Desperate Measures: An EMP Survival Story (EMP Aftermath Series Book 2)

by John Winchester

  Desperate Measures

  EMP Aftermath Series Book 2

  By John Winchester

  Copyright 2017 John Winchester

  Edited by Jacqueline Pace

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and author.

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  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 1

  "Here we go, guys. Everybody ready?" Sheriff Bud Howell asked, dipping the brim of his hat towards his team.

  Three deputies stood in the gravel driveway outside of a disheveled rural home. Paint-chipped siding, un-mowed grass that stood nearly a foot tall, and mountains of empty beer cans piled up next to the house spoke volumes about its inhabitants. This wasn't the home of a hard working family who cared about appearances. It was a flophouse, nothing more than a place to hang out, get drunk, and get stoned. It was also, as his grapevine of informants told him, where cocaine could be bought if you had the right amount of money.

  The early morning light glinted off the deputies’ badges, the bright gold standing out against the flat tan of their uniforms. He could read the anxious tension on their faces, but knew he could rely on them to keep their cool under pressure. This wasn't their first drug raid, nor would it be their last. Cocaine had become an epidemic in their county. Each one of his men had done this a dozen times before, bringing down countless coke dealers in the last six months.

  Chuck had been a part of the sheriff’s team for as long as Howell could remember. Frank had signed on to the sheriff’s department about three years ago. Both men had each joined the team with prior law enforcement experience, making this force one to be reckoned with. Buddy had come on board more recently. While he was fresh out of college and a bit wet behind the ears, he brought with him energy and enthusiasm, as well as some new approaches that shone a fresh light on old procedures. He had already proven himself to be a valuable asset to the team.

  "Ok. Chuck, you take the back door. Buddy, you serve the warrant. Frank will take point once we are inside. Clear the living room, kitchen, and the bedrooms in that order. Watch the corners and doors. Don't wait more than fifteen seconds after we announce the warrant or the drugs will be down the drain," he said.

  Sheriff Howell reached down to his service revolver and unsnapped the black leather safety clasp securing it in the holster. He took a deep breath, and then blew out a steady stream of air, calming his mind. "Ok. Here we go. One. Two. Three."

  The deputies went into action, moving quickly and quietly up the rickety wooden steps of the porch one after the other, their movements synchronized like a finely tuned machine. Buddy reached out and covered the peep hole on the front door with his finger, then looked in through the small stained glass window running the length of the door's frame. He shot a questioning look at the other deputy who was at the front window, peering inside.

  "I don't see anybody. You see anybody inside of the house, Frank?" Buddy asked, working his jaw muscles anxiously. At twenty-two, he was the youngest member of the Sheriff's team. He was smart and eager, but also more prone to excitement than the other deputies. His fingers played nervously over the long steel crowbar he held in his hand.

  "Nobody in the front room," Frank said. He drew his pistol from the holster and brought it up in a two handed grip. He stood next to Buddy, his body tensed up and poised to move quickly into the home.

  "Sheriff's department. We have a warrant. Open up," Buddy yelled before pounding on the door with his fist.

  Sheriff Howell silently ticked off the seconds, counting his way up to fifteen. Fair warning was a useless gesture in his opinion, but he observed the letter of the law. Drug dealers never answered the door. All it did was give them time to get rid of the evidence he needed to put them behind bars. The fifteen seconds passed, and he slapped Frank on the shoulder.

  "Go head, Buddy. Open 'er up," the Sheriff said.

  Buddy jammed the crowbar into the narrow crease between the door and the frame, leveraging his weight as he pried on the handle. The cheaply constructed wooden door frame splintered, then the lock gave way with a loud crack, flying inward as it opened.

  "Go, go, go, go," Sheriff Howell said.

  Frank burst into the living room, sweeping the gun across the room as he searched for suspects. The other two deputies poured in after him, alert for signs of trouble.

  "Living room is clear," Frank said.

  "Sheriff's office. We have a warrant," Buddy said loudly, close behind Frank.

  Frank moved down the hallway, his muscular bulk filling the narrow space. A small kitchen with checkered floor tiles was off to his left, and he quickly cleared the small space.

  "Kitchen's clear," Frank said.

  Frank pressed on down the hallway and stopped at the first bedroom door. He cocked his head at the closed door to his right, indicating his intention to enter the room. He put his back up against the wall and brought his foot back, then delivered a powerful kick to the flimsy wood panel door.

  The bedroom door flew open with a crash. Inside the room a startled couple with long hair and nothing on jumped out of bed, squawking in protest as the woman tried to hide their nudity with a bed sheet.

  Frank burst forward and subdued the man, who offered little resistance. Frank pushed him to the floor and slapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. The young woman raised her hands high into the air, tears running down her cheeks.

  "I'll take care of these two," Frank said.

