Survival EMP Box Set | Books 1-4

by Lopez, Rob

  “That I can confirm. He’s out there raising merry hell, which is the reason why your water don’t taste so good. People are looking to him to liberate this city, but we need to get you out of Connors’ grip first.”

  Lauren’s lips parted in awe at the possibilities. “What’s the plan?” she said earnestly.

  “That’s the problem. I don’t have one. This place is sewed up tighter than a duck’s ass. I don’t know how I’m going to get you out.” He bit his lip. “In fact, I don’t know why I agreed to this in the first place, because it can get us both killed.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “Well, that’s real grand of you, but I was hoping to get in a few more years.”

  Lauren looked out of the window. “How often is that machine gun manned?” she asked.

  “Permanently. And generators run lights around the perimeter.”

  “How many checkpoints?”

  “You can’t get out without passing one.”

  Lauren tapped her lips shrewdly. “A disguise might work.”

  “The guards ain’t blind.”

  “Well, have you got any other ideas?”

  “Ma’am, my job is to lock people up, not get them out. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “Then you need to improvise.”

  “Oh sure, that’ll be easy,” said Eagleburger skeptically.

  “We can do this,” said Lauren, and she appeared to really believe that.

  “Give me more time. I have to take you down now, before my deputy gets suspicious.”

  “So he’s not in on this?”

  “No, he ain’t.”

  Lauren was reluctant to go. The tentative glimpse of freedom had whetted her appetite. “Sheriff, I’ve thanked you once before, and I’d like to thank you again. You’re a good man.”

  Eagleburger took out the handcuffs. “That might not be enough this time, so don’t get too gracious. Turn around.”

  He took her back down, locked her in her cell and relieved the deputy. Sitting at the desk, he took his hat off and wondered what he’d committed himself to.

  Moresby’s plan of using her as leverage to gain her husband’s assistance struck Eagleburger as too cynical. From being a pawn in Connors’ game, Lauren had gone on to become a pawn in Moresby’s.

  And if he was being honest with himself, Eagleburger had to admit that he was being used too. His fate was tied with hers.

  *

  Someone in the camp had made a three-legged stool, and Scott sat on it as he scratched lines in the dirt of the forest floor. The fighters gathered in a ring around him, listening intently as he laid out the plan, marking out key points and assigning particular jobs to chosen individuals.

  “When you get to this point,” he said, pointing with a stick, “you’re on your own. You’ll have the backup crew in position, but we can’t predict what the enemy will do at this point. You’ll need to be aggressive and use your initiative.”

  Rick stepped forward. “This will be the boldest move we’ve made so far. We have to go in hard, and if things go wrong, we have to fight our way out of it hard. There’s no indication they’re expecting this, so if we go for maximum shock, we should carry the day. Don’t hesitate.”

  Ned looked doubtfully at the diagram in the earth. “Is this target really that important? Because it doesn’t seem that way.”

  “We’re striking down Connors’ assets,” said Rick.

  “We’re hitting him in the nuts, boys,” said Red cheerfully. “Gonna bring tears to his eyes.”

  Nervous laughter rippled around the group.

  Rick turned to Packy, who looked glum. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  “Sure, whatever,” said Packy absently.

  “I need you on the ball, Packy.”

  Packy straightened his shoulders a little. “I’m on it.”

  “Any doubts?”

  “No, I’m cool.”

  “Packy’s worried about his old lady,” remarked Ralph.

  “Hey,” said Packy, “less of the old.”

  “Got you under her thumb, ain’t she? Lie down, roll over, go fetch.”

  “Dude,” said Packy. “If I want relationship advice from a hick who thinks incest is a brand of perfume, I’ll ask.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” said Rick. “We’ll head out tonight in two groups and meet at the rendezvous point. Check your weapons. I don’t want any foul-ups. Take all the ammo you can carry.”

  *

  Lauren paced her cell. The shock of Eagleburger’s revelation still hadn’t left her, and she had too many questions she hadn’t had time to ask. Who exactly was plotting for her release, and why? And when would it happen?

