How We Survive: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

by Stone, William

  Gesturing for her to duck to the ground, he turned slowly, gun poised. A scamper in the distance drew the weapon, but it was nothing but a squirrel leaping out of a dumpster. Gun still up, he spun slightly, finding nothing in the other direction.

  He unloaded a relieved exhale but had a feeling the relief would not last long. Somebody was out there. Probably more than one somebody. And probably armed. The couple had luckily evaded them for now, but if they were going to get to Tami and Justin’s school, they would have to take a detour.

  After holstering his gun, Hatfield took his wife’s hands and lifted her from the ground. Without a word, he gestured for them to move in the opposite direction. They did, her body as tight around him as a second layer of skin.

  Another explosion rang out in the distance. Jess turned, mouth and eyes wide. He leaned in and whispered, “Didn’t seem like it came from the school.”

  She eased up a little but remained alert as they ducked through the streets, the sun beginning to tuck itself behind the horizon. With night falling came more danger. He knew this and could sense his wife knew this, too.

  Moving toward them was a lone older man on a bicycle, pedaling as fast as his overworked legs would allow. Fatigue dragged his face, and sweat coated his T-shirt. Hatfield guessed his story was a sad one. Maybe abandoned by his family in this dark time of need. Or maybe just another bad planner, somebody who thought the government would take care of him when things got tough.

  He huffed, lips hanging loose and chin only inches above the handlebar. It looked like he was almost home. Hatfield hoped he’d make it.

  It wasn’t going to be easy.

  Out of nowhere, someone leaped at him, shoving him from the bike and pushing his drained body to the asphalt in an exhausted whimper. The thug had been crouched behind a dumpster, probably waiting for an opportunity like this.

  Jess came unglued with a scream.

  The thug howled like a jackal as he climbed aboard the bike, then sped toward the couple. As he neared, they could see a knife in his hand, swinging wildly. Not a trace of fear in his eyes.

  Hatfield drew the Sig Sauer, held it tight on him. But the thug was unmoved. It was as if he could read the hesitation behind the gunman’s eyes. With a high-pitched laugh, he veered away and raced into the night.

  Another desperate hug from Jess as they stepped toward the old man. “You okay?”

  The old-timer nodded. “I guess I’ll be fine. No way to get home, though.”

  Jess helped him to his feet, caressed his face once he was up. “Things are crazy,” she said. “You really shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  He nodded, then offered a weak, “Thank you,” before stepping away.

  Hatfield watched him hobble into the distance, almost certain he wouldn’t make it home safely.

  Jess brought their eyes into uncomfortable contact. “What’s going on, Trevor? What’s happening to the city?”

  “It’s not the city,” he said. “It’s the world. It’s everything.”

  They shared a wordless stare, then turned and started walking again.

  An unnerving thought came to him. He would have been well within his rights to shoot that thug—and it might have been a good idea. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  Shooting was something he’d done all his life. He learned it from his dad, kept doing it at the range even after leaving home and falling out with his dad. He shot with his friends, his neighbors, even tried to teach Jess to shoot before he could see there was no way that would happen. But a real target was a different story. When the time came, he couldn’t.

  Another series of gunshots slapped through the air, sending the couple into a gap where a wall had been blasted out. Faraway explosions followed, along with screams of horror and howls of delight. It felt they were sharing a nightmare. Jess’s fingernails dug into his shoulders as she sobbed.

  “Shh!” he urged, not sure what other kind of danger could be out there for them, ready to pounce.

  A few moments of silence followed. No screams, no shots, and seemingly no violence. He knew it wouldn’t last, but it didn’t matter. It felt good to get a break from the unending torture of the world spinning to hell.

  Hatfield leaned back against the wall, his pounding heart easing up a little. “Wonder what my dad would’ve said about this.”

  His wife gave him a sympathetic smile. Having never met the man, she couldn’t answer the question. She could only grip her husband’s hand as he launched into a memory.

