Inbound: Impact Book 1: (A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Series)

by E. E. Isherwood

  He shut the back hatch of the Jeep and Susan slowly followed its ashy tire tracks back down the hill. Butch and the others from the roadblock brought their own groups of refugees from the cars, too. They’d found men in business suits. Mothers and children in pajamas. Retail store and fast food workers, each with their distinctly colored polo shirts. It was a cross section of the city of Paducah.

  Butch took long strides to catch up with him. “I’ve got about thirty people. Do you think they’ll fit in your basement? How many did you get?”

  Besides the kids from the bus, he’d rounded up another twenty or thirty refugees on his own. Roger’s basement was big enough to hold that many, though he realized a problem could develop if they overcrowded and were forced to turn someone away. Since he had no idea who else opened their homes to the residents from Paducah, he couldn’t plan beyond the small group under his wing. “I’ve got about the same, but I think we’ll be fine.”

  The activity in the sky continued to get worse. The smoke-belching rock had flown on to another location. More seemed to chase the first. The crack of broken sound barriers continued to rumble like artillery over the horizon. It was distinctly closer than what he’d heard while up on the county road.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. “Guys, let’s pick up the pace and jog!” Their footfalls kicked up plumes of the choking debris, so he tried to stay toward the front so he wouldn’t get a face full of it. He easily caught up to Susan and spoke to her through the open window. “Drive ahead, okay? Get those kids in the basement before the rest of us get there.”

  She gazed into his eyes for a second, then smiled. “I’ll have them tucked in before you get home.” It was an echo of past conversations, from days when Grace was a baby, and she couldn’t wait for her husband to return home from work. In those days, he couldn’t wait to get back, either.

  “Get out of here!” he said, to get her moving.

  Susan drove away, which caused some of the adults to express shock. He had to calm them. “She’s getting the kids to safety first. They scare easily, right? We don’t want to scare the children.” Based on looks alone, he knew several of the adults were frightened as much as those kids, but at least they could run on their own.

  The ground rumbled like someone had struck a godly mallet upon bedrock. A couple car alarms turned on and the glass from several windows shattered in the nearby houses. He didn’t know for certain, but he guessed one of the big ones had touched down. “Run for it!” he yelled.

  It became a dusty free-for-all as he sprinted down the hill. His group mostly held together, stranger helping stranger, and he also glanced over his shoulder to see other neighbors guiding in small groups of refugees toward their homes. Lingering stragglers were waved in by waiting residents. Mrs. Elsworth stood on her front porch—an ankle-length flower-print dress waving in the breeze—as she begged people to come to her.

  “Stay with me!” he shouted to those around him.

  A thunder-like sound rumbled, then stopped. Then it started again. His brain couldn’t fathom what was causing it, other than maybe different rocks where shattering the sound barrier all over the sky. Or, they were landing around him.

  Susan already had the back hatch open when he rounded the corner onto his street. He and Butch ran with the dedicated people in his group as he guided them toward Roger’s house. “It’s right there! My wife’s parked in the driveway!”

  A few men sprinted ahead, leaving him in their dust. He was forced to trust that those in front would hold the door open for him; one bad apple could make him look pretty stupid if he was locked out of Roger’s house. Suddenly, he realized how much he relied on the good nature of the people he’d saved.

  His misgivings followed him the last hundred yards until he made it to the front door. Fright made him unsling his rifle and point it at the ground as he waved people inside. “The door to the basement is right there. Single file. Don’t push!”

  The last runners went toward any house with an open door, but there weren’t many left out on the street. Homeowners shut their doors and presumably headed for their basements, as he should be doing. Ezra kept his eyes on Susan; she carried a little boy up the walkway to the front door.

  “Say hi to my husband again, Tommy!” she said with fake excitement.

  The little boy was terrified. His eyes bulged with fear and the edges were soaked with tears. He asked for his momma over and over as Susan trotted by. He smiled to comfort the child, though it didn’t have any effect on him. It didn’t help that Ezra was terrified, too.

