Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  She stopped and turned to him, trying to think of the right answer. “Because there are evil people out there who don’t like us.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because of who we are and how we live.”

  “Yeah, but what did we do to them?”

  Rachael sighed. “It’s complex. To some in the world we’ve done plenty of bad things.”

  “Like what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing justifies these terrorist attacks. Nothing.”

  Nick seemed out of questions, or at least perplexed by his mother’s answers. They stopped at the steps leading to the front deck, and Rachael half anticipated that some sort of creature would jump out of the cabin and attack them. It was strange to be out in the wilderness alone.

  The cabin was dark inside. Before they walked up the wooden steps, Rachael told Nick to stay back as she pulled her revolver from her backpack.

  “Whoa!” Nick said. “Since when did you get a gun?”

  “Just wait here,” she said, holding it in the air.

  She went up the steps and looked through both windows. No movement inside. She went down the steps and then walked around to the back of the cabin. No recent footprints. No one there. The coast was clear.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” she said as she returned. “I just want to check the place out first.”

  Nick nodded in agreement as Rachael pulled out her keychain and unlocked the front door. She walked in and scanned the small living room and adjacent kitchen, looking for any signs of intrusion, only to see a small, stuffy living space covered in dust. Their amenities were limited: a sofa, a table, mini-fridge, sink, underground septic system, portable water heater, and generator—all the luxuries of an RV.

  Nick entered the cabin and ran off to claim one of the two small bedrooms. His footsteps clomped across the planks of the hardwood floor.

  Rachael yelled out after him. “Don’t get too comfortable. We have a lot of cleaning to do.”

  From the first bedroom, Nick groaned.

  Rachael sat on the stiff armrest of a nearby couch and tried to not worry herself about Craig. The situation was bad enough without him. But Craig was protected. He was FBI. That was what she thought, anyway. The government wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. With that comfort, she picked up her backpack and went to claim the other room.

  Craig awoke lying on his side with his hands tied behind his back. There was a burlap sack over his head, blinding him except for some spots of light that came through the bag’s tiny holes. He gasped, choking on the dry air. The hard ground beneath him was slightly cool, like a basement or underground cellar. His face was sore all over. One eye was swollen shut. He tasted blood on his chapped lips. He tried to get up, but it was hard with his hands tied the way they were.

  He believed he was alone, hearing no one and nothing else in the room, and he rolled onto his back. Every muscle ached, and the bag was tied tightly around his neck, making it hard to breathe. Moving his head from side to side did nothing to shake the bag off. His first thought was to escape. He pulled at the nylon rope binding his hands together, but couldn’t get it loose. He grunted and struggled while trying to find a way to regain his feet. The claustrophobia-inducing bag disoriented him, and he tried to control his breathing and not panic. With one big push, he rolled again onto his side and sat up, hunched over his lap.

  “Okay,” he said under his breath. “You’re almost there.”

  The stitching of the bag was all he could see. If there had been someone else in the room, he believed they would have spoken by then. A painful knot on the back of his head throbbed as things started to come back to him. At first it felt as if he had just woken up from a bad dream, but he quickly knew that everything was very real. He had been captured. And he knew far too well how ISIS handled prisoners.

  His first instinct was to escape. Naturally he had been disarmed and, to the best of his foggy memory, he was the only one to survive the shootout. The blurry image of Malaka’s head being cut off and ripped from her body came rushing back. Ma’mun had held it high as blood dripped down and veins dangled from the bottom. For some reason, they had taken him alive, but he knew he had an expiration date. The horrors he was certain they had planned filled him with dread.

  Craig readjusted and got to his knees. Footsteps suddenly sounded from overhead. Craig froze, convinced he was in some kind of basement. Through the bag, the room was dark, but he could see the light of a single bulb from above. There was no indication of any outside light or windows. In the little time he figured he had left before someone came down the stairs, Craig rose carefully, using only his legs, and trying to maintain his balance. Once he got to his feet, he felt less vulnerable and more in control. He listened for more footsteps but didn’t hear anything.

  With careful steps, he walked forward to investigate. There were no obstacles in his path or anything blocking him until he came to a cement wall. He turned and moved along the wall to the corner of the room. There was still nothing in his way. The hope of coming across something that could help him free his hands burned inside. Doing that came first, and then he could rip the bag off his face and prepare to fight for his life.

  He moved along the other side of the wall and tripped over an empty urine-smelling bucket, causing it to roll across the floor with a sound that made his heart leap. Footsteps from upstairs resumed, filling him with panic. All the captive training he had taken rushed back to him. They had taught him to resist divulging any sensitive information and to simply wait for hostage negotiations to play out. He wasn’t supposed to try to escape. He wasn’t supposed to fight back against his captors. All these steps seemed ludicrous when dealing with a group like ISIS.

  His only chance of getting out alive would be to escape, or so he believed. He finally reached the handrail of a staircase. He turned around and felt along the wooden steps and handrail for any kind of sharp object sticking out: a screw or nail. His hands moved wildly as he walked back and forth against the midsection of the steps, as high up as he could reach. He struck the tip of a nail sticking out from one of the risers. Some careless carpenter would never know what his oversight meant. Carefully, he moved his arms to position the knot of the rope against the nail.