  The car in the distance sped closer. Soon, young Trevor could identify it as a ’92 Mazda. In fact, his friend Luke’s ’92 Mazda. Springing to his feet, he took a cautious glance around as the car stopped. His mom was still at the river, his dad also safely away.

  The car pulled up, and he sprang toward it, his teenage face erupting into a smile. Once inside, he unleashed a yelp, then cut it short when he noticed the cute girl in the passenger seat. “I didn’t know you were bringing a passenger along,” he said.

  Michelle turned, shook her head. “Hey there, troublemaker.”

  Luke didn’t take off right away. He stared at the trailer for a while, then pointed at it. “Check it out, ‘Chell. Your long-distance boyfriend and his family actually live in that thing! Seriously, all three of them.”

  “Dude, we need to take off before my parents get back.”

  Luke turned, a snarl on his face. “Where’s your stuff?”

  He nodded toward his backpack. “That’s all I have.”

  “Okay. Just a heads up: my brother’s place isn’t that big, and you’ll have to crash on the couch until you can buy a mattress if you’re cool with that.”

  “After living in a trailer and preparing for the end of the world, I’m cool with anything, okay? Can we just take off now?”

  Luke started the car, and they headed away, kicking up dry dirt as they spun away from the tiny home Trevor hated. “So you know all about Trevor’s family and all that, right?” he asked Michelle.

  “Yeah, all that end-of-the-world apocalypse stuff,” she asked, her voice meek, almost sad. As if not wanting to judge.

  “But in a crazy, prepper way,” he said, again to his cousin. “Not in the cool religious way like your family.”

  Michelle smiled and shook her head, then turned to Trevor. “He’s told me all about it. I’m just glad to help get him out of there.”

  Luke aimed his voice at the back seat. “And he’s some kind of army dude or something, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. Unable to stop staring at Michelle. “Sergeant first class.”

  “What is your major malfunction!” Luke yelled. Then he said to Michelle, “That’s from one of those awesome movies Trevor never gets to watch.”

  Luke kept laughing as they drove away, leaving the small trailer in the distance until it became a dot surrounded by the wilderness.

  Trevor leaned back in the seat, stole another glance at the adorable girl in the front seat, and thought about what his life was on the verge of becoming. For the first time ever, he was free!

  6

  The quiet didn’t last long. The loud chatter of a small group—ten, maybe twelve of them—could be heard a few blocks ahead. Shattered glass and metallic clanks punctuated their cackles and howls. The noise grew closer, more dangerous.

  Hatfield slowly unlaced himself from the hug with his wife, then edged past the wall, taking a peek. The setting sun behind them turned them into silhouettes, masking their identities. But he could see they were young, armed, and getting closer.

  Along the way, they checked every cranny, every alley to see what they could find, often pushing metal rods into things. There was no way Hatfield and his wife could remain hidden.

  He pulled back, took a deep breath, and scanned the landscape, taking Jess’s hand. Spots behind dumpsters or heaps of trash wouldn’t work. He could hear them digging through the garbage. The pawnshop directly on the other side of the street didn’t have an entrance they could get int
o quietly or quickly. The same for other closed buildings.

  But a convenience store remained open, its manager crouched at the window, eyes busy and head on a swivel. Behind the glass, he probably couldn’t hear the approaching gang. But he knew there was danger.

  Hatfield leaned in closer, examined the manager’s face, and realized he’d seen him before but couldn’t recall where.

  He turned to Jess. She mouthed the name. Mr. Crane.

  A grin came to his face. They knew him from church—casually, but enough to know he was a trustworthy guy. And hopefully, a guy who trusted them. There was no guarantee he’d let them in, but they had a chance.

  The gang loomed closer, louder. The crash of something large and fragile made his wife shudder. He took a cautious second glance past the wall, could see them huddled over a pile of debris and poking through it.

