Escape the Fall (Nuclear Survival: Southern Grit Book 2)

by Harley Tate

  One hand hit the ground, but she shoved herself upright, plowing on down another street and past more and more houses. She couldn’t process anything but movement. She could be headed north or south or around in circles. It didn’t matter as long as Howie didn’t catch her.

  Air sawed in and out of her mouth as she struggled for enough oxygen. She couldn’t keep this up forever. Sooner or later he’d catch her or she’d collapse. A set of bushes ten feet high loomed up ahead and Leah ran for them, darting behind the screen as Howie screamed from the street.

  “You won’t be able to get away from me!”

  Leah ducked behind the house and kept going, refusing to look back. Three houses away a detached garage sat tucked into a back corner of a lot and Leah raced for it, hugging close to the houses where no fences blocked her way. As she slipped into the open garage door, Howie’s shout echoed from the opposite direction.

  “I’ll get you one way or another!”

  When she’d ducked behind the bushes, he must have kept to the road, hoping to cut her off at the pass. If I hadn’t stopped, he’d have me. Leah shuddered as she crept around a cold four-door sedan. A stack of plastic tubs in the back gave just enough cover for her body and Leah crammed down between them, shoving her duffel beside her.

  Leah took the rifle in two hands and pumped. It was loud, but she had to take the chance. She pumped four more times and exhaled. If he found her, she would defend herself.

  Howie’s taunt stuck in her head. Next time, she’d aim for his eyes.

  The cold concrete beneath her soaked through her scrubs and into her muscles. Everything either throbbed or ached or lanced with pain. From her head to feet to shoulders, Leah was at the end of her stamina. The longer she sat there, panting and slowing her heart, the more the rush of adrenaline gave way to an exhausted crash.

  She wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right there on the dirty cobweb-covered floor and sleep for days. Maybe when she woke up this would all be a nightmare and she would be home in her bed with her husband by her side.

  A noise startled her still. Oh, no. Please have it not be Howie. Please let me catch a break.

  The top of the tub in front of her shifted. The dirty blanket was alive. It stretched and stood up and pinned Leah with a pair of yellow eyes.

  She bit back a groan. Of all the creatures to be sleeping in a garage. It had to be a cat. Leah frowned at it and managed a hoarse whisper. “If you start meowing, so help me God, I’ll shoot you.”

  The cat flicked its tail, turned around in a circle, and lay back down.

  Leah exhaled.

  With every passing minute, the garage grew darker and her hiding place increased in value. By the time the sun disappeared, Howie would never be able to spot her in the back. Leah knew she should leave. The cover of darkness was the best time to escape his frantic, unhinged searching.

  But Leah couldn’t stand even if she wanted to. The car crash and the terror of the chase sapped all her energy. Asking her to walk out of there was like asking a marathon runner who just finished a race to do it again, only this time faster.

  Leah closed her eyes. She would sleep it off and figure it out in the morning.

  “Psst. Here, Snowball. Here, kitty, kitty.”

  Leah blinked her eyes open. Darkness still surrounded her. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two.

  A can rattled with something dry and crunchy inside. “Come on, Snowball, come get your dinner.” An old woman’s voice accompanied the shaking can.

  Leah froze. A bent-over shape stood in the open garage door, one hand on a cane, the other holding what looked like a metal coffee can.

  The cat on the tubs rose up in a stretch, curving its back as it yawned.

  “That’s it old man, come on inside. I know it’s not the wet food you like, but it’s better than nothing.”

  The cat jumped down from the tubs and paused to rub its head across Leah’s sneaker. She clenched her teeth and eased the barrel of the rifle off her shoulder.

  “Would you like to come in, too?”

  Leah jerked her head up in alarm, but stayed silent.

  “I can’t promise a hot dinner, but I’ve got more than dry cat food inside.”

  Is she talking to me? Leah glanced around, but in the dark, she couldn’t see anything. Had the woman spotted her while she’d slept? Would this be the start to another Howie chase?

  Leah chastised herself for falling asleep in a stranger’s garage. I should have escaped while I had the chance.

  The woman sighed. “I’m not going to stand out here all day. The damp air makes my bones ache.”

  Leah cleared her throat. “A-Are you talking to me?”

  “Well, I’m not talking to the dust bunnies, that’s for sure.”

  Leah lifted the rifle.

  The old woman chortled. “Put that thing away. Howard’s gone home.”

  “The man chasing me? How do you know?”

  “Because I watched that wife of his drag him back across the street by his ear. That’s why. Now get off that dirty floor and come in. You could use the break and I could use the company.” Leah opened her mouth to argue, but the old woman waved her off. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “Seems to be the common tactic around here.”

  “Well, mine won’t come with a side of drunken idiot. Follow me if you so choose.” The old woman turned toward the front of the garage and stepped out.

  Leah watched for a few paces before hauling herself up to stand. She winced. While the cold ground numbed her muscles, it did nothing to ease the pain. She needed the warmth of a house and medical treatment.

  An elderly woman wouldn’t pose too much of a threat. As she hobbled to catch up, the cat slinked into the waiting open door ahead.

