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

by John Winchester

  Jack sprung forward and tackled him. He grabbed the gun at both ends, his arms spread wide, preventing the man from pointing it at him. He pulled his head back and rammed his forehead hard into the guard’s nose.

  The guard released his grip on the rifle and went slack, knocked senseless by Jack's head butt to his face.

  Jack stood up, rifle in his hands, and turned to watch Kenny disappear into the woods, barely illuminated by the light of the lantern at Jack’s feet.

  He turned around, ready to deal with the two guards on the ground, when all of a sudden something hard smacked into the back of his head with a sickening thud.

  Stars exploded in his vision and he reeled as if drunk. Jack fell to his knees and then slumped over onto the ground. In the corner of his vision a man walked towards him with a club in his hand.

  He raised the club high, and then there was darkness.

  Chapter 12

  In the middle of Wheeler's town square, Chief Howell looked at the chaos around him. People ran screaming and shouting through the main street, disappearing into homes and buildings as they fled from the gunfire. Others lay in the street clutching at their wounds, bleeding and begging for help. He'd taken too long to respond to the group of outsiders that appeared in their midst. At first he thought he would only inflame the situation as the argument unfolded between the angry stranger and Wyatt. He couldn't hear what they discussed, but took note at the shot the man fired into the air. He should have stepped in then, but instead he waiting and watched. Then the stranger shot Wyatt and all hell had broken loose.

  Rifle fire rang out from the rooftop of a department store a couple of blocks away. The store's brick rooftop facade protected multiple shooters, as they only had to present a small portion of their body to take a shot and then duck back down. There were at least three of them up there and they took turns firing so you never knew where they were going to pop up from.

  Howell saw one of his deputies lying dead in the middle of the street. His blood pooled in an oval beneath him, a large caliber round having ripped through his chest. Tyler. The only young man on the force, the Chief had been glad to have him beside him on that street, helping him fend off the intruders. Until just a moment ago, anyway. Of course Chuck was nowhere to be seen, not that he would have provided much tactical support anyway.

  Chief Howell took aim at the department store rooftop and waited for one of the gunmen to stick their heads out. A few seconds later a rifle and scope appeared just over the edge of the roof. He opened fire, emptying his pistol at the men. Little puffs of dust rose on the side of the building, nowhere near the shooters. Howell ducked down behind a patrol car, cursing his luck at being caught out in the open with just the pistol.

  A few yards away, Wyatt still lay in the street, bleeding profusely. Taking advantage of a short break in the gunfire, Roy rushed over to try to get him to safety.

  "Grab his legs," Roy said, picking Wyatt up underneath the arms. The gang's motorcycle mechanic, Dutch, ran over and grabbed Wyatt's legs.

  Wyatt moaned as Roy and Dutch lifted him from the ground and carried him across the street, grunting with pain as he was jostled about. A dark red pool of blood stained the street, marking the spot where he'd gone down. The size of the pool of blood didn't bode well for Wyatt.

  Fresh gunfire erupted and the glass windows of the police station exploded into showers of broken glass, covering the sidewalk and patrol car parked out front of the building. Chuck came running out of the police station, holding a rifle in his hand. He froze in the middle of the street with a bewildered look on his face, wincing at the gunfire.

  "Get out of the street, you idiot! Get to the church," the Chief yelled, waving his arms wildly.

  Chuck seemed to finally grasp the situation and ran for the front of the church, bullets kicking up bits of asphalt and little clouds of dust as the near misses cracked around his feet. Chuck ran up the concrete steps and into the church, slamming the door behind him.

  Chief Howell checked the street around him to make sure everyone had gotten to safety. When he was sure all of his people were inside, he took a few deep breaths to fuel his own escape from the shootout. Lord knows he wasn't built for this type of action anymore. It would take a miracle for him to get his fat hide behind the thick stone walls of the church in one piece.

