Lines in the Sand_Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction

by Bobby Akart

  They scurried out from under the trailer, and Palmer retrieved some bottled water and a medical bag she’d organized at the house in Bridger last night.

  “Guys, you gotta treat Riley in the truck,” started Cooper. “There’s no way we can travel through town now. We’re gonna have to head south toward the military camp and find our way back on track through back roads. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to talk about it.”

  “Let’s roll, bro,” said Riley with a laugh. “I’ve got enough blood left in me to make it down the road a ways.”

  Cooper started up the truck, and they double-checked the line of sight down both sides of the highway before crossing it. Within a minute, Palmer had the bleeding under control and was unfolding the map and looking for a way to get back on their route home.

  “You know what, y’all,” started Cooper as he put plenty of distance between them and the battlefield in his rearview mirror. “I’m no expert on war battles or anything, but it seems to me that a bunch of militia, even though their heart was in it, was not gonna be strong enough to beat those big machine guns that sent bullets flying in one side of a building and out the other. To fight someone more powerful than you, I’m thinkin’ you gotta sneak up on them and hit ’em when they least suspect it.”

  Cooper’s words hung in the air as the trio realized how lucky they were not to get caught in the crossfire. The travelers had dodged a bullet, or twenty.

  PART THREE

  Beyond Borders

  Chapter 32

  December 5

  West Hobson Road

  Roswell, New Mexico

  The world has known many serial killers. There has been a long list of those who committed hideous, inhumane crimes, but some names garnered more notoriety than others, thanks to media and pop culture. One thing they had in common—they were all children once.

  The Zodiac Killer was never captured despite leaving taunting letters with cryptic clues for law enforcement. He claimed to have killed thirty-seven fellow human beings in the San Francisco Bay Area in the sixties. He was once a child, but turned into a demented human being.

  Donald Henry Gaskins tortured and mutilated ninety hitchhikers in the South during his reign of terror. As a child, he was mentally tortured by a mother whose bedroom had a revolving door for the many men in her life and by his classmates, who nicknamed him Pee Wee. Gaskins got even with society, which had dealt him a bad hand at the casino table of life.

  Ted Bundy was a kidnapper, rapist, and demented necrophile. The level of depravity of this human being is unfathomable. He stood in striking contrast to one’s general image of a homicidal maniac. He was attractive, self-assured, and had no problem being with women. But his dark side began as a child when he spent a considerable amount of time with a grandfather who had a penchant for child pornography and a volatile temper.

  The list goes on—Aileen Wuornos, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, the Casanova Killer, the Acid Bath Murderer, the Angel of Death, and so on. All of these infamous murderers were once children, but became notorious through their crimes.

  However, there are those who hadn’t made the front page of the National Enquirer or Yahoo! News online. One such individual was Joseph Manuel Holloway.

  Holloway grew up in California with his mother, an elementary schoolteacher from Sacramento, and his father, a computer programmer of Korean descent. Their life was good and drama-free.

  Like many idealistic teens, Holloway wanted to see the world. Also, like many teens, he rebelled against the plans for his future envisioned by his parents. They saw four years of college followed by a graduate degree at nearby Cal State Fullerton.

  Holloway spent his days locked in his room playing Call of Duty and Infinite Warfare. Following his graduation from high school, when the time came for Holloway to enroll at Cal State, he chose to march down to North Harbor Boulevard in Fullerton and enroll in the United States Army.

  Holloway became a top recruit and sailed through Army basic training at Fort Sill in Lawton, Oklahoma. Then it was off to Fort Benning for more basic training. And then it was off to war in the Middle East, where Holloway learned there was a big difference between Call of Duty, Black Ops and Kandahar Province.

  His career in the Army was stellar. He became a U.S. Army sniper and later a senior drill sergeant. Holloway had a bald head and the build of a middle linebacker. He also had the disposition of a pit bull.

  His final days in the Army were unplanned. Assigned to the Kabul Military Training Centre for the Afghan Armed Forces, he enjoyed molding these young men who risked their lives and ties with their friends to fight against the Taliban. It took intestinal fortitude to be an Afghan who joined the Army to fight in the mountains. Peer pressure stopped most from considering enlistment.

  Holloway was proud of these recruits and put his heart into helping them learn to fight. But one fateful day, Holloway’s heart was ripped out. One of the young Afghans in training arrived at an evening dinner commemorating the completion of basic training with a suicide bomb strapped to his torso. As Holloway read words of praise for his recruits, the man detonated the device, sending shrapnel through the air, killing dozens and taking the left eye of Holloway.

  His career was over. He’d gone from killing machine, to trainer of killers, to unemployed ex-vet in Fullerton, California, seeking his way in the world—with just one eye and a scarred face.

  Holloway became angry. He was irate that the Army had discharged him and refused to let him fight. He was a trained killer and that was all he knew. He began to look up some of the guys from his old unit. They, too, were having difficulty finding jobs or establishing normalcy back in the States.

  The psychobabblers, as the guys called them, immediately diagnosed the former soldiers as having PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Even though the men scoffed at the concept, they readily accepted the diagnosis, which earned them extra disability pay.

