Axis of Evil: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 1)

by Bobby Akart

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

  But nobody listened.

  What if Chicken Little was right?

  Chapter 1

  October 29, 2022

  The North Star Classic

  Valley City, North Dakota

  Daddy taught us that we have three choices in life—give up, give in, or give it all you got. My older brothers followed a different path than I did. They were willing to get shot at in defense of our country, against enemies who wanted to end the American way of life. I chose the way of the American West. I chose to challenge a beast ten times my size. I chose to be a bull rider.

  Minutes before Cooper Armstrong climbed into the chute, his adrenaline kicked in. The fans inside the two-thousand-seat arena in Valley City, North Dakota, a small town of sixty-five hundred in the southeast corner of the state, began to chant, “Coop, Coop, Coop.”

  Cooper couldn’t explain how the human body worked, but he could certainly tell you what it didn’t like. Riding a two-thousand-pound beast that was hell-bent on throwing its rider to the ground was not natural. Cooper once surmised the first bull rider probably was drunk and thought he’d give it a whirl, most likely paying a hefty price.

  To him, the eight seconds was like anything a person would experience in their life. When you made a mistake, you paid the piper. The pain would be more than emotional. It was physical, and it could be deadly.

  The eight-second span of riding a bull was an incredibly short period of time, yet everything slowed down, kinda like being in a car wreck. Your mind sensed the danger, saw it happening in real time, yet was incapable of stopping the impending doom.

  For Cooper, his body and mind were uniquely suited for the sport. Somehow, he was able to produce the right amount of adrenaline to get on the beast and ride that bull for all its worth.

  He closed his mind to the cheers and chants, then focused on his opponent. There are two stars in the arena—the rider and the bull. One Night Stand was a cross between a Brahma and a Plummer bull. The latter represented finesse. The former, power.

  Today’s bulls were the product of perfected bloodlines that had been designed to create the nastiest, strongest animals ever produced. Every bull Cooper rode was a superstar in its own right, and One Night Stand was no exception, but for different reasons.

  You see, One Night Stand was a freak of nature. An unexpected result that neither breeder nor rider ever expected. He was a bull that woke up on the wrong side of the bed and grazed on the wrong type of feed. He wasn’t the product of decades of genetic engineering. One Night Stand was simply a bad hombre that refused to be ridden for eight seconds. Cooper intended to break that streak.

  I’m ready.

  Cooper climbed over the dirt-covered fence rails and threw his leg over the brute. He had his rope on the one-ton behemoth and began to get his hand set. Then One Night Stand did something that puzzled Cooper. The bull dropped down and lay on his belly.

  “What the—?” asked a confused Cooper, looking around to the cowboys who manned the chute and then to his brother Riley.

  “Go on now, Coop,” replied one of the men. “You get on him. He’ll come back up when its time. You’ll see.”

  Cooper glanced at his brother and shrugged. He got his head back into the ride. He wrapped the rope around his hand, back under again, and then back over again to get a good hold. Unconsciously, Cooper squeezed his legs to the sides of One Night Stand like he was riding a horse. He could feel the powerful bull’s muscles tense up. One Night Stand was slowly rising out of his crouch.

  “Here we go, boys! Here we go, boys!” Cooper shouted in a combination of exhilaration and fear.

  The gate opened, and One Night Stand launched off the ground. Both bull and rider were airborne. It was a photo-worthy moment that would have made the cover of Pro Rodeo magazine’s December issue if circumstances had been different.

  A bull basically moves in four directions, and it’s incumbent upon the rider to get in sync with the constant up-down-left-right movements if they want to hold on. Get lazy—you get thrown. Anticipate incorrectly—you get thrown.

  From the beginning, Cooper knew this ride was different from any other he’d experienced. It was not just the soaring launch, which was wholly unpredictable. It was looking into the fiery hatred of One Night Stand’s eyes during that leap. His neck and head twisted in an ungodly contortion to stare into Cooper’s eyes. It was impossible anatomically, yet it happened.

