His success in achieving this didn’t mean he didn’t sometimes miss his former life, though, and he’d bought and restored the Cessna a few years ago, and had gotten his pilot’s license so that once in a while he could take to the skies and be a little closer to the technology orbiting the earth that he’d once designed. Also, like all of the vehicles on his ranch, the Cessna was a simple enough vehicle that it would not be crippled by an EMP event.
While admiring the plane, Phil pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket to see if he had somehow missed a call from Alice. He was somewhat perplexed to find that the battery seemed to have died. “I could have sworn it was over sixty percent when I last looked at it,” he murmured to himself.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and left the hangar, jogging around the perimeter of the field of crop tunnels to get to the stables so he could find out if Alice had tried to call Wyatt.
When he got to the stables, the horses were already loaded up in the trailer, which was hitched up to the spare truck, and Wyatt, as laconic as ever, was leaning against the side of the stable, his heavy black eyebrows knit with consternation. Inside the trailer were two mares Alice was selling—one black, the other dun. They were beautiful animals, and while they were Alice’s, Phil had always had a love for horses and was sad to be seeing these two go, even though they were elderly and long past their prime. The horses, however, were not what he was worried about at this moment. He looked past them at Wyatt.
Greeting Phil with a gesture, Wyatt tipped his white cowboy hat, which never left his head, save for dining indoors and sleeping. A sudden gust of warm wind rippled Wyatt’s plaid shirt and whipped his long black ponytail out to the side.
“Hey Wyatt, have you heard from Alice?” Phil asked, noting the expression of concern on his foreman’s strong-jawed face.
“Nope. You?” Wyatt, who was a few years older than Phil, was a man of few words, and when he did speak, he always cut straight to the point. He was neither rude nor brusque, though; this was just his natural manner of communicating, and it had been ever since Phil could remember. He and Wyatt had grown up on the ranch together, with Wyatt’s father serving as foreman under Phil’s father. This land ran thick through the blood of each man’s veins, but while Phil’s ancestors had owned this land for four generations, Wyatt’s forebears had hunted and fished in this region for thousands of years.
“My phone died, so I don’t know if she’s been trying to call me or what,” Phil said. “I thought she might have tried to call you. The money’s surely come through by now.”
The furrows on Wyatt’s brow deepened. “My phone’s dead too.”
Alarm bells were ringing with worrying clarity in Phil’s mind now. “Throw me the truck keys and go turn on the lights inside the stable,” he said.
Without a word, Wyatt tossed the keys to Phil and stalked off to the front of the stable, walking with the slight limp he’d had ever since the tank he’d been driving in Operation Desert Storm had been hit by an Iraqi rocket. Phil’s heart was racing as he climbed into the cab of the truck, a two-year-old Ford, one of the few new vehicles on the ranch. He slid the key into the ignition, turned it…and nothing happened at all. No dash lights, no warning lights, nothing at all. He left the keys in the switch and hopped out of the truck, feeling as if he’d just been sucker-punched by a heavyweight boxer.
Wyatt rounded the corner, and when his eyes met Phil’s, he shook his head grimly. The lights were out in the stables too.
“Alice and Davey,” Phil gasped, his voice hoarse. A sliver of sudden, almost crushing fear and anxiety stabbed through his guts, but he quashed the rising panic before it could overwhelm him. He drew in a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a while to compose himself, and then, feeling more confident and in control, he released the calming breath. “Wyatt, take Davey’s bike and round up everyone on the ranch. Tell ‘em to stop whatever they’re doing and meet me in front of the main house in fifteen minutes. I have to tell everyone what’s going on, and after that, I need to head into the city to rescue my wife and son.”
Wyatt nodded and walked briskly around to the rear of the stables, where David’s dirt bike, a simple 70s-model Yamaha, which would be unaffected by the EMP, was parked. As Phil raced up to the main house, the metallic buzz of the two-stroke motor being kicked to life rang out behind him, and he breathed out a sigh of relief; he’d been ninety-nine percent certain that the old Yamaha would be EMP-proof, but it was good to hear the proof of it.