  The diagnosis came with a price, however. Prospective employers shied away from hiring them. There were too many stories of PTSD-afflicted ex-soldiers committing acts of violence in the workplace. They were afraid to hire soldiers like Holloway for fear of potentially having to fire them one day.

  “Can you imagine what might happen?” they’d whisper privately.

  Holloway and the guys started their own business, which perfectly suited their skillset—mercenaries for hire. They traveled the world fighting the battles of others, and they were paid handsomely. Truth be told, they would have done it for free because it enabled them to do what they loved most—kill.

  Prior to one such operation in Southeast Asia, Holloway’s team recruited a Korean man who lived in Fullerton. The man worked on the loading docks at Kraft Foods but frequented a local hangout called The Blue Door Bar, which was a favorite of Holloway’s because it was preferred by Korean women, also Holloway’s favorite.

  During an evening of drinks, the Korean man boasted about his elite military training in North Korea. Holloway and the guys laughed it off as the man just being drunk. Then one night, the Korean was hitting on a cute Asian girl, much to the chagrin of her three brothers. They attempted to push the man away repeatedly. After the third shove, and three minutes later, the gang of brothers lay sprawled out on the floor with a variety of broken bones to show for the altercation.

  Holloway and the guys were impressed with the Korean and quickly made the decision to hustle him out of the bar before the cops arrived. The Korean, as they called him, joined their mercenary group and later introduced Holloway to more like him.

  Holloway was back in his element as a leader of men and a natural-born killer. Unlike more noteworthy killers, Holloway wasn’t known to the American public or law enforcement.

  He quietly associated himself with the Fullerton Boyz, a gang originally formed in 1996 by Korean teens. The gang was prevalent in the Orangethorpe area of Fullerton, where Holloway grew up. He returned to Orangethorpe and struck up old acquaintances. His position was cemented a
s the first white leader of the Fullerton Boyz.

  Holloway now had an army of his own, one that enjoyed his favorite pastime—killing. Make no mistake, he’d murdered more people than the top twenty serial killers of all time combined. The difference was he continued to kill because nobody stopped him.

  Now Holloway and his North Korean associates were heading east toward Texas. But first, there was business to be done in Roswell, New Mexico.

  Chapter 33

  December 6

  The Armstrong Ranch

  Borden County, Texas

  To the south and immediately adjacent to the Armstrong Ranch was over four thousand acres known as the Reinecke Field, which included fifteen producing oil wells, water injection wells, and natural gas wells, yielding over two hundred barrels of oil a day. Before the EMP attack, Reinecke Partners employed twelve full-time personnel at the facility, including an on-site foreman.

  Major led Preacher and Chris Slaughter on horseback across the ranch. Antonio was bringing the rest of the Slaughter contingent along the roads connecting the properties. Major doubted the facility was occupied, but it was necessary to inspect the complex before exposing Chris’s group to potential squatters.

  They approached the caretaker’s house cautiously, with each man approaching from a different angle. There were no signs of activity with only a white utility truck sitting off to the side.

  Preacher moved quickly along the side of the house and reached the front door first. Major, who cleared the back of the modular home, waited at the back door. Chris covered a side entrance. It was agreed that once Preacher broke through the front door, the other two men would hold their positions and overtake anyone who attempted escape through the other entryways.

  A crashing sound was heard as Preacher slammed open the solid wood front door. He wasn’t attempting to be stealthy upon his entry. He hoped to frighten anyone inside to surrender and not put up a fight.

  “All clear!” he shouted after a moment. “We’ve got a dead guy.”

  Major turned the handle and entered the house, finding himself in the kitchen, the stale air full of the smell of death.

  “Whoa,” he moaned as he quickly covered his mouth and nose. “Let’s get some windows open here.”

  Major had been through this experience before. A decayed and decomposed body put off an unmistakable odor. The foreman who once ran the Reinecke Operating Unit had been dead for many days.

  Major made his way into the living room, where he found Preacher standing over the man’s body.

  “No evidence of foul play, as you lawmen like to say,” Preacher began his assessment. “I don’t know, Major. It looks like his ticker might’ve quit. It’s hard to tell how old he was, but he could’ve had a heart attack.”

  Chris returned from opening the windows in the house. “Everything looks normal back there. I did find this nitroglycerine bottle. It’s empty.”

  “Coronary heart disease,” mumbled Major. “It’s the same thing Pops had. If he ran out of his meds, his chances of a stroke shot way up.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Preacher. “He either couldn’t make it to a pharmacy in Big Spring, or they were closed. We’re real lucky we don’t require prescriptions.”

  “Yup,” said Major. “Chris, find a blanket. We’ll wrap him up and take him out back for a proper burial. Plus, we need to air out the house before the women show up. They’re not gonna want to see this.”

  The three men quickly removed the man’s body and set it under a scrub oak tree in the back of the house. They found a shallow spot well away from the house and respectfully laid the body in it. Chris said he’d bury it later. After paying their respects to the dead man, they mounted their horses and rode into the oil tank and pipeline area of the facility.