  The sunset sky had returned to daytime ambience. The streaking fireballs glowed like numerous suns as they traversed the sky. Some went off to points in the southeast, but up in the northwest—beyond where Paducah used to be—more glowing lines showed up and then disappeared. Bright impacts hit over the horizon, adding to the already-petrifying illusion of a giant war steadily plodding his way.

  He waved in a few of the last refugees. “Get inside. Go downstairs!” A portly man struggled by; he favored one leg, like the other was sprained or broken. An elderly woman came in after him. Ezra was impressed how fast she moved, despite staying near the end of the crowd. They were the last moving people on the street.

  He waited a few extra seconds, until satisfied he was the last one, then he shut the front door and walked toward the basement entryway. From the top landing he got a good look at how everyone had crowded in down there. Before he could shut that last door, Susan ran up the stairs toward him. “Don’t close it!”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She pushed by him. “No time to explain!”

  He stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, as the same little boy ran up the steps after Susan. Ezra had to restrain him. “Hold up, Tommy. Where are you going?”

  “My sissy is out there. I have to rescue her.”

  “What? Your sister? Where is she?”

  “In the Jeep! That woman went to get her. I have to help.” He tried to shove his way by Ezra, but the little boy was frightened stiff when the sound of thunder seemed to come from inside the kitchen. The child flung himself into Ezra’s arms an instant before they both bounced six inches off the linoleum. He imagined it was a bomb strike multiplied by an earthquake—everything kitchen-related came out of the cabinets and off the counters. The violent vibration inside his brain made his eyes go loopy for two or three seconds. He stayed on his feet when he came back down, but the little boy fell to the floor, and almost went over the edge of the top step.

  “I’ve got you,” Ezra yelled as he regained his hold.

  “Sissy!” the boy cried out.

  The rumbles wouldn’t stop; he steadied himself in the door frame. After ensuring the kid was safe on the top step, Ezra glanced over his shoulder. Susan came through the front door carrying a little girl. She was the first one he’d pulled off the van, though he couldn’t remember seeing her on the way down the street, or in the house. He’d lost track of her.

  Susan yelled, but the earthquake-like disruption and roar wouldn’t let up. Whatever she’d said, he couldn’t hear a word of it. Still, he was watching her come in, so he wasn’t as surprised as he might have been when she threw the little girl ahead of her in one great heave.

  Ezra caught the girl in one arm, as if he’d snagged the winning catch at a football game. Her momentum forced him backward in the stairwell. He tried to avoid the little boy, but he fell down the steps next to him.

  The last thing he saw was the white door at the top of the stairs.

  It floated into the ash-filled sky, along with the rest of the house.

  Chapter 22

  Yellowstone

  Blood rushed through Grace’s heart and the adrenaline in her veins was so potent it made her see through a tiny keyhole at the end of tunneled vision. Misha’s gun was chest high. The black maw of the barrel faced directly at her.

  “There’s one thing you don’t know about me,” she croaked.

  Misha ben
t his arm a few inches, so the gun wasn’t pointed at her chest. If she was going to make her move, it had to be right then.

  “My dad taught me to never give up on something that works.” She raised the bear spray while also planting her feet in the rocks, as if it was going to blow her back when she squeezed the trigger.

  I’ve got about eight seconds. A full can of bear spray was meant to be used in bursts, with about nine seconds total run time. If you drained it all at once, there was no chance to re-adjust your aim and try again. She’d already used one burst, so it wasn’t a full can.

  Misha laughed like he was having fun. His gun diverted to the side a few more inches. She prayed he’d go a bit farther, to be safe, aware she couldn’t count on it. He tapped his glasses with his free hand. “Your dad would not be pleased to see you now.”