  He turned, lifted three fingers and mouthed the words on three. Jess nodded. Giving her a gentle tug until they found their feet, he put up one finger…

  More cackles and poking from the gang.

  He lifted another finger.

  One guy turned briefly, causing Hatfield to hold up a hand and shake his head. As the guy turned back to the trash, he held up three, and they sprinted across the street. He wildly swung his arms over his head, then found the manager’s face.

  Mr. Crane pulled back in horror, stunned to see them.

  They gestured to the door, keeping an eye on the gang. The horror melted from his face, and he climbed to his feet and unlocked the door.

  “The Hatfields, right?” he asked.

  “Shh!” he answered, gesturing for him to duck out of view as he and his wife did the same. Then he pointed to the approaching gang.

  Mr. Crane’s mouth fell agape when he saw them. He turned to the couple and shrugged as if to ask, Who are they?

  Hatfield shrugged back, then whispered, “All we know is that you’d better watch out. Things are going to be dangerous for a while. Maybe forever.” He then pointed to an aisle farther back. Together they crawled to the better hiding space.

  With his voice low and his mouth close to Mr. Crane’s ear, he said. “If I were you, I’d get out of the city. That’s going to be the only to avoid the chaos.”

  “Get out of the city? Where else is there?”

  A pound came to the front door, rattling it. Another pound followed, then another until it swung open with a whine. Through the reflection of the refrigerated items near the counter, he could see the assailant.

  Tall and athletic, he carried a shotgun in his right hand, dug through the shelves with his free hand. Probably in his twenties, he had the scarred and hardened face of a man who’d just gotten out of prison. A dragon-face tattoo stretched from his cheek to his neck and around it. His long, dark hair reached his shoulders.

  He circled the counter, eyes scanning the place a little but mostly aimed at the register. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” he sang.

  The three stayed silent and motionless as Hatfield reached for his gun, with no plan in particular. The criminal’s focus was so narrowly set on the register, they were safe—for the moment.

  Soon he closed in on the register, giving its keyboard a few random taps. When the machine didn’t budge, his taps turned into jabs.

  Hatfield quietly yanked the gun from his holster, not easy to do unless he slowed the motions down.

  The criminal now held the shotgun in both hands, ramming against the register enough to shake it and break away a few of the tabs on the side.

  Mr. Crane lifted his head to give himself a better view. It wasn’t clear to Hatfield how troubled his friend would be about a loss of cash. He wanted to explain that when things spun into out-and-out anarchy, his money would have no value anyway, but this wasn’t the time for a lecture on the devaluing of cash. He gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder, and he turned.

  But in turning, Mr. Crane stumbled a little.

  They froze, keeping their faces still. The pounding at the register had stopped, replaced by the racking on his shotgun.

  The criminal turned, his face sharpened by anger. He held the shotgun at his waist, demonstrating he’d used it before. Then he took slow steps closer toward them.

  With the criminal so close, pulling his gun from the holster wasn’t an option. Even breathing was hard to do without him detecting it.

  Something on a nearby shelf caught the guy’s attention, so he turned, lifted a bag of mini donuts up, and brought it to his teeth. But the stubborn package wouldn’t open, so he tucked the gun under his arm, reached for the bag, giving Hatfield just the moment he needed…

  He raised from his crouch, pulling the gun and bringing it to the criminal’s head. “Get your hands up now!” he yelled.

  The criminal let the bag drop from his teeth, his face now slack with disappointment.

  Hatfield watched his hands slowly rise, then added, “Why don’t you put that thing on the floor first?”

  He smirked, annoyed but not afraid. “It’s not even loaded, I swear.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Do as I say.”

  The criminal moved in slow motion, seeming to mock him. The sneer on his face told him he didn’t believe Hatfield would pull the trigger. A wordless standoff took place. After a sigh, he put the shotgun on the ground.

  “Sit down nice and slow. Do not drop it.”