  A large caliber round slammed home right next to him, leaving a fist-sized hole in the passenger door of his patrol car. He didn't need any more motivation to find better cover.

  He slid a fresh magazine into his pistol, took aim at the rooftop where the shooters were and laid down a barrage of covering fire as he got up and ran for the church.

  The shooters must have known a thing or two about the limited range of pistol fire because neither one of them moved from their perches as he fired, undaunted by his display. Bullets whizzed as they hit the street around his feet. He flinched as one went sailing right in front of his face, the projectile buzzing past like an angry bee.

  Just when he was sure he was going to get mowed down in front of his own police station, he reached the safety of the church. He plowed into the red wooden double doors, bursting them inward with a solid shoulder tackle that nearly ripped the door from its hinges. Once inside, he slammed the door shut, feeling bullets hit the outside of the door, lodging themselves deep in the thick wood. Thankfully the wooden doors of the old church were several inches thick, and the bullets couldn't penetrate into the church’s depths.

  Several townspeople had taken shelter inside the church from the gun battle raging outside in the city streets. Roy and Dutch had carried Wyatt inside, along with a few other bikers from the MC. Aside from them, only he and Chuck were armed, he noted with disappointment.

  "What in the name of God is going on here, Chief Howell?" Pastor Eisenbach asked, storming down the center aisle of the old stone church towards him. His pouty frown mad his displeasure clear.

  "Why are those people out there shooting at you?"

  "Chuck, are you all right?" the Chief asked, ignoring the Pastor.

  Chuck nodded nervously, standing behind a stone pillar next to a bank of stained glass windows.

  "Well, you've got a rifle in your hands, Chuck. Break out one of those windows and put it to some use," he said.

  "Ok, Chief," he said. After a few minutes he worked up the courage to move from the safety of the pillar. Chuck dropped down to his knees and broke out a section of stained glass towards the bottom of the window and set his rifle up on the ledge, taking aim at the department store where the shooters were perched. He took aim and returned fire, the shot echoing loudly throughout the church.

  "You can't do that here! This is a holy place," the Pastor fumed.

  "It's the only damn building with stone walls to give us some cover," he said.

  Chief Howell waved his arm dismissively at the preacher and peered out one of the stained glass windows. Almost as soon as he poked his head out from safety the pane of glass blew out, sending shards of glass raining down on him.

  "This is ridiculous. I insist you stop shooting at those people. I don't care how this started, but it needs to stop before anyone else gets killed," the Pastor said.

  "And how do you suggest we do that? Should we wander over there and ask them if they'd like to hold hands and sing Kumbaya? I think we're a bit past that point, don’t you?" he asked.

  "If you won't put a stop to this, I will. There are innocent people in here. Now put your guns down and stop shooting. I'll go talk to them," the Pastor said.

  "If you go out there you're gonna get your damn fool head shot off, preacher man," Roy said.

  "The Lord will protect me," the Pastor said.

  This was more than he could take. Roy was the last person on earth he wanted to admit to being right, but right he was all the same. The pastor was going to get himself shot out there. He had always been somewhat of a self-righteous prig, and there wouldn't be any talking him out of something once he had a mind to do it. It was
his own hide, and if he wanted to risk it, so be it. Chief Howell had long ago given up on trying to convince people not to do stupid things. His job wasn't to stop them. His job was to cart them off to jail or call the ambulance after they'd gone and done it. The preacher was naive, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

  "The Lord protects those that protect themselves," Chief Howell muttered.

  Roy snickered until the Chief glanced at him, and then stopped laughing, returning to his usual scowl.

  Pastor Eisenbach opened the large red door a crack and took a handkerchief from his pocket, waving it around just outside the door.

  After a moment the gunfire ceased and the town square grew quiet.

  Encouraged by the cessation of shooting Pastor Eisenbach boldly stepped outside of the church, raising his hands in the air and waving his handkerchief around like a little white flag.

  "Please stop shooting! Whatever the problem is, we can work it out. We are all decent Christian folk here. There is no need for violence." Pastor Eisenbach said.