  With the Pandora’s box of possibilities open, she sketched out her preparations. About the only thing she could attend to straight away was her fitness. Her leg was nearly healed, but she wasn’t in the kind of shape she used to be, even with the brief exercise upstairs. No matter what happened, she had to be absolutely ready for it. She needed to begin a regime of squats and stretches, and the next time she saw Eagleburger, she’d have to ask him for a jump rope.

  That wouldn’t be the kind of thing anyone would allow a prisoner to have, for obvious reasons, but in this case, she saw no reason why he would refuse.

  She imagined he probably would, though. He was such a stickler for rules, which made it all the stranger that he was helping her. What was happening in the city that made him even contemplate such an action?

  Starved of information, she began jumping in place. If she couldn’t get the rope, she’d improvise. She had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice, and when the time came, she guessed she’d only get one shot at it.

  If Rick really was raising hell, it could only be a matter of time before the walls came tumbling down.

  22

  The pearlescent blue Bronco driven by the militia patrolled the Blue Ridge Parkway at a sedate pace, lazily meandering along the serpentine road. The Parkway’s 45mph limit was no longer enforced — nor would it have meant much to them if it was, as they were the enforcers — but the dropoffs on some of the corners were treacherous, and they were meant to be looking for signs of the saboteurs in the valleys below. Truth be told, they were more interested in observing the wooded slopes above them in the hope of spotting a deer to supplement their rations.

  So it was somewhat surprising to see a bright orange Plymouth Road Runner come screaming around a corner, driving straight toward them.

  The militia were slow to react, and the Road Runner executed a handbrake turn and sent up a cloud of smoke and dust as it spun its rear wheels and took off back around the corner.

  The Bronco gave chase, but while it was a tough vehicle to beat off-road, on the highway it was outclassed by the Road Runner, which quickly disappeared. After a few corners, however, the muscle car came into view again, and it appeared to be slowing, no longer an orange streak on the landscape. When the Bronco rounded the next corner, the Road Runner had pulled over, and the driver was lifting the hood.

  The militia halted and dismounted, assault rifles aimed. Packy stepped away from the car, arms raised.

  “Uh, hi fellas,” he said. “Nice day for a drive, right?”

  The militia approached but suspiciously kept their distance. “Who are you?” one of them said.

  Packy gave them an uncertain smile. “Just an average guy enjoying the view. Uh, you wouldn’t know how to fix a V8, would you?”

  “No,” said the militiaman who’d spoken. “Keep your hands high.”

  “Sure,” said Packy, complying. “I wouldn’t get any closer, though, if I were you.”

  “Why not?”

  With a nod of his head, Packy indicated the woods at the side of the road. “Because they’ll shoot you if you do.”

  The militia leader glanced to the woods and saw a line of gunmen, rifles aimed at the militia. “Drop your weapons,” shouted a voice.

  “I’d do as h
e says,” advised Packy. “He means business, and I wouldn’t want you guys to get hurt.”

  The militia leader briefly pondered his choices, counting the opposition. He and his men were in a tight group, and they wouldn’t have lasted long if they dared to turn to face the gunmen. Grinding his teeth at this elementary mistake, the leader thought about it for a brief second, then slowly lowered his gun. Packy stepped back to his car and pulled out his Mac-10, pointing it at the group.

  “Good choice,” he said. “Sucks, I know, but them’s the breaks. Nice color Bronco, by the way.”

  Around twenty fighters emerged from the trees to disarm the militia. Hands bound, the four men were led into the woods.

  “Keep them safe until we get back,” said Rick to one of the escorts. “Meet us at Milepost 350.”

  Five men mounted the pickup, tying green scarves to their sleeves. Four men got into Packy’s Road Runner. The remaining men returned to the woods, but Josh hesitated.

  “I want to come with you,” he said.