When he got to the main house—a large, triple-story, Civil War-era farmhouse—he sped through it, dashing from room to room and checking every electronic item. When he found that each and every one of them was dead, his dark suspicions were irrefutably confirmed: there had been an EMP attack.
Around fifteen minutes later, the entire workforce of the ranch, summoned by Wyatt, who had just arrived and dismounted from the dirt bike, was gathered outside the main entrance to the house. Anxiety and worry hung in the air like a thick, choking fog, and when Phil looked out over the sea of fear-twisted faces, he knew that strong leadership skills were needed now more than ever. These people were not mere workers to him; each and every one of them had worked on this ranch for years, decades even, and Phil considered them extended family. He didn’t want to cause a panic, but he wasn’t about to beat around the bush about what had just happened either. He stepped out onto the porch wearing an expression of quiet determination on his face.
“My friends,” he said, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to be brutally honest with all of you.”
“What’s happened, Phil?” Fred called out. “Is this something to do with why all our phones are dead?”
“It has everything to do with that,” Phil answered grimly. “And it’s not just our phones that are dead. Literally, anything with electronics in it made in the last few decades is dead and will never work again. I’m sorry to say, my friends, that this city, this county, and maybe this state, hell, maybe even the whole country, has been the victim of an EMP attack.”
3
Gasps of shock and worry rippled through the crowd of workers, and the group started to buzz with anxious conversation. The only one who was silent was Wyatt, who stood leaning against the house with his arms folded across his broad chest and a look of stoic resilience on his face.
“EMP attack? What’s that?” Fred asked.
“Electromagnetic pulse,” Phil answered. “I don’t know whether the weapon was detonated near us or hundreds of miles away, and there’s no way of knowing whether it was done by domestic terrorists or a foreign enemy, but what I can say with complete certainty is that the entire electric grid of at least a third of the country has been fried, probably permanently.”
A hush fell over the crowd as the implications of this hit home.
“You mean, all the power is out…for good?” a woman asked.
“You heard what he said,” said Doc Robertson, an elderly, wispy-haired beanpole of a man, the resident veterinarian at the ranch. “The grid’s gone, and it won’t be coming back, not any time soon. All our gadgets and gizmos, our cars, appliances, everything, they’re nothing more than dead weight now.”
“What are we gonna do?” the woman shrieked, her voice cracking with rising panic.
“I know this is scary,” Phil said, taking care to speak in a calm, even rhythm, “but there’s no need to panic. I’ve made a few preparations over the years in the event of something like this happening, and you all know that this ranch can mostly run the way it did before the age of electricity. I’m sure that the whole county is down, maybe even the whole state, like I said, but we don’t know if it’s affected the entire nation. We need to exercise caution and act rationally, not give in to panic and assume the absolute worst has happened.”
“What should we do, Phil?” Fred asked, trying to sound braver and more confident than he felt. “Tell us what to do, and we’ll do it.”
“Right now, you don’t ne
ed to do anything but go home to your families and make sure they’re safe. Those of you who live farther away are welcome to borrow our spare bicycles. Everyone else, you’re gonna have to walk, I’m afraid. I don’t think things are going to get too crazy just yet, but it’s best to be prepared. Keep your homes locked up, and keep whatever guns you own on you at all times. Eat all your perishable food first, keep the dried and canned stuff for later. And fill up your bathtubs with water for drinking and cooking; the faucets are going to run dry soon. You’re welcome to come back to the ranch with your families if you want, any time, but you must keep the main gates locked. You all know the combination on the padlock; don’t give those numbers out to anyone, not even your family, and make sure you lock the gates up as soon as you close ‘em.”
“I’m pretty sure I can drive,” Doc Robertson said. “If that dirt bike is still going, my old Impala’ll be running. They didn’t have no fancy electronics back in ’67!”
“You’re right, Doc,” Phil said. “Many vehicles made before the early 70s should still be fine, but remember that driving in a time when almost every other vehicle is permanently dead is going to attract attention…and not the kind of attention you want to attract. You should be okay today, but after that, I’d suggest you bring your car back to the ranch or hide it somewhere where unsavory characters aren’t likely to find it.”