  A shot rang out and the handkerchief was ripped from his hand, sent floating off on the breeze. The Pastor crouched to his knees, cowering in reflex to the gunshot.

  "Get in here you damned fool," Howell yelled through the window.

  A bullet smashed through the window just above Chuck's head, showering bits of glass down upon him. The bullet whizzed and whirred as it ricocheted off of the stone inside the church. Chuck returned fire, forcing the riflemen on the rooftops to pause their fire and duck their heads.

  Pastor Eisenbach ran back inside of the church, slamming the heavy wooden door shut.

  "Anybody else have any bright ideas?" Roy asked.

  "I can't believe it. They shot at me. They could have killed me," the Pastor said.

  "Get your ass over there and sit down," Chief Howell said, shoving the Pastor away from the window and behind the church's thick stone walls.

  There were no shots for another few minutes. He almost began to think the riflemen on the rooftop had run out of ammunition or fled the town, but then a single shot rang out and he heard a sound to his right, like a flyswatter smacking down on a hard kitchen counter.

  Chuck wheezed and then fell to the floor. He mouthed some silent words and then his body stopped moving altogether.

  "Chuck! No!" the Chief cried out. He ran over to his deputy and rolled him on his back, exposing a large, jagged wound through the center of his chest. His white shirt rapidly turned red.

  Another shot rang out from the riflemen on the rooftop, and part of the stone column in front of Chief Howell exploded, peppering his face with rock shards and dust.

  He lurched forward, diving for cover behind the stone pillar. He sat up and wiped the bits of stone and dust from his eyes.

  They were pinned down in the church. Despite a number of them being armed, their weapons were mostly useless at this distance. There was only one rifle to go between a preacher, a dying man, a few bikers, and a handful of elderly townspeople. There were three snipers with rifles perched on a rooftop down the street, safely tucked away behind the brick facade of the department store. His last deputy lay dead on the ground next to him and the only thing he could think about was how badly he needed a drink.

  Thankfully, he had refilled his flask after leaving Jack and Amy. He took it out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap with his shaking hands. He tilted the flask up, savoring the sweet burn that came with the sensation of heat spreading out through his torso and limbs. A tantalizing tease of the sublime oblivion that only a belly full of whiskey could bring. He drained the flask, drinking in gulps, saddened by how soon it emptied. He craved a full fifth of rye, but it was hopeless to long for it any further. He was stuck in here.

  Another rifle shot ricocheted inside the church, whizzing about.

  The situation was hopeless. Outgunned and all of his resources spent, he had failed the townspeople. Chuck was dead and Wyatt was dying. How in the hell could he get these people out of here? There was no way for him to save his people. They were well and truly lost. This was a disaster.

  Chapter 13

  The small courtroom was packed full of people standing elbow to elbow in the public gallery. It was a cramped and claustrophobic space, never meant to hold so many people. Originally a traffic court before the EMP, the room was designed for a few people at a time to flow in and out as their minor offenses were put before a judge. Such cases were quickly and efficiently handled by the court, seldom requiring a trial. Now though, a much more serious matter awaited the court. A charge of murder.

  Shane glanced around the room, agitated at some of the small talk he overheard. Didn't these people have any respect? Did they not hear how it sounded as they talked about themselves and their pathetic problems? His son was killed and the murderer was about to go on trial.

  The doors leading to the judge's chamber opened and a police officer came through, followed by a short older woman dressed in black judicial robes.

  "All rise for the honorable Judge Ramsey," the officer said.

  Judge Ramsey took her seat and her sharp eyes darted over the crowd. "Be seated. Officer, bring in the defendant."

  The police officer walked down the narrow aisle through the public gallery and opened the double doors. A pair of large men escorted Jack into the courtroom, holding him by the elbows as they led him to his seat. The pushed him down into a chair, leaving his arms tied behind his back.