  "Buddy, I want you to take the lead. Clear the other bedroom. Chuck, you back us up," Sheriff Howell said. He followed close on the young deputy’s heels.

  Down the short hallway, Buddy kicked the door open and entered the room. A hazy cloud of smoke billowed from inside, filling the air around them. The acrid smell of tobacco and other less mundane fumes hung heavy in the air. "Sheriff's department! Drop the weapon now," Buddy said in a commanding voice.

  Sheriff Howell rounded the open doorway and saw two young men sitting on a couch at the opposite end of the room. A coffee table sat in front of them, littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts overflowing from an ashtray that hadn’t been dumped in days, maybe weeks. A large pile of pure white powder sat on a dirty mirror in the middle of the coffee table. Two thin white lines of powder had been pulled out and rested next to a rolled up bill. Little clear bags were strewn across the table, some filled with the powder, others waiting to be filled.

  The two youths looked so similar that they almost could have been twins. Both were tall, thin young men
in their late teens or early twenties, with long brown hair on their heads and the modest beginnings of beards. Their black leather jackets had flames painted up the sleeves, with skull and motorcycle patches covering the rest. The stone cold glare and scowl they both wore told him everything he needed to know about the pair. Coked out of their minds, these two weren't intimidated by their uniforms, their warrant, or by their guns. The young man on the left held a snub-nosed pistol pointed directly at Buddy's chest.

  His finger squeezed, pulling the trigger back as if in slow motion.

  Sheriff Howell's stomach tightened as fear took hold of him. Time slowed to a standstill. His mind shouted at him to run in front of Buddy or push him out of the way, to do something to save him. But there was no time for any action other than to watch in horror.

  The coked up young man fired the gun again. His eyes were merciless and unyielding as he pulled the gun's hammer back to take another shot.

  Years of training and instinct took over. Sheriff Howell aimed his sights on the young man with the gun and fired a rapid succession of three shots, ending the firefight.

  The gun fell from the wounded man's hand and he sank bank into the couch, his ice blue eyes registering first confusion, and then surprise as he moved his hands up and felt at the holes in his chest. Blood flowed down his black t-shirt, staining his blue jeans as his life fluid pooled in his lap.

  Sheriff Howell lunged forward and kicked the gun away from the other young man, sending it to a far corner of the room. He grabbed the other young man's jacket and threw him to the ground. Sinking his knee into the man's back, the Sheriff wrestled the dealer's arms around behind his back and cuffed him.

  On the couch next to him, the gunman stared off into the distance, his eyes vacant and empty, completely devoid of the hatred and defiance they held only seconds ago.

  With the gunman eliminated, Sheriff Howell spun around and went to his downed deputy, Buddy, who lay propped up against the wall. A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, but he was otherwise motionless. Buddy almost appeared serene, somehow, the tension gone from his youthful face. Sheriff Howell pulled the deputy up into his arms, cradling him close. He felt at the young man's neck and then put his hand on his chest, searching for a heartbeat. There was no sign of a pulse.

  Sheriff Howell couldn't breathe. It was as if he'd been punched in the gut. Tears fell unrestrained from his eyes.

  Chuck, this whole time standing just behind the sheriff but out of the doorway, gasped as he leaned in and took in the situation. Frank quickly burst into the room with his gun drawn after having heard the shots. Both men’s eyes grew wide as they looked down on their peer held cradled in the Sheriff's arms.

  Howell muttered incoherently. His words wouldn't come out right. All he made was a gasping noise. He couldn't release the scream of anguish and disbelief inside of him.

  "Get on the radio and get an ambulance here right now. Tell them we've got an officer down. Sheriff Howell's son has been shot," Frank said.

  He closed his eyes and held them tightly shut, trying to block out the sight. With his eyes closed he still felt his son's dead weight in his arms. The terrible pull of the young man rooting him firmly in reality. He curled into a ball, clutching Buddy to his chest. Frank's words echoed in his mind, over and over again.

  "... Sheriff Howell's son has been shot."

  "...son...shot."

  "...shot."

  In the darkness that consumed his mind he hung suspended just outside of awareness. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he knew this wasn't happening. A voice spoke louder, drowning out the memory. This wasn't real. This had already happened. This had happened long ago.

  Bud Howell sat bolt upright in his bed. His heart pounded in his chest and his hands shook as he frantically tried to catch his breath. Sweat poured from his feverish body, soaking the sheets. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his vision and read the arms of the wind up alarm clock on his nightstand. The glow in the dark arms seemed to whirl around like a propeller, dizzying, unable to hold still.

  Three in the morning.

  The memory again. No, memory was the wrong word. The nightmare. It had been a nightmare from the very beginning when it had happened so long ago. Sheriff Howell's son... he hadn't been called that in a long, long time. The title Sheriff carried too painful a memory along with it. Bud. He was just Bud Howell, or even Police Chief Howell. That's who he was now.