  The twist caused Cooper to fall forward on the bull, dangerously close to the Brahma breed’s deadly horns. He could see the prickly brown hairs on the top of the beast’s head. Another inch forward, and their skulls would have collided, instantly knocking Cooper unconscious.

  An inevitable collision was averted by One Night Stand’s landing. When he hit the ground with his front legs, he turned sharply to the left, and Cooper deftly rolled over on the inside of the turn to counter the bull’s maneuver. By the time One Night Stand made his second jump, Cooper was regaining some semblance of control.

  Coop! Coop! Coop!

  Bolstered by the screams of support, Cooper regained his balance as One Night Stand slid back under him and hoisted them into the air again. Cooper relied upon his strength and conditioning to stay in sync with each jump and spin. He stayed lightweight, giving One Night Stand less to throw as he ferociously fought off his rider.

  When riding a bull, you can’t think ahead because it’s invariably too late. If you think about the bull’s next move, it’ll be a second behind and you’ll hit the ground. Cooper didn’t try to think about the time from start to finish, he just listened for the buzzer.

  The bull had been jumping and spinning, bucking and twisting. It had become a choreographed dance between rider and bull. Cooper held on until the unpredictable One Night Stand surprised him.

  It was on the last jump when One Night Stand, instead of twisting, planted all four feet on the ground. Cooper’s weight had been forward, but the sudden change in momentum threw him to the rear, putting tremendous pressure on the end of his right arm. One Night Stand then kicked his rear legs high into the air, throwing Cooper forward, heels over head, so that he didn’t have any weight on his feet.

  I’m gonna fly off the front.

  In that split second, Cooper knew he was in trouble. As he lurched forward, his feet rose into the air and cracked together. With all of his weight on his hand, it instinctively caused the rider to grip tighter—forcing it shut when it needed to open to get loose. Cooper knew he was gonna get hung in the rope.

  It all happened so fast, too fast to react. The chants of Coop! turned to gasps of despair and groans of oh my God!

  With his hand caught in the rope, Cooper landed on the ground and began to run alongside One Night Stand, who was still agitated. Using his body like a battering ram, the bull was forcing himself onto Cooper, trying to knock him down or hook him. One Night Stand ducked his head down and quickly lifted it up, trying to catch part of Cooper’s body with his horns. The bull’s goal was to toss the rider into the air—dealing the final blow by goring the rider’s torso.

  Cooper tried to avoid the horns while keeping his footing. He knew falling was the type of mistake riders didn’t always recover from. He allowed One Night Stand to kick at his lower legs, hoping nursing beat-up shins would be the worst-case scenario.

  He held his balance as he pulled his entangled hand away from the rope. He avoided the horns the best he could. His attempts to pull away lasted longer than the ride. The rodeo clowns closed around One Night Stand to help as Cooper continued to get beat up and stepped on. It was like being chained to a locomotive—an iron horse that never got tired.

  One Night Stand didn’t purposefully try to hurt his rider, for the most part. He just wanted him off his back, which was his natural instinct. But in that final split second, when Cooper pulled free of the rope, neither bull nor rider would be able to explain why that last vicious kick to the side of Cooper Armstrong’s head was necessary
to end the battle.

  Chapter 2

  October 29

  The Armstrong Ranch

  Borden County, Texas

  Duncan Armstrong Sr. pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a stop in front of the barn. One of the hands emerged from the stalls and quickly led his horse inside as the retired lawman brushed off the dust from his ride. As a Texas Ranger, riding horses wasn’t ordinarily part of his job, especially in the late years of his career when he was elevated to the rank of major of Company C, an honor that earned him his nickname.

  Major, as he was now known by everyone, walked onto the gravel driveway and took a moment to watch the setting sun over the Armstrong Ranch. He reflected on what his family had accomplished since their arrival in Texas a hundred and fifty years ago.

