Survival EMP Box Set | Books 1-4

by Lopez, Rob

  “There were some people with me,” she said. “I need to find them.”

  Rick steered her away so she couldn’t see the mutilated body. “You really don’t,” he said.

  She stumbled again, and he picked her up and carried her into the brick house, laying her down on a couch.

  “If we didn’t win, what happened?”

  “Still a work in progress.”

  “I can’t hear anything.”

  “No. It’s probably not good news.”

  “Where’s Josh? Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine,” lied Rick. “I need to go finish this, alright?”

  “Sure, you go, but make sure you come back. You know what? Everybody around here seems to know your name.”

  “Well, they don’t know yours.”

  “I know. What does a girl need to do to get known in these parts?”

  “Best not to ask. Stay safe, okay?” He kissed her. “Whatever happens, know that I love you.”

  Still a little delirious, Lauren thought about that for a moment. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Before he could play further on her doubts, he went outside and found Moresby.

  “Get these people to occupy those houses and form a perimeter,” he told him.

  Moresby was a little taken aback. “But we’re ready to march on City Hall,” he said.

  “Trust me, we’re not,” said Rick. “Form a defense.”

  Having lost their momentum, the citizens were scattered, euphoric but essentially leaderless. Using his own squad and Moresby’s group of deserters, Rick marshaled them and began issuing orders, sending people running to new positions. An illumination round popped overhead, bringing light back to the area. In the distance, the growl of an engine could be heard. Rick ran to a perimeter house and dashed up the stairs to look out of the upper floor window. Down the main boulevard he saw an armored Humvee slowly advancing, flanked by militia moving from cover to cover. More militia took up positions behind tree stumps in the cleared area west of the neighborhood.

  “Nolan,” called a voice.

  It was Fick. Rick decided not to reply, instead checking his magazine to see how many rounds he had left.

  “You’re surrounded, Nolan! Ain’t no way your hillbilly army is going to break out of this one. Your camp’s been destroyed. We got your number. Parson’s dead, and Jim Fairbanks is in custody. They sold you out, Nolan. You got no choice but to surrender.”

  Rick peered down the M4’s sights, trying to locate the voice. The sight aperture scanned for potential targets.

  “You had a good run, Nolan! End it here.”

  The blade of Rick’s sight settled on the likely candidate for the voice, the silhouette of a head just peering out from the corner of an apartment block.

  “Fuck you, Fick,” he whispered as he squeezed the trigger.

  His rifle barked, and immediately the shadows came alive with gun flashes as the enemy let loose with everything they had.

  30

  The convoy from Newberry Creek snaked along the Blue Ridge Parkway at a punishing pace. Every car and truck was packed with as many people as could fit, easily exceeding any manufacturer’s recommended load. Packy led the convoy, headlights blazing, aching to let the Road Runner loose, but conscious of the slower vehicles behind. Nevertheless, he kept inching up the speed, trying to draw the rest of the convoy in his wake.

  “Faster,” said Scott in the passenger seat.

  Packy had already seen the vehicles in his rear view leaning over at crazy angles as they executed the corners.

  “Don’t think that’s a good idea, man,” he said, “unless you want to see an avalanche of people going over the edge.”

  Scott brooded, the Molotov bottles clinking in the bag between his legs.

  “You might want to keep hold of those,” pointed out Packy. “I don’t think even your balls are fireproof.”

  “Just focus on your driving,” grumbled Scott.

  The sky got lighter, foreshadowing the approaching dawn, and the peaks of the mountain range began to take shape. Packy slowed to negotiate the tight turn onto Town Mountain Road, then accelerated, wincing at the precarious maneuvers of the vehicles behind. Plunging down the tree-lined and narrow road, he zipped past abandoned homes and the shadowy vistas of valleys as the road continued to follow the contours of the peaks, the exhaust crackling as he downshifted for each hairpin bend. Gradually the road descended, and the plain of Asheville opened up before them.

  “Okay, slow down,” said Scott.