  With painful awkwardness, he dug the nail into the rope and was forced to shift his arms to the point where he thought he might dislocate his shoulder. The knot job was sloppy, and he could feel the tightness loosening around his wrist. Getting the bag off his face was his primary motivating force, making him work the rope more frantically. Just as he dug the nail tip into the knot further, he heard the door swing open and footsteps clomping down the stairs. He moved his arms, desperately trying to loosen the knot. The rope was slipping. He could move his wrists. As the footsteps got closer, he could hear Husein’s voice calling out.

  “I don’t know anything. Let me go!”

  Then came a cry, followed by what sounded like a scuffle and a push, and he heard Husein tumble down the stairs and hit the ground moaning.

  “Shut your mouth!” a man yelled. His voice seemed to come from the top of the stairs.

  The rope on his wrists finally came loose. He went right for the bag, and then he heard a second voice. Two men were talking, as Husein continued to sob. He then heard two sets of footsteps coming down the steps.

  “Where’s the other one? The American?” one of them said.

  Craig crouched under the stairs, grateful for the darkness, and yanked at the thin rope of the bag. Once it was loosened, he tore it off completely from his sweat-drenched head and took a deep breath. His vision was blurry on account of his swollen eye, but he could see the figures of two men searching through the darkened room. There were a bookshelf and some boxes in the other corner where he hadn’t ventured. The bucket he’d tripped over rested upside down in the middle of the room and, most chillingly, a black ISIS flag hung on the otherwise bare walls.

  “There he is!” one of the men said
, pointing at the stairs.

  They immediately rushed over as Craig balled his fists, ready to fight. He punched the first one, a short, portly man with a thick, messy beard, in the face. The man fell back, holding his nose in agony. Craig leaped out and went for the second man, a slender and muscular tattoo-covered thug who looked as if he had just gotten out of prison. Craig swung at him but missed. The man jumped back, hopping around on his heels, smiling as he pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his jeans.

  “I’m gonna have some fun with you,” he said.

  “That’s enough!” a voice called from the staircase.

  It wasn’t the portly man. He was still on his knees holding his nose. Craig heard the clicking of a weapon and knew it was time to quit. He slowly held his hands up as the footsteps came nimbly down the stairs, approaching him. The tattooed man smiled again, exposing a missing tooth on the top row.

  “Why is he up? Who untied him?” the voice behind Craig asked.

  Tattoo Man shrugged. “I don’t know. We came down here and he got free somehow. Must think he’s some kind of superstar.”

  “Tie him back up. Now!”

  Tattoo man took a step toward Craig. “No problem.” He swung his arm back and punched Craig in the face with his brass knuckles. The force sent Craig tumbling back, near Husein. Tattoo Man’s laughter was the last thing he heard before hitting the ground.

  When Craig came to, he was sitting against the wall with his hands tied behind his back, much tighter than before. Whoever had done it this time, had done it right. His legs were out in front and bound at the ankles. His only relief was that they hadn’t put the bag back on his head. His face throbbed with pain. It hurt to move his jaw. He feared that something might have been broken; however, broken bones were currently the least of his problems.

  He was in the same basement, but things had changed. At least ten feet away in the corner, a set of tripod lights illuminated the ISIS flag from either side. In between the lights was a digital camcorder atop its own tripod. It was no secret to Craig what the setup was all about. ISIS was notorious for their snuff-film propaganda. He couldn’t believe that, for him, it had come to this.

  Sitting on the other side of the room, across from him, was Husein, bound at his hands and feet as well. He was awake and looked diminished in size and spirit.

  “Where are we?” Craig asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Detroit,” he answered. “That’s all I know.”

  “Detroit?” Craig said loudly.

  “Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

  Craig looked up at the ceiling. “What is this, some kind of dungeon?” he asked.

  “We’re in a warehouse. Some kind of factory. This is the basement.”

  From afar, Craig examined Husein. He had bruises all over his face. Dried tears streaked his cheeks. “Why do they have you tied up? Why did they kill your aunt?”

  “I don’t know,” Husein said in a pained tone. “I don’t know anything about them. I tried to tell you that. I told you my aunt had mental issues. That she was no terrorist.”

  “Open your eyes, Husein!” Craig said. “She was in league with the sleeper cells. They killed her so she wouldn’t talk. It’s not hard to figure out.”

  Husein responded with silence. His eyes dropped with an expression of pain and sadness. Craig realized that his harsh words were not helping. Husein apparently had no one left.

  Craig dropped his aggressive tone. “Look. We have to get out of here. These men mean to kill us. ISIS isn’t exactly known for trading prisoners for ransom.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Husein asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, but we have to.” He looked up again. “So you’ve been up there? What kind of warehouse is it?”

  “A place where they, like, run their operations or something. There are lots of people. They were watching the news and celebrating. Ma’mun, the man who…” Husein stopped and looked down again. He took a deep breath and looked back at Craig. “The man who killed my aunt. He said that they’re going to deliver a message to the world soon, taking credit for the attacks.”