  He nodded and did as he was told.

  “Now step away from it and keep those hands up while you do it.”

  The criminal backpedaled away, rolling his eyes.

  Hatfield stepped on the shotgun and slid it to his rear. “Mr. Crane, you’ve got something for protection.” After a few awkward seconds of hearing nothing, he heard his friend scoop the shotgun into his arms. But he didn’t turn to see any of this, afraid to break his gaze with the criminal. “Now, get out of here.”

  “Whatever,” the guy groaned, strutting out and shoving open the door with as much attitude as he sported when he held the shotgun.

  The three of them watched him stroll outside, then sprint down some dark alley, filling the air with a mischievous chortle. Taking his first deep breath out in a while, he put his gun back into his holster and turned.

  Jess’s face was frozen in horror, her lips trembling as if the event hadn’t yet passed. He tugged her into a hug, but she barely had the strength to hug him back.

  “You don’t think he’s on his way back, do you?” Mr. Crane asked.

  “If he’s back in the next thirty minutes, it won’t matter. You’ll be gone by then. You’re headed to the country like I said.”

  “I don’t follow you. Are you saying I’ll have an internet connection and everything out there?”

  “No, but you’ll be safe from the chaos. Right now, being safe trumps everything else. Including money.”

  “If I don’t have any money, I can’t eat. Unless you want me to hunt out there.”

  “You’ll have plenty to eat,” Hatfield said, gesturing toward the food in the store. “Take all the essential food, shut down the store, and get out of the city before that guy or somebody like him needs something to snack on. You got that?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Mr. Crane started packing up the food while Hatfield crouched by the front door, gun poised.

  At the door, he could see and hear occasional reminders of the insanity the world was spiraling into. Explosions, sparks in the sky suggesting gunfire. He asked his friend, “What’s the quickest, safest way we can get to Roosevelt?”

  “That alley right outside the back door will take you straight there. It should be quieter than taking the street. Can’t promise it’ll be safe. But the odds of you getting there alive should be better.”

  Hatfield said, “Sounds good. You have a place in mind to go in the country?”

  “Not really. We have a cabin there—my wife and me—out near the Takahoma River. How the hell do we get there?”

  “You still drive that ’71 Toyota Corolla?”

  “Well, yeah
, but it’s in storage right now.”

  “Where?”

  “Few blocks from here.”

  “Good. Get to the garage the safest way you can. The car’s old enough that it should be fine, and the storage may have protected it from damage. Where’s your wife… Marie, was it?”

  “Yeah. She’s at work, the government building.”

  “You’re going to want to get there as soon as you can. Make sure she’s still…” He paused, careful to phrase his words delicately. “Safe.”

  “All right. And you’re saying I’ll be fine if I do all that?”

  “I’m saying you have a chance. All things being equal, the best thing to do would be to not have to go to the country but to already be there. Preparation is the best defense.” A tiny snicker leaked out, but nobody else shared in on the joke. Because they didn’t know his dad, had never heard the hundreds of times he’d used that phrase, and the hundreds of times his son ignored it.

  7

  After waiting for the alley to be clear, Hatfield and his wife sprinted down it, with Jess keeping pace remarkably well—until they heard screams.

  She stopped and shuddered, turning her terrified eyes to him. “Those sound like kids!”

  The closer they got to the school, the louder the screams. It sounded like a chorus of desperate cries. As Jess clutched his arm, Hatfield hoped at first that neither of the screams belonged to Justin or Tami. But as he thought things out, he figured if his kids were screaming, at least it meant it wasn’t too late.

  As they got closer, they saw that the explosion at the school was just a part of another fire that was ripping through downtown. At the school’s front gates, a crowd gathered, mostly gawkers, hoping to steal a glimpse of something morbid or crazy.

  But Hatfield saw a few familiar faces in the crowd, including a couple that elbowed their way over to him and Jess. “What have you guys heard?” the man asked.