  Chapter Seven

  GRANT

  Rose Valley Lane

  Smyrna, Georgia

  Thursday, 4:00 p.m.

  Grant exhaled. So many faces stared out at him from positions on the sidewalk. Friends and neighbors, some he knew and some he didn’t recognize. A few children clung to their parents in terrified little bundles, cueing off the fear pounding in everyone’s hearts.

  How many of them knew about the EMP and the following nuclear explosions? How many of his neighbors had worked through what that would mean for the future?

  The gravity of the situation buffeted Grant like hurricane-force winds.

  The United States as everyone knew it was gone. No more red and blue states or talking heads on TV stirring up imagined grievances. No more infrastructure or endless supplies. Every major city was dealt a death blow, not just to their epicenters, but to their entire way of life. How many major businesses had headquarters in the heart of cities? How many could function if their heads were cut off?

  Had New York been hit in the heart of the financial district? If so, goodbye Stock Exchange, lifetime savings, all of it. Without power to the East Coast or anyone left alive in financial centers to bring banking back, the country would grind to a halt.

  Even if banks opened, they would run out of paper money and how long would it be good for? Once people figured out store-bought food was a finite resource, US currency would be worthless. So many people scrimped and saved and worked their entire lives to prepare for an orderly future. What would they do now as everything slipped into chaos?

  Grant ran a hand through his hair and brought his thoughts back to a local scale. Without shipping companies trucking in food daily, even if grocery stores opened, they wouldn’t stay open for long. People would be hungry. Neighbors would be pitted against neighbors and friends against friends.

  Families would struggle to survive. Would the police forces still operational cease to function? How could anyone ask those brave men and women to come to work when their families back home went hungry?

  Cities would dive into anarchy.

  He thought about the riots that broke out every time an unpopular news story hit the press.
Was it the same now? Was midtown Atlanta in the midst of a riot? Were the parts of Chicago and New York and Los Angeles that survived the nuclear blast rife with mayhem?

  It was only a matter of time.

  Hunger turned people desperate. Cold made them bold. Two weeks or a month from now, how many of the faces staring at him like he could wave his hand and make everything better would still be alive? How long before society completely fell apart?

  Part of him wanted more than anything to turn and run. Grab a backpack and his bits of food and get out of the city before anyone tried to take what little he had. But he couldn’t leave without Leah. If she was out there, somewhere, she would be coming home. He couldn’t leave until he either found her dead body or she ran into his open arms.

  As long as he stayed in his house, he would need to help his neighbors. Leah would never forgive him if he boarded up the door and sat with his gun in his lap, daring anyone to come near. She would expect him to help. To have grace and kindness and charity.

  And in his heart, Grant knew it was the right choice. Until someone forced his hand and made it impossible to stay, he would be a good man and a good husband and lend his support to the community.

  Most of his neighbors had no idea how hard the coming days, weeks, and months would be. Even Grant didn’t know, but together, maybe they could find a way to persevere. Maybe his neighborhood would join together and create their own little town. One more welcoming and accepting than Hampton turned out to be.

  Grant cleared his throat and held up his hands. “If anyone wants to talk about what’s happened this past week and what we can do to help each other going forward, I propose we call a neighborhood meeting.” He glanced at his watch. “How about six o’clock tonight at the neighborhood clubhouse? We can share all we know and together we can come up with a plan."

  A handful of neighbors in the crowd voiced agreement, others nodded and hurried their children back to their homes. Doors opened, people walked off in groups of two and three, and Grant took a deep, fortifying breath.

  He would share his knowledge and offer any advice or assistance he could, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect himself. Even if the neighborhood rallied together, Grant would fortify his house and protect against those who wanted to shortcut their way to survival. It wasn’t that different than his IT job when he thought about it.

  He awarded hackers who found flaws in his company’s software, then he forwarded the information and the coders fixed the errors. What was that saying? The best defense was a good offense. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for someone to come to him. He would prepare as best he knew how.

  Grant strode back to his house with purpose. As he opened the door, a little wagging tail and patient eyes greeted him. He bent down with his hand and held it out. The dog hesitated, but didn’t run away. Grant reached for under its chin.

  His fingers slipped through the dirty fur and the dog didn’t move. Grant gave it a few scratches before standing up. “See? That wasn’t so bad. Pretty soon, you’ll be begging me for a bath. I know it.”

  The dog trotted over to the back door and Grant let it out. Ever since the dog hopped into the Cutlass, Grant had refused to think of a name. He’d even refused to acknowledge the obvious. But as he watched the tenacious little thing relieve itself in the yard, he had to face it: she was his and she needed a name.

  “Soon. I’ll pick one soon.” As the dog hurried back inside, Grant got to work. With an hour before the meeting, he had enough time to rig up a few defenses. First, he hauled the four sheets of plywood he never got around to installing as flooring in the attic out of the garage, along with his tool box.

  The plantation shutters on the first floor facing the street were great for keeping out prying eyes, but they did nothing to keep determined people out of his house. Grant ensured the shutters were closed before nailing one sheet to the bottom half of the double window and one to the top. He left about a two-inch gap at eye level. With the inset of the shutters, he could still open the slats and peer out, but it would take a hell of a lot of work to break in.

