Defending Hope: An EMP Survival Story (Surviving The Shock Book 1)

by Connor Mccoy

  “You son of a bitch.” Criver’s hand flew around his gun and pulled it free from its holster, then aimed and fired. But the action took too long. The Hall Monitor already had ducked and run down the hall to the cafeteria, hooting and cackling. Instead, Criver’s shot zinged past a hall light above where the crazy bastard had stood.

  Criver – Three.

  One wasted shot.

  “Dammit!” Criver lowered his gun.

  “Forget it. We know where Amir is!” Cheryl was so euphoric she kissed Criver’s right cheek quickly.

  Criver almost cheered. Cheryl knew how to brighten his spirits. “Let’s go get him.”

  The pair ran as fast as they could through the hall. No one else challenged them. Perhaps The Coach wasn’t even here. Perhaps they’d find Amir, just locked up to be guarded by these loons, almost all of whom were dead. Perhaps the nightmare of Criver’s dark nights never would come close to coming to pass.

  The Hall Monitor stumbled through two double doors into the cafeteria. Criver and Cheryl each took a door and pushed it wide open.

  The cafeteria was fully gutted, no tables or chairs, nothing. It was fully open, with sunlight pouring through the windows, except for a makeshift ring on a raised platform, roped off by four wooden posts. Standing in the ring was a single man.

  Criver’s sweaty skin suddenly felt cold. No, not him.

  The nightmare might be coming to pass after all.

  The Coach, the bane of Criver’s recent existence, turned and faced him and Cheryl with his icy eyes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Hall Monitor retreated behind The Coach, jumping and prancing like a deranged elf. The Coach did not acknowledge the presence of his underling. He focused his eyes on the man and woman who had intruded into his territory.

  Criver’s nostrils twitched. This place smelled of death. Flies buzzed around the ringposts. Beams of sunlight shined through gaps in the bricked-up windows and at least one open window near the rear door. Dark red stains lined the mat-covered floor. Dried blood, no doubt. People had died here, at the large hands of The Coach.

  The Coach himself looked very much as Criver remembered, with his black steel boots and dark pants. He didn’t seem to be carrying a gun, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one hidden on his person. The hideousness of his face was unchanged. It was a mercy that he stood partially in a shadow so his mangled countenance was not fully visible.

  The warlord looked at Criver, no, down at him, as a king would a lowly subject. “You.” His voice was dead, flat, but it wafted on the air. “I remember you.”

  Then he turned to Cheryl. Now he flexed his fingers. A sign of anger, perhaps. “And you…we have unfinished business.” No doubt The Coach remembered the blow Cheryl had given him to the ankle with her baton.

  Criver raised his gun. “We both have unfinished business. You took our boy. We’re taking him back. That’s going to happen with you alive or dead.”

  “Do you think I fear your toys?”

  “It’s called reality, shithead. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, one bullet in the brain will end you.”

  The Coach took a slight step into a nearby beam of light. He was wearing a dark vest that could be bulletproof. As good a shot as Criver was, the odds actually looked worse than he was letting on. Both he and Cheryl had one bullet left, and this room wasn’t well illuminated. Two shots easily could be wasted if The Coach chose to flee.

  Then, as The Hall Monitor danced in front of him, The Coach suddenly seized his insane lackey and held him aloft in front of him. The Hall Monitor swung his pistol around, but did not fire, continuing to cackle. “Tonight! Tonight! My soul will be required! Yes, it will be! Yes, it will be!”

  “Shoot your toys,” The Coach intoned.

  “Do you think I give a shit about him?” Criver was incredulous. Using The Hall Monitor as a human shield was pointless. Hell, The Hall Monitor had a gun. Taking out the insane shithead only would bring the odds closer to Criver and Cheryl’s favor.

  But it would eat up Criver and Cheryl’s bullets. Did The Coach know they were running on near empty?

  “Shoot,” The Coach repeated.

  Criver shook. This place reminded him too much of his nightmare at the pharmacy. He and Cheryl would lock in combat with The Coach, only for the warlord to slaughter them both. No, this time things would be different. He would have faith in his companion—his love--while he did would he would have to do.