Doc Robertson nodded. “Damn straight, Phil, I don’t want no target painted on my back, thank you very much. But I’m happy to give anyone who lives really far away a ride home right now before things get too crazy. After that, I’ll bring my Impala back here; I can’t think of a safer place for it.”
“Thank you, Doc,” Phil said. “Rick, Amy, Jonathan, Eddie, and Cath, you guys live farthest from the ranch. If you don’t mind squeezing in, Doc can give you guys a ride home now. There are three spare bikes. Anthony, Debbie, and Zack, you guys can take those to get home. Everyone else, it’ll be a long walk, but you should be safe. Don’t stop to talk to anyone; just go straight home.”
“How do we get hold of you if we need you, Phil?” Fred asked. “Will regular old landlines work, since all the cellphones and computers are dead?”
“It’s hard to say,” Phil said, frowning. “The landline grid has always had protection against lightning strikes, so locally it might still function. You can bet, though, that outside of this state, or this county even, it’ll be down. And the older your phone is, the more likely it is that it may have survived. If it’s a newer handset, it’ll probably have been fried, though. And if it’s a powered one, you can be sure it’s dead. But yeah, you might be able to ring the ranch on the landline. Other than that, though, there’s no way to get hold of me unless you physically come here.”
“Flare guns,” Wyatt grunted, tilting his head in Phil’s direction.
“Yeah, that’s right, thanks for reminding me,” Phil said. “I’ve got a bunch of flare guns in the barn, which shoot distinctive orange flares, a color I made myself by adding a few things to the flare formula. There are only enough for you all to take one flare gun per family and two flares. Only use them in the direst of emergencies, people. I’m talking about life or death situations. If you’re in serious danger, use one, and we’ll do our best to get to you. In the same token, if you see an orange flare in the sky, you’ll all know that it’s one of us signaling for help, and I hope that you’ll come to the aid of that person if you can.”
“Thanks, Phil,” Fred said, and everyone else murmured their thanks as well.
“Go with Wyatt to the barn,” Phil instructed. “He’ll hand out the flare guns. After that, Doc Robertson will take some of you home, and you three can take the bikes. For those who’ll be biking and walking, fill up your canteens with water and feel free to pick some fruit from the trees on your way out.”
“I’ll give them the flares,” Wyatt, stony-faced, said to Phil, “then I’ll meet you back here. I expect you’re going to need some help.”
“Thanks, brother,” Phil said, a shadow of a warm smile on his face, his gratitude genuine. “I knew you’d stick around.”
“Don’t got no place else to go…and you, Alice, and Davey, are the only family I got.”
“I’ll see you back here in a few minutes then,” Phil said. He wasn’t surprised that Wyatt had chosen to stay with him; the foreman had his own house a mere mile from the ranch gates, but he was childless and lived on his own, having been divorced for over seven years, and he did little more at his house than sleep there and occasionally drown his sorrows and war memories in whiskey on the porch on his days off.
Wyatt returned after around twenty minutes, his craggy face as unreadable as ever. “They’ve all got flares,” he said. “What’s next?”
“I’m going to need your help with a few things,” Phil said. “Let’s go to the aircraft hangar first.”
Most people would have asked what the point of heading over to the hangar was, but Wyatt Fox trusted Phillip McCabe enough to simply go along with whatever he suggested; in some ways, Phil served as a surrogate officer figure for the ex-soldier, even though Phil himself had never been in the military. Wyatt preferred to follow rather than lead, but he was no sheep. When given an order, he would fight his way to hell and back to carry it out. Phil couldn’t have asked for a better comrade to have by his side in a situation like this.
When the men arrived at the hangar, Phil walked past the Cessna and made a beeline for one of the large tarp-covered objects at the rear of the space. Wyatt looked on, folding his arms across his chest, as Phil undid a few cords and then whipped the tarp off the object.
