Thanks to you,” Macy says, still rattled. “That was amazing.”

  “Do you guys know what just happened?” she asks. “It’s like all the street lights were shot out at once.”

  “I think it was a power surge,” Stanton says. “But from the sky.”

  “Nuclear EMP,” Rex concludes.

  “EMP?” the archer asks.

  “Electromagnetic pulse,” Rex says. “Detonated at the right altitude, we’re talking about a devastating weapon. The energy is powerful enough to knock out the power grid for hundreds of miles around.”

  “Isn’t that what the Iraq guy told us might happen?” I ask. “The guy who gave us the extra ammo?”

  Rex reaches out his good arm, extends his hand. The archer looks down at it, wary, then takes it. “I’m Rex McNamara, this is my sister, Cincinnati, her husband Stanton and their daughter, my niece, Macy.”

  She looks around and says, “Indigo.”

  Looking at her, feeling an immense swell of appreciation, I’m too overwhelmed to just stand here. I go and take her in a hug, which she hesitantly returns.

  “Thank you for saving my family,” I tell her.

  “I’ve been hunting these guys for days now.”

  That’s all she can say. This one is a great shot, but she’s light on words.

  Turning to my daughter, who is now standing next to Stanton, I say, “Macy, baby, are you okay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because you just killed that man,” I say, unable to escape the fact that this dark day has finally come—the day I warned Stanton about, the day I’ve long since feared.

  “No, Mom. I didn’t kill him,” she says. “I saved us.” Then, looking at Indigo and Rex, she adds, “Well she did. And uncle Rex did.”


  “It was a group effort,” Indigo says, unsmiling, and we all agree. “Did you have anything to do with that helicopter going down?”

  “That was our ride,” Stanton says, finally speaking up.

  “Drones?” she asks.

  “How’d you know,” Rex replies, sarcastic.

  The way my brother is looking at her, I can tell he’s smitten. It never fails to surprise me how the world can come to a complete stop the second a guy sees a pretty girl Then again, this girl isn’t pretty in the girlish sense of the word. It’s more like she’s tomboyish, and capable. Two things a guy like Rex appreciates. Obviously.

  “Why were you hunting them?” Macy asks. “Who are they?”

  Indigo leans down to the one with the arrow in his head, pulls up his shirt and on his ribs is the tattoo of a large black snake that’s accordioned in a series of S’s. It’s dark, scaly and menacing. Worst of all, the ink looks fresh.

  “They call themselves The Ophidian Horde. They’re a gang from what I’m told. Offshoots of the MS-13 and fresh out of the wrapper.”

  “Are they part of the Mission District gangs?” Macy asks.

  “Not sure. I think they formed out of…whatever it is that’s happening, or happened, here. The last two I tried to talk to, they didn’t make it.” Looking at Rex, she asks, “Why did the EMP go off? Who would do that?”

  “Most likely the military. No other way to stop the drones.”

  “You enlisted?” she asks.

  “In between tours in Afghanistan. I was heading out in a few weeks, but I’m thinking that’s all a moot point right about now.”

  Indigo grabs a hold of the arrow in the man’s head, gives it a tug, testing it. It doesn’t budge. She gives his head a little kick, then goes to the second guy. Bending over, she yanks the arrow out of his throat, sloughs off the blood and meat, sticks it in the quiver on her back.

  He starts to squirm a bit; he’s not dead. Not taking her eyes off him, she reaches a hand back and says, “Gun.” Macy hands over her weapon; Indigo fires a round into his forehead then turns and hands the gun back.