  Shane was less than ten feet away from him. He ran his finger across the edge of the long knife in his pocket, itching to leap across the railing and sink the knife deep into Jack's heart.

  "Shane and Ben are here as well? Good. I understand David is over at Wheeler right now containing the situation there. Before we begin I would like to address the larger issue hanging over our heads resulting from the alleged murder of Todd Fowler. Right now we have fifteen to twenty of our people engaged in an active shootout in Wheeler. They have the problem contained for now, but Shane and Ben have described the situation to me and it sounds dire. Outlaw motorcycle gangs have taken over Wheeler and are freely roaming the streets. Shane says there is little to no law enforcement present in the town. The minute this court hands down a ruling we are going to address the issue before it can spread. That kind of lawlessness will not stand. Gangs of bikers cannot have the run of the town. If Wheeler can't put a stop to it by God we will. The last thing we need is them coming here next.

  "Now to the issue at hand. This is the first capital murder case in our town since things fell apart after the EMP. We all face a new reality, a harsher reality. Every person here has their hands full with their new jobs and responsibilities. None of us have leisure time anymore. All of our activities are centered on survival. In the spirit of expediency, justice will be swift. Neither side will have the use of an attorney. We cannot afford the luxury of lengthy court proceedings. I will hear your arguments and decide the merit of your arguments. Make your case as plainly and simply as you can.

  "Jack Miller, you are being charged with the murder of Todd Fowler. Know that if you are found guilty, the penalty for murder is execution. Not only do we not have time for lengthy debates, we don't have the food, facilities, or manpower to house prisoners for any length of time. If found guilty you will be hanged by the neck from the tree out right outside of that window until you are dead," she said.

  There was a rustling as the collective courtroom turned to look outside. An ancient oak tree stood in the courtyard, its large limbs branching out in all directions.

  "Ben Williams, please step forward and address the courtroom. You have accused Jack Miller of murdering Todd Fowler. Let's hear your version of the story," Judge Ramsey said, leaning back in her seat.

  Ben walked to the front of the room and cleared his throat before he began to speak.

  "Me and my crew were out scavenging, just like any other day. We found a train just outside of town on a section of railroad track we hadn't gone down before. We were checking
the train out and these two looters showed up. That's one of them right there," he said, pointing to Jack. "When the shooting started, Todd was in the train and tried to stop him from making off with our supplies. When we got to the boxcar that man was already gone and Todd was on the floor, dead. He shot and killed Todd in cold blood while trying to steal food from all of us," Ben said, leveling a finger at Jack.

  "Shane Fowler, you weren't present but you are Todd's father. Do you have anything to add?" Judge Ramsey asked.

  Shane stepped forward and turned to face the packed courtroom, letting his gaze rest on Jack, conveying as much hatred as he could muster with his glare.

  "When I came to this town, my wife was very sick and my son was half starved. I thought I had nothing. Then my wife's parents, who many of you knew, grew sick as well. I buried my wife and her parents. My son and I grieved. I thought that I had nothing left. I felt the hunger pangs this winter, just like all of us did. I learned what it meant to be truly hungry. I watched my son get thinner and thinner, praying that he would make it through the winter. All of you here that have children know what I'm talking about.

  "And then Todd, Ben, and the crew found that train full of food. Enough food to keep us all alive through the winter. Todd stood in front of that man right there, that looter, that murderous thug. He tried to stop that man from taking what wasn't his, what was meant for our town. That man took from me the last thing I had left. Now I know what it means to have nothing left and nothing to live for. For that, Jack Miller should hang," Shane said.

  The room erupted with a hundred voices speaking all at once. Many of the crowd shouted angry demands that Jack be brought outside and strung from the tree with no delay. Calls of "Hang him," and "Kill that son of a bitch," rose above the chorus.

  Judge Ramsey banged her gavel loudly against the bench and stood up from her chair, shouting for order. Once the crowd quieted down she passed an authoritative glare across the room and then took her seat.