  “What else did he say?” Craig asked.

  “Something about a phase three,” Husein answered. “But I didn’t ask.”

  “And they brought you up there to, what? Show you around the place?”

  “They wanted me to join them, but I refused.”

  Craig nodded as Husein squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a tear down each cheek. “Now I’m as good as dead.”

  “That’s not true,” Craig said. “We’re going to get out of this. The terrorists don’t win, starting now.”

  Husein shook his head. “Doubtful,” he said.

  The door to the stairs opened, and Craig could hear the chatter of several different voices. Leisurely footsteps came down the stairs, and soon Ma’mun himself, Qadar, and another Middle Eastern man were standing in a cluster. They seemed amused and self-satisfied, ignoring Husein and going straight to Craig.

  Ma’mun stood in the middle, holding something concealed in each hand. He knelt on the floor and began placing the items one by one in front of Craig. The first was Craig’s pistol—the loaner from Walker, his supervisor.

  “This is your gun,” Ma’mun said.

  He then set the next item down, as in a line. “This is your wallet with all your identification.”

  Next came his cell phone. “You cell phone needs to be charged. Imagine all the calls you’re missing.” He then placed a handheld radio next to it.

  “And last, we have your radio.” Ma’mun leaned in closer. “Do you want to know how we knew it was your radio?”

  Craig provided no response. Ma’mun turned the radio to its side. “Because you wrote your name on it.” He pointed to Craig’s name written in blue permanent marker.

  “Craig,” Ma’mun added with a laugh. The other men laughed along as well.

  “I show you this, Agent Davis, just to let you know that we know who you are. We know everything about you. It would seem that you’re the only person in this country who tried to stop us, and now that we have you, things don’t look so good for everyone else.”

  His English was impeccable. He had a slight British accent, high cheekbones, and stern, serious facial features.

  Sometimes it was better to say nothing at all, but Craig couldn’t contain himself. It was as if the face of evil was staring right at him. Cold. Remorseless. And sinister.

  “You’re the monster who cut that Surkov woman’s head off, aren’t you?” Craig asked. “That’s loyalty for you.”

  Ma’mun stood up and crossed his arms, smiling slightly. “I know her death must have deeply bothered you. Allah willing, you might just meet her soon enough.”

  “In paradise?” Craig asked.

  “Not quite,” Ma’mun said.

  Craig was done talking, although he had many questions. His survival instincts kicked in. The less said the better. There was no need to add fuel to the fire. His only hope was to stall them as long as he could and try to escape. It felt like a possibility, even with his hands and feet tied.

  I got loose once. I can do it again, he thought.

  He scanned the room for anything that might be of use. Unfortunately the room was barren except for the camera and lights. The boxes had been taken out, and only an empty bookshelf remained.

  Ma’mun signaled to his men. “Take the boy out of here. I want a private moment with our guest.” The men complied and walked over to Husein, who showed resistance.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  The men kicked at him as he tried to squirm away. Qadar leaned down and lifted him up. The other man grabbed him by the feet, and they carried him up the stairs as he tried to twist and turn out of their grip.

  “Give him some time to reconsider his decision on joining us,” Ma’mun said. The door shut, and Husein’s objections could be heard no more. The room went silent.

  “You know, Agent Davis, you are more valuable to us alive
than dead. I had planned to deliver a message today explaining the attacks and what’s to come, but I am seriously considering you for the role instead. What do you say?”

  Craig looked up and tried to answer as respectfully as he could. “It’s against my oath as a federal agent to be used for the purposes of propaganda. I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

  Ma’mun raised his foot up and tapped Craig on the chest of his bloodstained white button-down shirt. His tie had long ago disappeared. “You do realize where this is going, don’t you?”

  “Torture,” Craig said. “It’s what your cult is known for.”

  “We prefer the term motivational applications.”

  Craig shook his head. “I can’t break my oath. I’m sorry, that’s all there is to it.”

  Ma’mun took a step back. “Every man has his breaking point. An American prisoner in Syria refused us as well. He was even former Special Forces. Within two hours we had him converting to Islam and reading from our script.”

  Craig felt angered. His attempt to remain calm and collected with his captors was fleeting. “Does that make you proud?” he asked.

  “Does what make me proud?”

  “Forcing people to do things by inflicting pain upon them?”

  Ma’mun locked his hands behind his back and paced the room like a professor. “Man has inflicted harm upon his fellow man since the beginning of time. We’re no different today.”

  “You assholes are living in the wrong century, that’s your problem.”

  Ma’mun stopped and raised a cautionary finger. “Disrespect will not get you anywhere, Agent Davis.”

  Craig glanced at the items in front of him, just out of reach. The pistol had been cleared and emptied. His eyes moved up as Ma’mun turned to look at him.

  “Because if you are unwilling to do these things for us, you serve very little purpose. You may not care about your own life, but surely you care about those of your wife and son.”

  Craig seethed with rage at the mention of his family. He pulled at the rope tying his arms together, thrust himself onto his knees, and attempted to get up and rush Ma’mun.