  “You don’t know my dad.” In one fluid motion she pressed the trigger to launch a cloud of bear spray at the man. She held the button as she took a couple of steps forward. As expected, he smiled like he was enjoying a pleasant bath, but his expression shifted when he saw what was in her other hand.

  Four seconds left.

  “Nyet!” he screamed.

  She flicked the lighter at the base of the stream.

  Three seconds.

  The cloud of pepper spray lit up like a flamethrower. The heat registered on her cheeks, but she took comfort in seeing it spread all over Misha’s face and upper body. Anywhere he’d been doused went up, making him look like a human birthday candle.

  One second.

  She adjusted the aim and went for the gun in his hand. As the last of the spray fizzled out, she got enough of it onto his arm, so he had to drop the pistol.

  Misha’s hands went to his face as he fell to the gravel and rolled toward the edge of the road. He screamed and cursed in Russian. If he was searching for grass to smother the fire, he’d have to roll for a few hundred yards; there was nothing except burnt pine needles as far as she could see.

  Grace hated what she’d been forced to do, although she kept the presence of mind required to finish what she’d started. She tossed the spent canister, picked up the assassin’s gun, then stood there with it in her hand. Her heart continued to race, and the tunnel vision almost blinded her, even as the heavy pistol made her feel in control of the situation for the first time that day.

  Misha cried in anguish. He dug into the dirt and smashed his face in it. It would have been a simple act to walk over there and shoot him.

  “Grace?” Asher said with surprise. “Are we there?”

  The ground rumbled under her feet. At first, she wondered if the Yellowstone caldera was finally going to let loose, but the more obvious answer came from the sky. Numerous sooty contrails cluttered the horizon as more rocks fell toward the Earth. Some were large enough to be heard even while they were high in the atmosphere. They had to get to safety.

  Grace tried to stick the gun in her front pocket. It wouldn’t fit, so she had to jam it into the waistband at her hip. She got alongside the driver’s door and motioned for Asher to come out. “Hurry! We’ve got to run!”

  He looked around for a few moments, like he didn’t believe her about being where they needed to go, but then he jumped the center console, slid across the seat, and hopped out. Asher immediately slipped on the loose rock and tumbled into her arms. She caught him with an involuntary laugh, then got him steady.

  “That way. Go!” She led him behind the truck.

  “What did you do to him?” he asked. Misha was on the ground about a hundred feet down the road, sobbing in misery.

  “He won’t bother us again. I cooked his bacon with your lighter.”

  Asher ran along for a few seconds before replying. “It’s a good thing I quit smoking, huh?”

  They shared some laughter as they kept going, though she was scared beyond reason. The rumbles continued until they were continuous booms, like the finale of a big-city fireworks show. If one of those booms signaled their own destruction, would she even know it? Would it blink them out of existence without them having time to say goodbye?

  She ran as fast as she dared through the burned forest and thought she’d made pretty good time. When she saw their destination, she pointed it out. “You were right. There it is!”

  “I told you!” he yelled back.

  “Run for it!” she screamed. They ran together the final fifty yards; when she reached the rock-strewn hole, she realized Asher had been right about its suitability. It was an old geyser spout, about four feet across, with a small lip around the edge. However, instead of blowing water every so often, this one was classified as extinct. It wasn’t somewhere a tourist would visit anymore, which was why there was nothing save a tiny path to it and a sign nearby. She didn’t have to read it to know what it said.

  Created by stupid tourists long ago.

  In the old days, before fences and park rangers patrolling them, visitors would throw rocks into the geyser vents. A few rocks here or there added up over the years, and some geysers that had once been as regular as clockwork and as majestic as Old Faithful were turned into what was essentially an eternally clogged toilet.

  “Climb down,” she insisted.

  Asher stood there for a second, seemingly offering her the chance to climb down the ten-foot shaft first. She waved for him to go, which in turn made him defer back to her.

