How We Survive: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

by Stone, William

  How We Survive

  William Stone

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About the Author

  Copyright 2021 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis

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  1

  The day started out like any other. The welding shop was empty, nobody there yet but Hatfield. Coming early to work wasn’t something he enjoyed. It was the price he had to pay for being so good at his job. More skill, more responsibility. That meant less sleep.

  Strapping on his leather apron, he gazed out of the doorway as his boss stepped in from the parking lot with a young guy he didn’t recognize strutting beside him. Please say this isn’t a new guy, Hatfield thought to himself. New guys were a pain, not to mention a danger. Welding wasn’t a place for somebody who didn’t know how to handle an electric ARC machine—especially those who didn’t have the patience to properly learn.

  “Hatfield! Happy to see you, friend!” Brian called. “Like my daddy used to say, if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.”

  For as long as he’d known him, Brian had always had the demeanor of a salesman after too many cups of coffee. A little phony at times, but never lacking in enthusiasm.

  “Morning, Brian,” he grunted, still waking up.

  “Todd, I want you to meet Trevor Hatfield. He’s the very best we have here.”

  They shook, Hatfield caught off-guard by the kid’s muscled grip.

  “He’s the best for now,” Todd said, face slanted by a smirk. “Give me a month, and he’ll be the second-best.”

  Brian shook his head, chuckled. “Todd’s a little more experienced than most new guys we get. He’s done his share of soldering.”

  “Really? What shop?” Hatfield asked.

  “No, I wasn’t working in a shop. Just in class. I majored in industrial mechanics in college.”

  Hatfield nodded, a polite smile on his lips. But inside, he thought, new guy, college kid. Fasten your seat belts.

  “I’ll leave you guys to it then!” Brian said, heading to his office.

  “Cool,” Todd said. “Just lead me to the ARC machine, and I’m ready to get started.”

  “Let’s slow down,” Hatfield said. “First, let me know what safety rule number one is.”

  The kid rolled his eyes. “Always wear protective clothing,” he groaned. “Yes, I get that the machine is hot.”

  “Before we get to the clothing, what do we make sure of?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Rule number one. You don’t weld alone. Ever. We work on the buddy system. At least two people in the shop at all times.”

  “What if you know what you’re doing?”

  “I’m sure you think you do. But you don’t. Not yet.”

  “Sure I do. Ask me anything.”

  “Okay, how hot will the ARC machine be?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Todd says, gazing at it. “This is mechanized inert gas welding we’re doing, so we’re looking at temperatures upward of twenty-five hundred degrees Celsius.”

  Hatfield shook his head. “That’s a good answer for shop class, but here in the shop, the correct answer is far too hot for us to have this lying around.” He lifted a stray piece of paper. “This thing can ignite a spark, which can ignite fires. That is something you do not want.”

  “Sorry.”

  “In welding, we don’t aim to be sorry. We aim to be careful. Now let’s continue to be careful and get yourself ready to weld.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the new guy’s lesson was done, Hatfield headed to the break room for lunch, catching Brian in the middle of a spirited conversation, pacing the floor. He was selling some guy his used pickup truck with the fervor of a high school football coach on the cusp of a championship win. His boss cupped the phone and asked, “How’s the new guy working out?”

  “A little rusty, of course, but he’s getting there. He’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know,” Brian said. “He seemed a little full of himself to me.”

  Hatfield shrugged. “Me too, but we all do when we start. Young kid with a skill that’s in demand, something that shows you know what you’re doing with your hands? You’re cocky. You can’t help it. Ever talk to your dad about me when I first started?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I could do without the embarrassment.”

  Brian gave him a pat on the shoulder, then got back to the phone call.

  Hatfield tossed a cheeseburger into the microwave and took a seat at a nearby table. A quick check of his cell phone showed no new messages.

  With the cheeseburger five seconds away from completion, the microwave stopped. Everything in the break room went dark. The lights, his cell phone, the radio leaking out of the office behind the break room.

  “Holy cow!” Brian yelled. “Bet you it’s the new guy’s fault! I had a feeling about that arrogant son of a gun.”

  A collective groan floated from the shop floor. Hatfield left the break room and checked it out. “Looks like we got a little paid break, right, Brian?” one of the guys called from the shop floor.

  The line got a laugh from all eight guys, most of them casually taking off their masks and having a seat.

  These paid breaks happened roughly three or four times a year. With all that power firing up at once, outages were just another thing that happened at the shop. Nothing to get excited about. But Hatfield suspected there was more going on.