“Still runs, huh?” Wyatt grunted, staring at the spotless 50s-era Chevy truck that had been under the tarp. The truck had belonged to Phil’s father, who had owned it from new.
“As sweet as the day she rolled off the factory floor,” Phil said, running his fingertips lovingly across a strip of gleaming chrome. “I didn’t just keep her in this condition for nostalgia's sake, though, Wyatt. I knew this day would come…I mean, I didn’t expect that it would come so soon, but thank God I did know it was coming.”
Wyatt nodded, quietly impressed. “Be a shame if someone threw a rock at it, though,” he remarked dryly. “Or took a pot shot at it, if they were real desperate.”
“I won’t take it out once things start to get really bad,” Phil said darkly, “which may happen sooner than I’d like. But for the next few days, I think it’ll be okay to use this, and Davey’s bike too.”
“And after that?”
A sudden grin, boyish and almost mischievous, flashed across Phil’s face. “It took me a year of working in here for a couple of hours every night, three or four nights a week, to build this,” he said, walking over to a much larger object beneath another tarp, “but don’t worry, brother, I made sure I was prepared for the worst.”
With that, he whipped the tarp off the second item, and this time, even the usually dour Wyatt couldn’t suppress a toothy grin. Beneath the tarp was a massive Humvee, kitted out with ramming bars, extra lights, steel mesh across the windows, and all sorts of other hardcore modifications.
“Takes me back to my Gulf War days,” Wyatt remarked, walking over to the Humvee, which was painted in a green and brown camouflage scheme, and walking slowly around it, admiring Phil’s handiwork.
“EMP-proof, bulletproof, bombproof, jacked-up suspension, floodlights, even a coaxial machine gun and turret mounted on the roof,” Phil said, patting the bonnet appreciatively.
“Add caterpillar tracks, a few tons of steel armor, and a cannon out front, and it ain’t too different to the tanks I was driving in Iraq,” Wyatt said.
“It’s as close to a tank as I could get it without making extreme sacrifices in terms of maneuverability and fuel efficiency. But as much as I’d love to take out the Humvee, it’s only for emergencies. It’s a fuel hog, and we have to conserve as much of that as we can now.”
Wyatt nodded, but then cut straight to the point. “I know yo
u need my help to get Alice and the kid out of the city. What’s the plan?”
“We’ll take my dad’s truck as close to the city limits as we can get without actually driving in. We’re going to have to go on foot. The whole place will be a total gridlock of dead cars blocking every street.”
“How are we going to find them without phones?” Wyatt asked. “It’s a big city, and locating two people in that sea of chaos will be some real needle-in-a-haystack shit.”
“Alice owns a small apartment in the city, a place she’s kept for just this sort of incident,” Phil answered. “We said that if either of us got stuck in the city during something like this, we’d hole up in that apartment until the other person was able to get them out. She and Davey will head straight there. We just have to get to them and then get them back out.”
“A simple enough mission,” Wyatt muttered, “but probably nowhere near easy. Not to mention dangerous. There are some bad folk in that city, and as soon as they figure out that law enforcement is totally crippled, things are gonna go south real fast.”
“I knew that would be the case,” Phil said, the expression on his face hardening into one of grim determination, “so Alice and I made sure we’d be ready for whatever—or whoever—crosses our path. Come this way.”
He led Wyatt over to the opposite end of the hangar and yanked an unassuming brown rug out of the corner, revealing a locked trapdoor in the floor. He squatted down, punched the combination into the padlock, and then opened the trapdoor, revealing a steel staircase leading down into a gulf of inky darkness. He tossed Wyatt one of the gas lamps that were sitting on a nearby table and lit one up for himself, igniting the hissing jet of gas with his trusty Zippo.
Without a word, he descended the stairs, and Wyatt followed closely behind him. The light cast by the gas lamps revealed a large cellar, and when Wyatt saw what was on the walls, he let out a low whistle, both impressed and surprised. Mounted on racks on the walls were dozens of rifles, shotguns, handguns and other weapons.
EMP Survival In A Powerless World | Book 19 | EMP Ranch Page 2