  He reached over and put his gun in Cheryl’s holster. “Go get Amir.”

  “What?” Cheryl erupted, “Are you crazy?”

  “You got two shots. Take out anything that gets in your way and bust out Amir and any other kids. That’s your job, Sergeant.” He approached the ring. “Alright. Put him down. We’ll settle this ourselves, man to man. No guns, just brute strength.”

  Cheryl grabbed his shoulder. “Tom, I am not leaving you!”

  He turned around. “You’re not leaving me. This is just the unit doing what it does. We’re working together. We each got our parts. Yours is getting our boy back.”

  Cheryl stiffened her lip. “Kick his ass.” She kissed him quickly before launching into a run alongside the ring to the rear of the cafeteria.

  “Yes!” The Coach announced, kicking up his voice as he finished. “We will finish this!”

  As he spoke, he hoisted The Hall Monitor high and threw him out of the ring. As he landed and rolled on his side, the lackey screamed as if he had sprained or broken something. He then got up, first hobbling, then running to the rear exit doors of the cafeteria. He got through just moments ahead of Cheryl.

  Criver ran up to the ring’s ropes. After climbing over them, he was now at the edge of the ring. The Coach was just a few steps away from him.

  “That woman’s a trained soldier. She can handle anything you throw at her,” Criver said.

  The Coach then unzipped his vest. He held it high, then tossed it out of the ring. His muscular chest now was fully exposed. Despite the burn scar that traveled down the right side of his body, he was otherwise in remarkable shape. “Shooting you would not please me. I wish to rip your limbs from your body. Then I will do the same to your woman.” He raised his right arm. “You were damned the moment you came here.”

  Criver spread his legs into a fighting stance. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake with this guy. He had fought him once before, though before that he had taken on a group of his flunkies and had become a little worn out in the process. Now, only having tussled with Rod, Criver was much closer to his peak. At least now he had a better chance.

  The Coach made the first move. His fist flew through the air like a battering ram. Criver flipped around and dashed along the rope lines. The Coach swung around and struck again. This time, Criver pushed the blow out the way with a deflecting thrust. Then Criver responded with a swift punch. He aimed for The Coach’s head, but only nabbed his shoulder. The blow didn’t slow down the behemoth any. The Coach turned and struck back with his open palm.

  Unfortunately, that blow did connect. Criver was sent flat on his back onto the mat. Then The Coach reached down and pulled Criver up by the collar of his shirt and flung him against the ropes.

  Criver yelped. The impact of the rope burs against his face stung. Still, The Coach could have done worse.

  He tried getting out into open air, but The Coach had none of it. The brute smacked Criver in the back, which pushed him again into the ropes. The Coach then struck Criver with his fist, sending him into the ropes a third time.

  Damn! Come on, get out of this!

  Before his enemy could pummel him a fourth time, Criver ducked and rolled out of The Coach’s reach. Criver’s arm and the side of his face stung. He rubbed the raw skin. Brushing the ropes had done a number on it, but no blood yet.

  He sprang back up before The Coach could catch him. Criver tried forcing the fight back into his element, with quick, sharp, martial arts moves. But The Coach weathered the blows better tha
n any man Criver had taken on. It was almost inhuman the way he could handle it.

  Keep your head in the game, Criver thought. This guy is human. He’s not immortal. You can take him down.

  A sharp blow sent Criver back against the ropes. Maybe, but right now, Criver was a little less sure he could prevail against this monster.

  Cheryl’s boots hit the floor hard as she tried catching sight of The Hall Monitor. Because this ward had multiple halls leading inside, he had managed to slip away from her. She had no idea which route he had taken.

  Great. He could pop out at any moment and take me out with one shot, Cheryl thought. She slowed her pace. As she approached the wall junction, she crouched down and held her pistol at the ready.

  One shot. One damn shot. Then she’d have to draw Criver’s gun.

  She reached into her left pocket and took out a penny. In this post-EMP world, just about any currency wasn’t worth anything, but now this one cent actually could save her life. She had carried a small number of these in a pouch inside her pocket for occasions such as these. Hopefully, The Hall Monitor was as trigger happy as he seemed.