  After checking his cell phone, he stepped into the parking lot, peered across the street and noticed things nobody inside seemed to. Traffic lights had gone out. Cars were stranded in the middle of the road. People scrambling around, desperate, confused, angry.

  Hatfield wasn’t confused at all. After all those conversations with his dad about what to do if the worst happened, there was little doubt about it. This was the result of an EMP attack.

  2

  As a kid, Hatfield never thought of his dad as a source of wisdom. He was overbearing, strict and, at times, cruel. His military background was a big part of that. Sergeant Ernest Hatfield may have been retired from the army, but he was still very much the drill instructor at home.

  And there was another factor. He felt the need to drill into his only child on the importance of self-discipline and self-reliance. “You never know when the big attack will come, and if you’re not prepared for it, you’ll be just like everybody else, scrambling around like a hen with a fox loose.”

  Early on, he never made clear what he meant by “attack.” His son would ask, but the answer was always vague. The day his dad spelled out the concern for him was one that stayed seared into his memory forev
er.

  The trailer was empty except for young Trevor, with Dad out hunting and Mom at the river hand-washing clothes. He slipped inside to use the phone, careful to take occasional glances out the window to make sure nobody surprised him.

  He nervously picked up the phone and dialed, then waited for an answer, his pulse throbbing with fear and anticipation.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Michelle. Guess who?”

  “Trevor? My God, how’d you get your parents to allow a phone call?”

  “I didn’t. They don’t know I’m on the phone.”

  She giggled. “You’re just terrible. It’s like you’re asking to get in trouble.”

  “Naw, just miss you, that’s all.”

  “So… why exactly did you move again? The whole thing didn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me, either,” he said. “My dad went on this whole thing about how we need to be self-sufficient and live off the land and all that stuff. So here we are.”

  “Yeah. Five hundred miles away. Seriously, do you guys even have electricity? Or gas?”

  “We have this generator, but let’s put it this way: Everything we have with technology is for emergencies—phone, stove, heating, refrigeration. It’s like camping.”

  “I would hate that. But it’s probably heaven for you, as much as you like camping.”

  “Well, I like camping, but after a while, you want to come home and watch TV again and have a microwave burrito and stuff. I’m telling you, it sucks.”

  “Awww.”

  “The worst part is not seeing you. Or my other friends.”

  “And your dad never explained why you’re doing it?”

  “He goes on some stupid rant about being self-sufficient and all that, but he doesn’t explain why. I don’t want to go on about me, though. What are you up to tonight?”

  “Missing you.”

  Lying back on the bed, he gazed up at the ceiling, picturing Michelle. But the picture was incomplete. “What’s your hair look like right now? And your clothes. Are you wearing that black miniskirt that hugs you real tight?”

  “Trevor!”

  “I’m serious. I need an image so I can remember you.”

  She started talking about the adorable sweater she’d just bought and the new haircut she’d gotten, and he got lost in the words, the sound of her voice. It felt like sweet torture, like drowning in his favorite brand of soda.

  Then the door flung open, and within seconds, the phone went dead. In the doorway, his dad was there, holding up the cord he’d yanked from the wall.

  “Dad!”

  His father’s face was hard as granite, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. “That’s right. Come here, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, springing to his feet, head down as if expecting a blow.

  “What is the phone used for in this home?”

  “Emergencies.”

  “That’s right. Emergencies only. Not to sneak phone calls to some girl back home. Do you have any idea how important it is to live in a manner that does not make us reliant on modern technology?”

  “Yeah,” he groaned.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Trevor said, shoulders up, smirk gone.

  “Do you know what an EMP attack is?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “You will. Someday, you and the rest of the world will come to regret your unthinking reliance on the creature comforts of the contemporary world.”

  Trevor turned away and groaned under his breath, “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Excuse me?” his dad demanded.

  “Well, you keep going on and on about this attack! But it hasn’t come so far, has it?” The kid’s heart was racing now. He’d never before spoken like that to his dad. “We don’t even know what to be looking for.”

  His father stepped forward, his tone like a machine gun’s rattle. “Here is what you should be looking for, young man. Whole cities going dark. Not houses, not blocks, not neighborhoods. But an entire interconnected grid simply going down, no longer available to anyone. That means everything with a microchip, everything you rely on to eat, to stay warm or cool, to communicate—becomes non-existent. That is why you will see panic in the streets. Because there will be no one to call for help, no plan B, no government, and no structure to society. It’s called an electromagnetic pulse attack. It impacts everything, and it will spark sheer chaos. Traffic backed up, confused onlookers. The only people who will be prepared will be people living off-grid. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir,” Trevor said, his voice compliant but dragging.