  Bud snatched up the bottle of whiskey on his nightstand. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed the amber liquid straight from the bottle, greedily gulping. It burned his throat as it went down, and his gorge rose in his throat, protesting against the liquid. He kept drinking until the bottle was empty, and then rose from his bed.

  Three in the morning. There wasn't any point in trying to go back to sleep. Between the inescapable heat inside the house and the nightmare of his past he knew there wouldn't be another wink of sleep this night. Better to get up and get moving. Put some distance between himself and the nightmarish memory.

  Bud took a towel from the linen closet and opened the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him. In the side yard he hung a bucket beneath the well spigot and pumped the iron handle several times until water spilled out into the bucket. The water was cool and cleared his mind, dispersing his dark dreams. He needed a clear head today. At least as clear as he could get it after a sleepless night and a breakfast of whiskey.

  He was to meet up with the newcomer in town. The east coast feller and his boy had invited him along on a supply run later this morning. Everything had to go smoothly. There wasn't any room for foul-ups now. Every action he took had consequences for the community. They were on their own and had to look out for themselves. They had little hope and even less food. Something had to give.

  Chapter 2

  A winter wind whistled through gaps in the windowsills, making the farmhouse's old glass paned windows rattle with each and every gust. It was bitterly cold outside, and only slightly less so indoors. The doors and windows needed to be resealed and insulated, tasks for which he simply didn't have the time. The rusty tin roof was waterproof, if unsightly, and at least kept the rain off their heads. Still, he ached for the long gone comfort of a climate-controlled home where he only had to turn up a thermostat to stay warm.

  Jack shivered involuntarily despite being only a foot away from the steady glowing heat radiating from the cast iron wood stove in the kitchen. He stretched his hands out as close as he dared to the metal, warming his numbed hands and fingers.

  Through the open door to the living room, a deep cough echoed, the sound carrying clearly into kitchen. The cough became more and more intense, and he grimaced with worry and sympathy. The coughing fit seemed like it would never end, until finally it ended in a sudden silence. He sat perched on the edge of his seat in a nervous tension, waiting to hear the sound of breathing resume.

  After a tense moment, the labored breathing settled back into a regular, if raspy, pattern.

  "How is he?" Jack asked, peering around the corner into the living room.

  Danny sat propped up in a bed, with his back leaning against the wall. The bed sat in the living room, just on the other side of the wall from the wood burning stove in the kitchen. It was the warmest room in the house aside from the kitchen itself. Danny's face was pale and gaunt. His ribs bowed inward and the cords stood out on his thin neck as he struggled to breathe.

  Amy sighed. "He's exhausted. He can't sleep for more than a few minutes at a time because of the cough. He was awake for fifteen minutes earlier this morning and I got him to drink some broth. That's all the food we have until Kenny gets back."

  "How is the fever?"

  "It hasn't come back. The antibiotics really helped bring down the fever. He just can't seem to kick this chest cold. What he really needs is-- Jack, I don't know what to do. I'm so scared," Amy said.

  "I know." Jack knew what she was going to say. Danny needed food.

  When
they arrived at the homestead last year, fall was over and it was turning to winter. There was very little food left to forage. The orchard had long since dropped all of its fruit, and what was left on the ground deer and wild turkey stripped clean. Game had been plentiful at first, but three adults and two teenage boys burned a lot of calories. Within three months they had completely hunted out the homestead and were forced to go further and further afield to bring home fresh meat.

  It didn't take long for acorns to become their staple food. It still provided the bulk of their sustenance even now, months later. They missed the majority of the mast drop in the fall when the deer and other wildlife fattened themselves for the winter, but there had still been enough on the ground to keep them going. Processing them proved a simple enough matter. The bitter tannins were leached out in a fast flowing stream. The nut meat was then crushed, dried, and then pounded into flour. Acorn flour had fats, proteins, and carbohydrates. Amy's acorn bread was enough to keep them going, if not well nourished.

  Everyone except for Danny that is. They discovered early on that he was allergic to acorns, cutting him out of their primary food source. Danny was limited to their other sources of food, which were becoming ever more scarce.

  "Kenny will be back soon, he's been gone all day. He'll come through for Danny. He never comes home empty handed," Jack said.

  He pushed his chair back from the table and went to the mudroom to put on his boots and jacket. Still frozen to the bone, the short break next to the fire meant that he could at least move his hands again. It was time to get up and get back to work.

  "I'll be close by if you need me," he said.

  Amy shot him a worried look and then went to Danny's side as another coughing spell began.

  He closed the door quickly to keep the heat in and carefully picked his way across the icy mud to the wood pile. His boots cracked through the frozen crust of the soil as he went. Jack picked up his axe from where he'd left it sunk in a large log that he used as a base for splitting wood. He set a smaller piece of oak wood on top of the base and brought the axe down in a smooth motion, splitting the log cleanly in two.