  Down through the trees, where the road switched back and ran along the base of the hill, he saw the flash of gunfire. Ordering Packy to halt, he opened the door and listened. The steady pump of a machine gun punctuated the silence. In the far distance, down in the city, he saw the parachute flares dangling. Occasional cracks of gunfire carried on the wind, and lines of tracer bullets flashed like horizontal lightning strikes.

  “Wait here,” said Scott.

  Waving down the other vehicles and motioning them to stand by, Scott descended the slope through the trees. He halted when he caught sight of movement coming up the slope and aimed his rifle. When the figure came close enough, he called out.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Scott?” said Josh’s voice.

  “Oh my God.” Scott bounded forward to embrace the boy. “You’re okay? What are you doing here?”

  “Red sent me up when we heard Packy’s car. You can’t go any farther forward. There’s an armored car blocking the way, and we can’t get past it.” Josh sniffed, like he’d been crying. “Dad’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression. Don’t worry, kid. The cavalry’s here now.”

  Scott got everyone out of the vehicles and led them down in a large mob that cracked twigs and rustled undergrowth as they passed through. He found Red lying in a ditch with a bloodied bandage around his leg.

  “What’s the situation?” asked Scott.

  “Armored Humvee, and maybe a squad of guys. We’ve managed to keep them back, but every time we try to get past, that damn machine gun stops us. They control the intersection, and we’re low on ammo.”

  “Any news on what’s happening in the city?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but it don’t look pretty.”

  “Okay, we’ll take it from here.”

  Organizing his troops into squads, Scott sent them in a wide encircling movement. The militia in the Humvee, already alerted by the sound of the convoy arriving, detected the movement in the woods and backed up slightly, hosing the gloom with rapid fire bursts that made everybody kiss the dirt. Return fire bounced off the armor and made the machine gunner flinch, but it was otherwise ineffectual.

  While that was going on, Scott and some of his men were crawling down the ditch at the side of the road, taking advantage of the distraction to inch closer. Passing out the Molotovs, his men lit the fuses. The flash of light in the ditch caught the attention of the machine gunner, who swung the weapon around to bear. As the barrel chattered, Scott’s men threw the Molotovs. The bottles smashed all over the Humvee, burning gasoline dripping from the gun shield and into the vehicle. The machine gun suddenly stopped and the doors opened. Scott’s force cut down the occupants as they tried to get out and then charged. Within a few seconds it was over. Ordering the convoy of vehicles to be brought down, Scott got everyone back on board. Red was helped into an already overcrowded car, and the others, including Josh, hung on as best they could. Packy sounded the Road Runner’s horn, and the convoy moved past the burning Humvee, driving toward the sound of battle.

  *

  Rick’s force took a pounding from the militia’s machine gun and automatic weapons fire. The upper stories of the wooden houses were perforated, and citizens were forced to shelter downstairs, pinned down as the militia advanced. Two mortar salvos were even added to the onslaught before ceasing fire. Rick wasn’t sure if it was because they’d run out of mortar bombs or were simply afraid of h
itting their own troops as they closed the distance.

  After the initial exchange, Rick had beat his own hasty retreat down the steps as splinters and bullets flew around his head. He’d then gone from house to house, giving specific orders and then hoping that the bewildered defenders would remember them and act accordingly. He had no idea whether he’d actually managed to hit Fick, but he was determined to get another chance.

  Settling down with some of his troops in the living room of a house, he kept his head down as the machine gun continued its staccato probing. Whatever furniture remained in the house had been pushed up against the walls to increase the amount of protection. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

  “Steady,” Rick told his troops as they trembled under fire. “Just be ready.”

  Another illumination round was launched, and the machine gun suddenly ceased fire. Rick knew this was the moment. The militia must have been close for the machine gun to have to stop for fear of hitting them. In the final yards, the militia were on their own.

  “Fire,” shouted Rick.