  But Trevor was only half-listening. The words stayed lodged in his head, but not the worries that were supposed to come with them. The whole thing sounded crazy, like some made-up science fiction movie.

  “And since you’re in such a curious mood, there’s something on the underside of the trailer you need to investigate. There are a rag and bucket of water to help you clean things up. Now get to it before you have more chores piled on top of that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he watched his father step back into the trailer and slam the door shut, he wondered how much more of this he could take. No more Michelle. No more friends. No more TV, fast food, phone calls. Trevor gave the trailer a long stare, knowing it was only a matter of time before he’d find the courage to take off and leave all this crazy talk to his parents. If his mom wanted to go along with all this, that was her sad story. He had to get away. Somehow.

  3

  Laughter echoed through the welding shop for another fifteen minutes. A poker game had started, and Wychek had taken his acoustic guitar out of the locker to see if he could remember the chords to some old Aerosmith song. It turned out he couldn’t, which sparked a debate over what song he was trying to play.

  But Hatfield stayed at the doorway, watching the cars sit there. There were odd arguments, general confusion, but no violence…yet. “Just a matter of time,” he muttered to himself.”

  “What’s just a matter of time?” a voice from behind asked.

  He turned and found his boss there, face as relaxed as ever. “Well, Brian. I’m sure this sounds crazy to you, but it’s only a matter of time before things get chaotic.”

  His boss exploded into laughter. “You’re starting to sound like my crazy uncle Zeke. Spent his whole life living in a tiny shack in the desert, telling everybody they needed to end their wicked ways, return to the ways of the Bible!”

  A tiny grin landed on Hatfield’s face. Brian’s mocking tone reminded him of the way he used to laugh at his dad. “I suppose ending wicked ways wouldn’t be a bad idea. But did he say anything about preparations?”

  Brian shook his head. “Jesus will provide. That was all he said.”

  “If he thought the Bible was all that was needed, he may have actually been crazy.”

  They shared a chuckle, but then some troubling thoughts raced through Hatfield’s mind. His family needed him. With his kids still at school and his wife at home, it would take some time to orchestrate everything to get to a safe place. “I have to get out of here, Brian. We all do, really.”

  “I’m sorry, Trevor,” he said with a pat on his back. “We need you here, buddy. As soon as the power comes back on, we’ll need you to make sure the kid is instructed on—”

  “Brian, the power is not coming back on. Not today, maybe not ever.”

  Hatfield’s strong tone caught his boss off-guard. He pulled back a little as if afraid of him. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not me that’s serious. The situation is serious.”

  Brian lifted his hands in a playful surrender. “Hey, look. I suppose I can’t stop you from leaving if you feel it’s an emergency, but I will have to dock you the day’s pay, so whatever it is, I hope it’s worth—”

  But Hatfield was already gone by then, weaving through the stalled cars and puzzled pedestrians.

  B
efore leaving for work, Hatfield found himself in the middle of a standoff. Justin and Tami stood across from each other in front of the family computer in the living room.

  He’d just eaten breakfast, then sat at the kitchen table gazing at a stunning sunset. The rays washed over the distant skyscrapers and the highways below, somehow making all those soulless machines beautiful. Much as he tried, he couldn’t lift his eyes away.

  After five minutes, Jess stooped to his ear and whispered into it, “I know the man upstairs does lovely work, but if you spend all day admiring it, you’re gonna be late.”

  Just like that, he’d dragged himself out of the kitchen. Nobody had accused Hatfield of being a genius, but he was smart enough to avoid an argument with his wife before leaving for work.

  But now, he’d found himself in the middle of a war. “What’s the problem this time?” he groaned.

  They both launched into their respective tirades simultaneously, their rage overlapping into a tangle of incoherent words.

  “Tami first,” he said.

  “Awww, Dad!”

  “Sorry, Justin,” his father said. “Fifteen outranks twelve.”

  “Not fair!” he protested. “I so didn’t ask to be born second!”

  “Go ahead, Tami.”

  “Justin isn’t letting me on the computer, and he’s totally been on it for, like, ten, fifteen minutes, which isn’t fair because I have so many emails to send after that crazy dress that Emily wore yesterday—”

  Justin blurted, “See, Dad! I’m using the computer for homework, and she’s gossiping on it! Tell me that makes any sense!”