  Plywood wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it would slow down a burglar.

  He used the remaining two sheets on a pair of windows in his home office just off the kitchen, boarding them up without a gap. The back of the house sported enough windows that he could afford to forego the visibility of two.

  After another trip to the garage, Grant managed to fix a scrap piece of fiberboard to the small window in the laundry room and create an under-the-doorknob security bar. Shoved beneath the front doorknob, it would buy Grant a few minutes of time if someone tried to break the door in.

  Four windows and a door remained unsecured on the back of the house. Grant palmed his hips and thought it over. He could rip the plywood he’d installed last year in the attic down and make a permanent fix, but he couldn’t manage that in the next twenty minutes. That would be a project to tackle in the daylight when he could not only see what he was doing, but he could take his time.

  Too much noise might attract the wrong types of neighbors. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d already begun to secure the place. He didn’t want anyone to think his trust was already gone. And it wasn’t; not entirely. But he’d learned in his IT job that no one could truly be trusted. Ordinary people did crazy things when they thought no one was looking or they wouldn’t be caught.

  Turning to the kitchen, Grant rummaged around in the junk drawer until he found the two combination locks he’d kept around for the gym membership he’d been meaning to renew. They wouldn’t keep out a determined thief, but they could keep a less-resourceful neighbor from sneaking into the backyard.

  Grant hustled outside and locked the gates on either side of his house before checking the time. Almost six. Whether he liked it or not, the house would have to remain partially insecure.

  He hurried inside, wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow, and chugged one of the sodas he’d saved from the fridge. The dog sat by her empty bowl, but Grant only smiled in apology. “I’ll go on a scouting mission soon, I promise. But for now, it’s one meal a day, I’m afraid.”

  As if she understood, the poor little thing trotted over to the front door and curled up by the sidelight Grant had left exposed. He would figure out a way to cover it as well, but with the doorstopper in place, it didn’t worry him tonight.

  He opened the door and bent down to dog’s eye level. “Keep watch, will you? Anyone comes near and you let them have it.” Grant shut the door and half-jogged to the clubhouse. He couldn’t be late to his own meeting.

  Chapter Eight

  GRANT

  Neighborhood Clubhouse

  Smyrna, Georgia

  Thursday, 6:00 p.m.

  The clubhouse teemed with people. Grant hadn’t seen so many of his neighbors in one place since someone organized a block party last summer complete with a keg and dollar hot dogs. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall to keep from fidgeting.

  Tons of people crammed in a little room didn’t bother him, but in a minute or two they would all be looking at him for answers. He made it a point to see the show, not be the show, in his day job. It had been a mantra he’d stuck to for his entire life. Now he’d inadvertently jammed himself front and center.

  As the top of the hour passed, the room grew quiet. Pocket conversations died down and a gaggle of eyes turned toward Grant. He swallowed. Now or never.

  He propped up a smile. “Thanks for coming, everyone. I know watching Stan collapse in the street was tough.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?” Dan, a retired grandfather who lived one street over spoke up. “Looked like he’d been sick all over the place.”

  Grant nodded. “Stan had been out riding his motorcycle when the bomb went off. He died of radiation poisoning.”

  A muted gasp rolled through the crowd. A voice Grant couldn’t place rose above the murmur. “Do we know for a fact it was a bomb? I heard someone say it was
an explosion.”

  “By all accounts, it was a nuclear bomb.”

  “Couldn’t it have been an accident? Like a power plant meltdown or something?”

  Oliver, a young guy who was new to the neighborhood, spoke up. “It was a coordinated attack. Not just here, but all across the United States. Didn’t you see the news?”

  “How?” Dan scoffed. “Our power’s been out since Friday!”

  “Just because you don’t have power, doesn’t mean you can’t access the world. Radio and television stations were still broadcasting all over the West Coast. And the internet’s still there. All of Europe and the rest of the world are still online.”

  “How are you accessing it?”

  “Up until yesterday, via my personal hot spot that was pinging off a satellite internet connection. But it’s been too cloudy for my solar panels to get a decent charge.”

  Grant motioned for Oliver to join him at the front of the room. “Sounds like your knowledge far exceeds my own. Care to share?”

  The twenty-something shrugged. “I guess, but I can’t tell you the accuracy of what I’ve seen. You all know the reliability of the internet.”

  “I’m sure everyone here understands that.”

  A chorus of agreement echoed and died as Grant’s neighbors waited for a report of the information they used to access at their fingertips.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “It appears at least twenty major metropolitan areas were hit with a coordinated, timed attack. Nuclear bombs, all about the size of the one dropped on Hiroshima, were detonated in key business and city centers between five and six Saturday night.”

  “It can’t be true.” A woman sitting on the floor in front of the clubhouse couch shook her head. “That would kill millions!”

  “The initial explosions leveled multiple city blocks. In New York there were reports of massive rolling aftershocks that toppled most of Manhattan. The entire financial district was destroyed.”