  Rick looked at him for a moment. “Not this time,” he said. “It’s too risky, and I need the firepower. You’re not ready to handle an assault rifle yet.”

  They’d had this conversation already, but Josh still looked unhappy. “We need you back, Dad.”

  Rick cupped his face. “You don’t need to worry about me. Watch the prisoners and stay alert. And remember your bushcraft.”

  As Rick walked to the pickup, Josh called out. “You’re not invincible, Dad. Watch yourself.”

  Rick turned, a trace of a smile on his lips. “No, I’m not. And I will.”

  Rick got into the passenger seat, tying a green scarf to his arm, and the pickup turned around and headed toward Asheville. The Road Runner followed behind. Josh watched them go.

  The two vehicle convoy drove the scenic road with grim intent. Nobody in the vehicles spoke — not even Packy. Everyone knew this would be different from their last mission. They were riding into the heart of enemy territory in a move so bold, they were almost asking for trouble. Out of all of them, only Rick had done this kind of thing before. If they hadn’t trusted him so much, the others would never have considered taking such a risk. And trust would only get them so far.

  One false move could kill them all.

  They got to within five miles of Asheville without incident, then turned off the Parkway and onto Town Mountain Road, which snaked along the hill ridges in the same way, but through formerly inhabited areas. As the road sank lower with the foothills, they passed palatial homes with views worth every dollar of their substantial real estate values. It was impossible at a glance to tell which homes remained occupied, or by whom, but the convoy didn’t slow to a more cautious crawl. Masquerading as militia, they had to drive as if they owned the place. Without even darkness to shield their movements, they had to bluff their way through, and the hands that gripped the rifles started to sweat.

  Except for Rick’s. He noted every turn-off, every possible hiding place, and cataloged them in a mental list that would have blown most people’s minds. He had the route mapped out in his mind, with escape routes, emergency rendezvous points, and a backup for each backup plan. Nothing was left to chance, and indeed he’d cycled the route at night, looking for checkpoints and good ambush positions.

  The only unknown factor was how the enemy would react, plus the inescapable fact that everything looked different in broad daylight. But there wasn’t much Rick could do about that.

  Cresting a ridge, they caught sight of Asheville’s urban sprawl at the foot of the hills, a mass of white and gray denuded of greenery. Rick ordered the convoy to pull into a driveway, turning the vehicles around and then waiting, engines idling.

  “Do you know what the guy looks like?” asked Red, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Rick shook his head. “Got a description of the vehicle and the route he’s taking, that’s all.”

  “What if we kill the wrong guy?”

  “It can happen.”

  “How long do we wait?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  They waited three hours, with nothing showing up. Packy switched his engine off, but the truck had no starter, and the temperature needle crawled toward the red. With the windows open, they turned the blower on, hot air coming out of the vents. The fighters fidgeted, getting out of the vehicles, kicking the tires, passing around a rare, precious cigarette. Rick didn’t move.

  On the curve of a road below, they caught sight of a yellow and red pickup, coming up the hill.

  “That’s it,” said Rick.

  Banging the side of the truck, he motioned everyone to action stations, which mostly consisted of them hanging around like they had been doing, but with safety catches off and wider spacing between them. Packy started his engine.

  The yellow and red pickup came into view on the road, and Rick counted the occupants — two in the cab and two on the bed with semi-automatic rifles. The vehicle slowed upon seeing the faux militia and cruised past, suspicious eyes wondering why Rick’s convoy was there. Rick nodded at the driver as he went by, trying to maintain a casual air. The pickup drove on and disappeared around the next bend.

  Rick’s men mounted up.

  “Stay casual,” Rick told them. “I don’t want them spooked.”

  Red pulled out and Packy tucked in behind. Gunning the hot engine, Red quickly caught up with the yellow and red pickup, then dropped back, maintaining a reasonable distance. The other vehicle’s occupants turned around, trying to figure out why they now had a tail. Rick kept his weapon on his lap, watching the other gunmen closely. It was obvious the gunmen weren’t used to being challenged, and if there were more of them, they might have been a little more belligerent, but Rick was confident they wouldn’t make the first move. Not when they were so outnumbered. He just had to make sure he didn’t provoke them.