  He was a descendant of John Barclay Armstrong, a McMinnville, Tennessee, native and famous Texas Ranger from the 1800s. After the Armstrong family moved to Texas in 1871, John Armstrong joined the Texas Rangers under the command of Leander McNelly. As second in command, he earned the nickname McNelly’s Bulldog for his heroics in capturing fugitives and battling rogue Mexican banditos.

  After McNelly died, John Armstrong rose through the ranks and was instrumental in the pursuit of famed train robber Sam Bass. His career as a lawman led him to become one of the first U.S. Marshals in Texas and a subsequent life of retirement as a rancher.

  Over the years, the Armstrong name became synonymous with Texas ranching. John B. Armstrong III, the grandson of the famous lawman, married into the King family and later became the CEO of King Ranch. His brother, Roscoe Armstrong, wanted to pursue both cattle and oil, ultimately settling in Borden County, halfway between Abilene to the east and Midland-Odessa to the west.

  The Armstrong Ranch grew over the years into a sprawling ninety-six-hundred-acre tract containing beef cattle, crops, and nearly a hundred oil wells. It was not, however, the big corporate enterprise that the much larger ranches in Texas had become.

  After his retirement as a Texas Ranger, Major Armstrong did not seek fame and fortune through signature Ford Trucks or fancy western wear. He wanted to provide for his family and leave a legacy for his heirs, just like his family had done for him.

  A gust of cold, dry air came over his body as the sun set over the horizon. Winter was coming early this year, he thought to himself as he adjusted his hat and turned for the ranch house. With the setting sun came supper time, and he best not keep his wife waiting.

  He knocked the dust off his boots with a thud against the porch posts and entered the foyer. The smell of home cookin’ immediately struck his nostrils, and the sounds of the crackling fire promised warmth for his bones.

  Major tried not to complain about the aches and pains he experienced each winter. Years of broken bones and gunshot wounds while he served in the Texas Rangers had taken its toll. He considered the scars badges of honor for achieving the success in the state’s service while based in Lubbock. For thirty years, he’d upheld the laws of Texas and was true to the Texas Ranger motto of one riot, one ranger.

  It was a near fatal shot to Major’s chest that forced his retirement four years prior. That and the death of their second son, Dallas. Dallas had followed in their eldest son’s footsteps and joined the military. Major was proud of his son’s accomplishments as a U.S. Army Ranger, and paused by the fire to view the Purple Heart awarded to Dallas posthumously. Their son’s heroics in saving the lives of his fellow Rangers didn’t soften the blow of his death. The loss left a hole in their heart for years.

  Major closed his eyes momentarily until he felt his lovely wife’s arms wrap around his waist. She whispered into his ear, “Hey, cowboy. This is the last night with the house to ourselves. Maybe we should turn on some George Strait, stoke the fire, and fan our flames. Whadya say?”

  Major took her hands and pulled them tighter around his waist. “I’d say that you’ve forgotten how old this cowboy is. I’m afraid his flame-fannin’ days are over.”

  “Listen to me, Duncan Armstrong, I happen to know better. Don’t you sell yourself short.”

  Major turned around and kissed Lucy, giving her a tight, protracted hug in the process. He couldn’t help hiding the gloom on his face.

  She looked up into his sad eyes and touched his face. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about Dallas. I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing him.”

  Lucy grimaced and hugged him again. “I won’t either. Let’s thank God for keeping Duncan safe and for convincing our rodeo kids to stay out of the military. The Armstrong family has already given one life in defense of our country. That’s one too many.”

  Major smiled and kissed his wife on the cheek. He and Lucy had married when she was just eighteen. He’d joined the Texas Rangers that spring thirty years ago, and she’d caught his eye at the Midland County Fair. The two began dating despite their six-year age difference and the relatively long-distance relationship.

  An eighty-mile drive, however, couldn’t keep the two apart. Major would see Lucy when he was home at the ranch. After she graduated from high school, she started her first semester at Lubbock Christian University when Major was working out of the Company C offices in Lubbock.