  She tossed the penny high into the hall. It bounced against the wall and fell on the floor. Nothing.

  Keeping her head down, Cheryl leaped into the hall. No one was there. Either he had kept going or was hiding somewhere.

  Multiple cell doors stretched down the hall. She peered through the glass of one of them. Still no one inside. If “Rod” had been right, she should hit paydirt soon. But she didn’t dare call out to them right now. The Hall Monitor would be on her in seconds, or maybe he’d take out his insanity on Amir and the other prisoners.

  As she approached the next junction, something on the floor caught her eye. She leaned down. A trail of red droplets stretched across her path. Of course! Blood! Criver had nailed the Hall Monitor in or near his ear. He must be bleeding out a small trail behind him.

  Thank you, Tom, Cheryl thought. Now the crazy son of a bitch had no way to conceal his movements unless he stopped up his wound, and Cheryl doubted he has the brain cells even to do that.

  But that also meant he was close by. She took out another penny, waited a second, and then let it fly. It bounced up and down the hall.

  Pop!

  A small piece of the wall popped loose overhead. She had hit paydirt. He was in the hall after all.

  Cheryl dove onto the floor and into the hall. A patient’s room was open, and a table was stretched out across the hall like a barrier. The Hall Monitor was behind it, his pistol aimed up at the wall near the juncture.

  Bingo. She had her chance, even though she was a good few yards away. Could she try bridging the gap between them as much as possible before taking him out? No, there was no cover. She had to take the shot.

  And so, she did.

  In the same moment, The Hall Monitor moved. Not much, but that, combined with the distance, caused Cheryl’s bullet to hit nothing vital. Instead, his left arm, the one not holding the gun, jerked backward. He screamed. “Ah! Ah! The swarm has come to get me!”

  Cheryl – Five.

  But she may not have wasted the shot, if she could take advantage of his disorientation. She sprang up and charged. She pumped her arms back and forth to pick herself up to her maximum speed.

  The Hall Monitor gathered enough of his wits to see her coming and kick the table outward toward her. “The castle will not be stormed!” he shouted, before sprinting off. The next juncture between halls was just a few feet away. He fled to the right.

  Cheryl made a flying leap over the table, just missing tripping over it. But her momentum carried her right into the juncture between halls--and into The Hall Monitor’s line of fire.

  She became aware of the danger just in time to slow herself to a stop, but not before The Hall Monitor fired at her. His shot roared through the air a few inches away from Cheryl’s nose. She stumbled backward into the hall from which she had come. Gathering her wits, she ducked down and drew Criver’s gun.

  She dared a peek into the hall. To her surprise, The Hall Monitor was not looking in her direction. Instead, he was in front of a patient’s room, banging away at the glass with a small iron rod. “Time to sacrifice!” he screamed. “Time to sacrifice their blood to the gods! Time! Time! Time!”

  Why was he trying to get in there? Could the children be in there? Could Amir be inside that room?

  The Hall Monitor mercilessly hacked away at the glass, grunting like a wild animal. Then he threw aside the bar and fumbled for the gun on his belt.

  Cheryl pointed Criver’s gun at the crazed loon.

  The Hall Monitor then pulled his pistol free. He was about to fire right through the cracked glass!

  She squeezed the trigger.

  A “gack” erupted out of The Hall Monitor’s throat. He stumbled backward until one false step landed him flat on his ass. He looked up at the ceiling, his mouth gaping open, blood pouring out like a fountain. His eyes were frozen open.

  Cheryl – Six.

  The shot wasn’t wasted.

  Quickly, Cheryl ripped the pistol out of the dead man’s hand. She took out the magazine and looked at it. Two bullets left. Had she stopped him in time?

  She snapped her head in the direction of the door. She hurried to it and peered inside through the shattered glass. It was a patient room with a single bed. But no one was in there.

  But before Cheryl could leave, two small hands started crawling out from underneath the bed. Then a tan-skinned arm pushed them back. “No, no.” A boy came out instead.