  His troops rose uncertainly, unsure this was really a good idea. Rick set the example by going straight to the window and shooting. The militia had reached the end of the yard, advancing at a crouch, but in spite of the weeds and the picket fences, the parachute flares illuminated them perfectly. What started as a single shot grew to a ripple of fire from the houses. At such short ranges, the effects were horrifying, with militiamen being cut down everywhere. Quickly, their advance petered out as those not wounded tried to back away, slithering on their stomachs.

  “Charge,” called Rick.

  Again, the untrained citizens failed at first to respond. Leaving the shelter of cover seemed crazy to them. Rick leaped out of the window however, followed by his veteran squad, and took the fight to the stunned militiamen. Gradually, the citizens overcame their hesitancy until they were charging forward in a human wave. Pulsing with desperate adrenaline, they smashed through the fences and threw themselves onto the militia. The fighting got chaotic and brutal, with Rick carving his own swathe through the enemy. Suffering heavy casualties, the militia ran away, but a supporting line behind them halted Rick’s pursuit with automatic fire. Rick’s troops took cover among the dead bodies and tree stumps. The machine gun came back into action and pinned them down, leaving them unable to go forward or back. The parachute flare burned out, bringing blessed relief, and the firing faded, with both sides happy to no longer be targets.

  Rick checked his ammunition and changed his magazine. As his night vision returned, he could see it wasn’t so dark now. Dawn’s light was creeping in. The battle would continue now at longer ranges. Considering the enemy’s superiority in heavy weapons, that wasn’t a good thing. Rick considered a retreat back to the buildings.

  As he looked back, however, he saw a glow moving through the city. As it got closer, he heard the roar of a V8 engine, and knew exactly what it was.

  “Get ready to advance again,” he told the fighter next to him. “Pass it down the line.”

  *

  Josh clung to the grab rail on the bed of the pickup, leaning over the side. On the one hand it was terrifying: if he let go, he’d fall out immediately. On the other hand, it was exhilarating, with the wind blowing through his hair. If there hadn’t been a battle at the end of it, it could have been a carnival ride. The fireworks over the city had ceased, however, and the convoy slowed. The Road Runner’s lights switched off, and as the vehicles slowed further, people started to jump off and run alongside. Josh stayed on the vehicle, unable to figure out what was going on. Then he heard Scott yelling orders. The vehicles came to a complete stop, people began to disperse, and shooting broke out on some street he couldn’t see.

  Josh jumped down and moved forward. As he passed a car, a voice called out.

  “Hey, kid!”

  It was Red, sprawled on the backseat. He’d been left behind.

  “Can you help me out?” he said.

  Josh was anxious to keep up with the others, but he couldn’t say no.

  “Thanks,” said Red as he slid out of the car and was helped to stand, leaning on Josh.

  “Can you manage now?” asked Josh.

  Red put his arm around Josh’s shoulders and put some pressure on his bad leg.

  “Nope,” he said. “It won’t hold. Here, help me to that corner.”

  “Maybe it’s better if you sit back down,” said Josh. “I need to join the others.”

  Red kept his hand gripped on Josh’s shoulder. “Kid,” he said, “this battle isn’t for you. Ain’t for me, either.”

  “But I have to help.”

  Red limped forward, pulling Josh with him. “Sometimes,” he opined, “you gotta know your limitations. Me, I’m a guy of the woods. I can’t get my head around this whole urban warfare thing. And you? You’re a kid. There’s too many dangers — snipers and stuff — and you never know what’s around the next corner. You don’t wanna go running into things you don’t understand.”

  By now, the gunfire in the next street had ceased, and the fighting had moved on. When they reached the corner of the house and peered out, there was not a living soul to be seen. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the distinctive ripping belch of Packy’s Mac-10.

  Josh chafed at being left behind. “I’m not a kid anymore,” he said.

  “Yes you are, and your pa told me to take good care of you, so I’m just following orders. You had me worried a couple of times back there, but now I can see you’re okay, I’m not letting you out of my sight. And that means you have to go at my pace.”

  “But I came here to fight.”

  “Nope. You came here to find your mother, remember? Let’s ask some of them folks if they know where she might be.”