  “We’ll both die!” she yelled while shoving him toward the edge. He was likely scared of what was down there after his brush with boiling hot death back at Mammoth Hot Springs, but there was no water at the bottom of the dead geyser. It wasn’t even hot.

  Asher held up his hands in surrender and seemed to mouth “Okay.”

  It took him far longer than she wanted, but he climbed over the edge and went down into the mouth of the extinct thermal feature. She followed the second he was clear of the lip, but she had enough time to look up the valley. Somewhere, near the top, the ruins of the alpine hut were in the ash pile of the forest fire. Soon, even the ashes would be gone. A shockwave of fiery orange debris rolled down the valley like a rogue wave cooked up inside a charcoal grill.

  “Oh, God!”

  She didn’t bother climbing down. She let herself drop.

  Then, the world went black.

  Kentucky

  Ezra sat up in the darkness and thought immediately of his wife. “Susan?”

  His head thumped as each heartbeat sent more pain through his brain, like some degenerate teenager thought it would be funny to strum a bass guitar next to his ear.

  “Susan?” he repeated louder.

  “Hey, bud, it’s Butch.” The hulking man was impossible to mistake for someone else.

  “You’re from the road,” Ezra said slowly, regaining his sense of where he was. “And Susan is outside!” He got to his feet as fast as he could, then swayed as his lagging blood caught up with him.

  “Whoa, chief. We were just getting ready to go look, take it slow.” Butch’s advice was sound, but he didn’t have a second to waste. He’d seen Susan get to the basement door and then…

  The ache in his temples went thermonuclear.

  A few seconds later, he found himself standing upright with Butch’s help. Tommy and the little girl who’d fallen down the steps with him were snuggled together under his tool bench. He was happy to see them, and desperate to see his wife.

  “I’ve got to get up those steps.” Ezra pointed to the staircase out of the basement. Above, where the door should have been, there was only an orange glare, presumably from a fire. Susan needed his help.

  “Can you walk?” Butch asked. “You’ve been out for at least ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?” he slurred. “I’m fine.” To prove it, he broke free of Butch’s grip and took a few steps. Some of the people in the basement set up flashlights pointed at the ceiling, providing the bare minimum of light to see where he stepped. Lots of refugees sat on the floor where he didn’t expect, so it really helped. Once he reached the stairs
, his head felt a lot better. Instead of a debilitating migraine, it had gone down to an annoying headache. He glanced back. “See?”

  Without waiting, he walked up the steps. There was no ceiling left, and no second floor, either. The sheered-off walls of the house stood next to the gap left by the missing basement door, but the higher up he went, the more he realized there wasn’t much house left. Despair pooled in his gut as he crept to the top.

  “Susan?” he asked wearily.

  When he reached the landing, all hope drained out of his bones. Happy Cove subdivision was bathed in the orange light from fires raging in the forest across Kentucky Lake. The shockwave had come through like before, except it went in the opposite direction, and it was far more thorough. Whereas the previous one stripped leaves and branches from stout trees, this one stripped houses and garages from their foundations. The brick ranch home across the street was left with nothing but three-foot walls.

  “Good God,” he lamented as he scanned three hundred and sixty degrees. Most of his neighbor’s houses were gone. Construction debris and home furnishing remains were strewn all over the lawns and in the street as if each house had sneezed them out in the same direction. Some of the tallest and oldest trees were tipped over, also in that same direction. Oddly enough, his boat dock had blown out of the water and now rested in the front yard of someone a few doors down. Without any landmarks he found it difficult to say whose house it used to be.

  “Ezra?” a weak voice cried out.

  He jumped into action and followed it to the source. A woman’s foot poked out from a mess of debris piled against what was left of the front wall of the house. He shoved aside half of a leather couch, tossed over the small wooden kitchen table, and pulled drapes and window framing off the struggling woman. When he finally got a look at her, he wished it would have been someone else. Susan had been crushed in multiple places by all the junk.

  “Oh no,” he bleated, betraying his normally reserved emotions.