  The two were inseparable, in love, and destined to spend their lives together. A small wedding was held at the Armstrong Ranch, and Lucy moved in with the family. A year later, she gave birth to a son, Duncan Armstrong Jr., and three years after that, along came Dallas. As their family grew to four boys and their youngest, a girl, Major was promoted up the ranks of Company C.

  The family shared the sprawling ranch house with Major’s widowed father, Roscoe Pops Armstrong III, who split his time playing with the grandkids and tending to the affairs of the ranch. His beloved wife had passed shortly after Major was born, which left him an only child.

  “What’s for supper?” Major asked, breaking their embrace to sit on the hearth and remove his boots.

  “If I said meat and potatoes, would you believe me?”

  “I wouldn’t complain,” he quipped as he pulled off the first boot. He wiggled his toes in his sweaty socks.

  Lucy stepped back, put her fingers under her nose, and laughed. “Whoa. I have great news for us both. You’ve got time for a shower before we eat.”

  “What are you sayin’?”

  “I’m sayin’ no shower, no yummies, or dessert either, mister. Go on. Take your shower and I’ll have supper on the table. I got a text message from Duncan I want to tell you about.”

  “Is he okay?” The first thought on any military parent’s mind was whether their child was safe.

  “Yeah, we’re gonna FaceTime tomorrow. Go on now, please. Hurry. And take those smelly socks with you!”

  Chapter 3

  October 29

  Mercy Health Trauma Center

  Valley City, North Dakota

  The ambulance, with the aid of a police escort, roared toward the entrance of the small Mercy Health Trauma Center in Valley City. Two paramedics and Dr. Madeline Luke, the town’s only neurologist, who happened to be in attendance at the rodeo, tended to Cooper for the eight-minute ride from the venue. The moment she saw Cooper get kicked in the side of the head, she forced her way through the aghast crowd and jumped the rail into the arena. The rodeo clowns had been startled by her sudden appearance and were attempting to lead her away from the still-agitated One Night Stand when the paramedics on the scene recognized her.

  Dr. Luke found Cooper to be alive, but his breathing was erratic. He’d lost consciousness and he was bleeding from one ear. Remarkably, he had no head lacerations other than some black-and-blue discoloration on the back of his head.

  She had instructed the paramedics on what to do when the stretcher arrived. They held his head steady and placed him in a temporary neck brace. The bleeding from his ear was not substantial, and a few dabs of gauze brought it under control.

  Cooper was not wearing a helmet, which was considered optiona
l for bull riders. Concussions were the most pervasive injury in the sport. As a fan, she’d followed the reports from the Professional Bull Riders’ medical advisors regarding the use of helmets. Despite their increased use, there had not been a precipitous drop in head injuries.

  She recalled watching a YouTube video of a ride that ended badly. Kasey Hayes had ridden a bull named Shaft for nearly four seconds before the bovine reared up on its hind legs and threw its rider to the ground. The bull stomped on Kasey’s head, splitting the safety helmet in two. The concussion knocked him out for several minutes.

  The ambulance backed into the entrance, and the trauma team was at the ready. After the doors swung open, the paramedics eased the stretcher out, and the wheels were about to be deployed when Dr. Luke stopped them.

  “No! No wheels! He has a serious head trauma and cannot take the uneven surface. He needs to be carried into the ER.”

  “Dr. Luke?” asked one of the emergency room physicians.

  “Yes. I witnessed the event. This young man took what appears to be a glancing blow to the left side of his head below the ear.”

  The emergency room physician nodded and confirmed the information. He opened Cooper’s eyelids and flashed his mini-flashlight to observe the pupils.

  “Equal size. Any signs of seizure?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Cessation of breathing?”

  “Negative.”

  “Change in level of consciousness at all?”

  “No.”

  The doors opened, and several medical staff members cleared the hallway for the team to rush Cooper into an emergency room marked Trauma Three.

  “I’m Dr. Williams. We met when I first arrived at Mercy.”

  “Of course, Dr. Williams. I remember. You did your residency at UNLV.”

  “Yes, specialized in sports medicine. I’ve seen head injuries from mixed martial arts. This is my first bull-kick trauma.”