  “Looks like the old guy shut everything down,” said Preacher. “None of the wells are pumping, and I can’t hear the hum of anything runnin’.”

  “Must be part of their protocol,” Major surmised before pointing at a large solar array in a nearby field. “Look, there’s enough solar panels to keep the place runnin’.”

  “Nice,” added Preacher. “They might come in handy at the ranch, too.”

  They picked up the speed to a trot as they headed down a dusty road toward another set of buildings. Pipes and pumps were set in concrete throughout the fenced-in area. Two oil tanker trucks were parked in line, waiting to be filled.

  “Where do you think the drivers went?” asked Chris.

  Major raised his index finger to his lips, suggesting to his companions to stay quiet. He pointed to the right of the trucks, and Preacher followed his directive, slowly riding along the side of the vehicles with his rifle raised.

  Chris waited at the front of the trucks while Major took the side opposite Preacher. He wanted to take every precaution after what they’d experienced in their barnyard a week prior.

  The two men reached the back of the trucks at the same time and relaxed.

  “Abandoned,” said Major.

  Preacher agreed. “Seems like it. You gotta wonder where they went, but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  “Major,” started Chris, “I like it. It ain’t glamorous, but it suits our needs. This large open field between us and the house is fenced with tall chain-link, more than sturdy enough to hold docile dairy cows. The concrete slabs on top of the underground tanks can be used to mount our milk-pumping equipment. I saw stacks of pressure-treated lumber, which can be used for cover.”

  “Yeah, I saw it too,” said Preacher. “There’s more than enough for us to build those outpost towers along our perimeter.”

  A cloud of dust appeared on the road to their west as Antonio drove the wagon with Adele Slaughter and their ranch hands. After they arrived, Chris took his group around the facility and showed them their new home, albeit an unusual one.

  Preacher gave instructions to Antonio to get the Slaughters settled and to join them at the ranch in a couple of hours.

  Then Major added a directive of his own. He reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a small notepad and a pencil. He handed it to his top ranch hand.

  “Antonio, I want you to take an inventory of those building materials over there. Don’t make a big deal about it either, okay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want the Slaughters to get comfortable, but we have needs regarding the security of Armstrong Ranch. Before they use up all of that lumber building milk barns, I want us to take what we need to build these outposts. Elevated structures around our perimeter will give us a sight advantage over intruders approaching the ranch.”

  Antonio nodded and rode toward the lumber supplies.

  “Too harsh?” Major asked Preacher after Antonio rode off.

  “Nah,” replied Preacher. “Taking care of ourselves is not selfish. You can’t give water to others from a dry well. Our job is to protect Armstrong Ranch and those who live there; then we can worry about these folks.”

  “Yeah. We gotta do what’s best for us first.”

  Chapter 34

  December 6

  The Armstrong Ranch

  Borden County, Texas

  Major and Preacher rode along the dirt roads among the silent oil wells. The men were deep in thought as they contemplated the world in which they lived. The Armstrong Ranch continued to function as it did on a normal day. The same couldn’t be said for others around Texas. Despite avoiding the devastation wrought by the EMP attack and the subsequent nuclear bombs, many of the state’s residents were starting to experience food shortages and a medical crisis, as evidenced by the dead foreman at the Reinecke Operating Station.

  “Pops used to talk about the days following Pearl Harbor,” said Major, breaking the silence. “News wasn’t readily available at the time. Folks listened to the radio, mostly. I remember studying about it in grade school. Our military was caught totally unprepared. The Japanese tore us up.”

  “A date that will live in infamy,” said Preacher, shaking h
is head in disgust. “I guess they’ll call the day the EMP dropped something along that line. Or will it be when the nukes started flying past? Those were both far worse than Pearl Harbor.”

  Major urged his horse up a slight incline, and Preacher followed close behind.

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s all relative,” said Major as they approached Wildcat Creek, which was dry from lack of rain or snow. “We all have our own personal day of infamy, right?”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve had mine,” said Preacher dryly. They rode a little farther, through the dry creek bed, when Preacher continued. “You’ve known me a long time, Major.”

  “I have.”

  “Yet you’ve never asked me why I left the church and quit preachin’,” added Preacher.

  “I figured you’d get around to it when you were ready, and if you thought it was important for me to know.”

  Preacher blurted it out. “I killed a man.”

  “Okay,” said Major unemotionally. “I kinda gathered that for the first time when you threatened that fellow the other night at the barnyard.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, you were real angry, Preach. You said, ‘I’ve killed before and I will kill you, God help my soul.’”

  Preacher looked Major in the eyes. “I said that?”

  “Yessir. Your words, not mine.”

  “I must’ve been pretty dang mad.”

  Major laughed. “That you were.”

  Preacher took a deep breath. Major sensed his old friend was troubled. At any given time before Major retired from Company C of the Texas Rangers, he could’ve performed an extensive background check on Preacher, but he didn’t. What he might find wouldn’t outweigh the things he knew about the man he trusted with his and his family’s lives.

  “Major, you know, when I was the preacher at Mount Zion Baptist, the congregation really liked me. They trusted me too. Too often, they’d come to me with their troubles like they were confessin’ to a Catholic priest.”