  They’d emerged into a devastated area, with demolished homes and smoldering wood. A few people wandered about, laying sheets or blankets over the bodies of the dead. Red’s inquiries about Lauren produced blank stares and shrugs.

  Some people congregated on the stoop of a brick house that was still standing amid the wreckage. Red steered Josh toward it. Lauren, looking a little dazed, appeared on the porch.

  “Mom!”

  Josh sprinted over to her and threw himself into her arms.

  It was a tender moment, and while Red was pleased to see the two together again, he did feel like he was intruding. Turning away, he limped over to a half-destroyed house. Finding a fallen chair in the wreckage, he picked it up and sat down on it, laying his rifle across his knees and gazing up at the spreading dawn. Occasionally, he would glance back to check on the embrace of mother and son.

  And he would smile.

  *

  With the dramatic arrival of reinforcements, and the panic-stricken rout of the enemy, Rick was caught up in the victorious charge. Rather than chase the fleeing enemy in a triumphant surge down Broadway Street and toward City Hall, however, he ran instead to where he thought he’d shot Fick.

  He found the Special Forces soldier lying on the ground by the apartment block at an awkward angle, like someone had just cut the strings of a puppet and let it fall. Lying on his back, Fick stared up at the fading stars, but swiveled his eyes when he saw Rick approach. Fick’s M4 lay across his chest, and his arm was on the stock, but he made no move to grab the weapon.

  Keeping a gun trained on him, Rick ordered him to put his hands behind his head and turn over.

  “I can’t,” said Fick.

  His body remained limp and he made no attempt to move his hands. Rick put his boot on Fick’s rifle, and bent down to flick away Fick’s hand from the trigger grip. The hand moved easy, with absolutely no resistance.

  “I’m paralysed,” said Fick. “That fucker Lou did something to my neck. I jerked suddenly to get away from a shot, tripped and fell. Hit the back of my head and couldn’t move. Neck’s been killing me all day and now I can’t feel a thing.”

  Rick took a good long look at him. “I’m going to kill you,” he s
aid quietly.

  “I know. Don’t want to live like this anyway. Take your best shot. But do me one last favor.”

  “What?”

  “You kill that stupid, scheming, smug-ass son of a bitch Connors. If he’d done half the things I told him to do, you’d have been dead and this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Roof of the university building. Probably running down the stairs now, like a frightened kid.”

  Rick could see the university buildings from where he stood. Drawing his Glock, he aimed it down at Fick’s head.

  “One last thing,” he asked. “Who actually killed Martinez?”

  Fick gave him his one remaining sneer. “Who do you think?” he said.

  Rick pulled the trigger, and the head bounced up and down, spurting blood from the extra hole. Holstering his pistol, Rick began jogging, then running.

  Crossing the highway and moving up the slope, he entered the campus, passing bicycle racks, faculty signs and map boards. It was a big campus, and he wasn’t sure where to look. Consulting the maps, he headed for the plaza at the center of the university. He saw the flag pole in the middle, the US flag still hanging from it. He saw the mortars and the discarded bomb cases, all abandoned now. Heaving for breath as he looked around, he heard the neighing of horses and took off in that direction. Coming in sight of a pillared overhang, he saw two men mounting the horses. It was Connors and Taft.

  Stopping, he aimed his rifle and fired several shots. Taft tumbled from his mount. Connors wheeled his horse to see who was shooting, then dropped down in his saddle and urged his horse into a gallop. Rick tracked him, trying to get a clear shot, but man and mount dropped away out of sight, the clacking of hooves echoing and receding.

  Rick sprinted over to Taft’s horse. The horse was skittish, but its reins were caught up underneath Taft, who was rolling over and trying to reach his rifle. Rick yanked the reins out from under him and emptied his magazine into the hapless soldier. The horse reared up and cantered around, but Rick mounted up and dug his heels in, taking a firm grip of the reins. Urging the horse down a flight of stone steps, he turned him and set off in pursuit of Connors.