  Not until the time was right, anyway.

  The two sides watched each other for a couple of miles, then the yellow and red pickup turned off.

  “Drive on past the turnoff, then stop,” said Rick.

  Red complied and Rick jumped out, keeping low until he was behind a tree. Peering out, he saw the yellow and red pickup drive down a narrow track that descended into a wooded cove and disappeared. Unfolding a map, he traced the likely route and returned to the others.

  “It’s a dead end,” he said. “There’s three or four buildings marked. Might be a couple more. They should be easy to find, so we’ll give them a few minutes to get inside. Packy, block this road to prevent anyone coming up from Asheville. The rest of you know what to do.”

  Red turned the pickup around, approached the turnoff and coasted down the track. It wasn’t a deep cove, and they soon came upon the yellow and red pickup parked outside a two story house with some outbuildings and a big yard. A guard lounging by the porch straightened up when he saw the vehicle full of armed men arrive. Rick and his men dismounted and Rick walked boldly up to the guard.

  “Where’s Fat Danny?” he asked him.

  “He’s inside,” said the guard uncertainly. “Should you guys be here? This isn’t town property.”

  “No, you’re right. But I’ll let myself in.”

  Confused, the guard finally realized that something wasn’t quite right. “You ain’t Fick,” he said.

  Before he could lift his rifle, Rick shot him twice in the chest and once in the head.

  “Right again,” he said, walking straight past the collapsing corpse. While his men fanned out, he walked straight into the house.

  Switching to automatic fire, he delivered a burst to a figure that came running out of the kitchen, then turned to gun down someone in the living room who still hadn’t reached his weapon. Red followed Rick in, acting as close support, but he wasn’t needed as Rick cleared out each room, changing mags as he moved at an easy pace, his gun virtually an extension of himself as he executed everything that moved, whether it was trying to shoot back at him or surrender.
There was some additional gunfire from outside, then it was over.

  In the kitchen was the meth lab they’d come to destroy. Red looked around at the bodies.

  “Which one’s Fat Danny?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Rick curtly. “Burn the place and move out.”

  Back in the yard, Clem stood over the body of one of Fat Danny’s henchmen. It was his first kill, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “Not as easy as you thought, is it?” said Rick as he walked past him.

  He didn’t have time for sympathy. Ordering his men to carry gasoline cans over to the house, he checked the yellow and red pickup. It still had the keys in the ignition.

  “Ralph,” he called, “we’ll take this.”

  Ned came out of one of the outbuildings, half-dragging a young woman.

  “Rick,” he called. “Found her in the back. I think they’ve been using her.”

  One glance at the girl told Rick that she was drugged up to the eyeballs.

  “Leave her,” he said.

  “She could do with some help.”

  “I said leave her.”

  With the gasoline splashed around the house, Red threw a lit match and ran out. The drugged girl staggered about the yard, watching the rising flames in wonder. The others push-started Fat Danny’s pickup, then mounted up to drive out at speed. The two trucks rejoined the main highway, paused while Packy’s men jumped back into the Road Runner, then led the way along the Parkway.

  At milepost 350, they rendezvoused with Josh and the others, and Rick ordered the prisoners to be cut loose.

  “You’ve got two choices,” Rick told the astonished prisoners. “You can head back to your base and get canned for having failed at your job, or you can go back to your homes to help your families. We’ve just torched Connors’ meth factory, so he’s going to be pretty pissed. And yeah, you’ve been following a guy who deals in drugs. Chances are, he’ll blame you for his loss. Don’t expect him to be lenient. If you want to join the resistance instead, go help liberate your communities. At least that’s a cause worth dying for.”

  Dumbfounded, the prisoners watched the vehicles drive away, with a farewell “Meep Meep!” from Packy’s Road Runner horn.