  Cheryl’s jaw dropped. “Amir!”

  “Miss Cheryl!” the boy cried as he climbed to his feet. Yes, that was him! He was still in the same bed clothes as when he was snatched from her home. He didn’t even look bad off, with no signs of being beaten or otherwise horribly abused, though it was too soon to tell from this distance.

  “I’m going to get you out of here. Tom Criver, he’s out there fighting The Coach.” She fumbled with the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. “Damn.” She turned back to The Hall Monitor’s with his sickeningly death-frozen smile. He probably had the keys. At least she hoped. After all, he had been trying to bash his way through this door when he could have just unlocked it.

  A short search of his pockets later, she was proven right. He was more screwed in the head than I thought. She hurried back to the door.

  “Can we come out now?” piped up a small girl’s voice.

  Amir turned around. “Sure. Miss Cheryl is a good person. She helped me. She’s going to free us.”

  Two girls crawled out from under the bed. Cheryl smiled. “Hey.” She slid the key into the lock.

  “Don’t forget the others,” Amir quickly said.

  Cheryl turned the key. “Others?”

  Amir hurried to the door. “It’s alright!” he shouted, “We’re going to be saved!” He lowered his voice. “We don’t make a lot of noise when the crazy man shows up.”

  Suddenly the hall was filled with murmurings, scamperings inside the rooms, and a few voices calling out.

  “My God.” Cheryl’s head turned from door to door. “How many children are in here?”

  Criver rolled over, narrowly missing The Coach’s large open palm. Had it struck, it would have slammed Criver’s cranium into the mat. Instead, he got far out to the end of the ropes and had a short instant to plan his next move.

  The Coach was one tough bastard, but Criver still had scored a few hits. A fresh bruise adorned his right eye and he moved a little more slowly on his right leg. But Criver was feeling worn out as well. He had taken one too many slams to the floor. Oddly, The Coach had passed up a few opportunities to deal a really crippling blow, instead focusing on just thrashing the hell out of him while leaving him lucid enough to keep fighting.

  This guy is pissed, Criver thought. He’s looking to take out his rage on somebody. But The Coach could crush most guys in under a minute. Perhaps that’s why he wanted to kidnap children. He wants to fe
el strong and powerful. In the end, he’s nothing more than a bully. Bullies are all the same. At some point in their lives, they get victimized and then they want to dish out the punishment on other people to make themselves feel powerful again.

  That explains a lot. His obsession with school. Naming his flunkies after school professions. His desire to capture kids. God knows what the experience of being burned would do to a twelve-year-old kid’s mind. It must have created a resentment that germinated as this guy who would call himself The Coach got older.

  The Coach lurched forward, his palms open to administer another wrestling hold. Criver jumped free, though awkwardly. He couldn’t let The Coach get a hold of him again.

  “Just answer me one question,” Criver said as The Coach slowed down to turn back toward him. “Why the hell do you call yourself ‘The Coach?’ Does it have some kind of special meaning? Were you a sports junkie as a kid?”

  The Coach tilted his head as if it had been a long time since he ever thought about that question. “When I was young, I would stand and watch the coach of the football team through the fence of the local school. He was strong. He commanded respect. His voice, his orders. They inspired me.” He took a small step forward. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to end this.

  “I was not allowed to go to school because of my looks. Then my father decided to kill me.” Then he passed into a beam of light, which showed off his scar tissue fully. “Instead, I was reborn. I would become the one who gave the orders. I would have everything that I was denied.”

  Criver spread out his arms, preparing for the Coach’s next attack. “Fine. I get it,” he said, “You got royally screwed by your old man. But you’re taking your crap out on innocent people, on children, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes you no different than the son of a bitch who tried to kill you.”

  The Coach’s eyes widened. Fury rose in his pupils. Criver had flicked a switch inside this man’s soul, and not a good one.

  Criver’s enemy let out a low but angry shout as he leaped for Criver’s throat. But he made the move too wide, too open, and Criver was ready for it. He turned to the side, getting just out of The Coach’s way, grabbed his right arm as he passed, then turned and thrust him against the corner ropes.