PULSE: An Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (Little Rocket Man Book 1)

by Keith Taylor

  What the—?

  “Jesus fucking wept!” Shepherd flinched as a report rang out across the trees, scaring up a flock of birds. Almost without conscious thought he yanked the steering wheel to the left and planted his foot hard on the gas.

  He was firing on him!

  Out of the corner of his eye Shepherd saw that the drunk had swung a rifle from his back and was firing wildly in his direction. The truck skidded wildly as it accelerated, the tires kicking up rooster tails of gravel from the side of the road, searching for grip. The air was knocked from Shepherd’s lungs as the front tires left the road and dropped into a shallow gully, and he floored the gas and drove forward blindly on into the undergrowth, praying that he wouldn’t hit a tree. Behind him he heard one of the side windows shatter, and a moment later there came two metallic thumps in quick succession as bullets pierced the panels.

  Shepherd couldn’t see a thing, the truck was bouncing so much. All that was visible out the windscreen was undergrowth, then sky, then undergrowth. The truck bucked up and down over the rough ground, and Shepherd cried out with pain every time he hit something solid and the wrecked suspension sent the full force of the impact jolting though his spine.

  Eventually the Jeep burst out of the trees and onto an overgrown gravel track. Shepherd floored it, all thoughts of comfort forgotten as his spine rattled with the vibration. He drove like a madman, concentrating only on keeping the tires close to the grooves carved out by years of vehicles driving beneath the power lines. It was only when he’d made it past seven steel pylons that he finally took a breath and glanced in the rear view. That track behind him was empty.

  Why the hell didn’t I check his car for weapons?

  ΅

  :::9:::

  ABI'S FEET HURT.

  For an hour after she’d fled the wreckage of the train she’d walked in a straight line directly into the forest without so much as a thought as to where she was going. Her mind was focused on a single thought, to get away from the train, but it was more an instinct than a well thought out plan. It was only when she saw the blood dripping onto her shirt that she’d realized she wasn’t thinking clearly. She probably had a concussion, and as soon as she realized that her mind seemed to snap at least halfway back to reality. She stopped and leaned against a tree, taking stock of her situation.

  All she knew for sure was that she was in the middle of a forest somewhere in Virginia. Based on the banner stuck to the side of the train she guessed she must be somewhere between Lynchburg and Roanoke, though that didn’t help much as she had no idea where either of those towns were in relation to anywhere else. She was barefoot, and she’d left her bag back on the train along with her phone, her ID and all of her cash. The only thing she had on her were a box of Tic Tacs, a Zippo lighter, and half a pack of Camels tucked in her jacket pocket.

  First things first. She used the sleeve of her blouse to wipe the blood from her face, and as soon as she was able to fully open her right eye without it gumming together she began to feel more present. In the dull reflection offered by her silver steel lighter she took a look at the wound, and as far as she could tell it wasn't too serious. It hurt like hell, though, and she knew from the throbbing of the angry knot of tender flesh at her hairline that she’d have an impressive lump for at least a few days.

  With her thumbs she rolled her pantyhose down her legs, dropping to the ground to tug them from her feet, and fashioned them into a makeshift bandage for her forehead. It probably wasn’t really necessary, but at least it let her feel like she was doing something proactive after drifting aimlessly since the crash.

  She looked down at her feet, and then at the ground. She’d barely noticed as she was walking but the forest floor was covered in sharp stones and scratchy twigs that had been tearing into the soles of her feet. This was no good at all. There was blood on her feet. The soft, sensitive skin of her toes was already pink and swollen, and pretty soon she’d have to start worrying about infection from the dirt ground into the wounds.

  She had no idea where she was, and no idea where she was going, but she knew that the worst thing she could possibly do now is continue to walk in the same direction, deeper into these unfamiliar woods. Who knew how far they stretched? Who knew if there was a town to be found just over the next rise, or if the forest went on for another fifty miles?

  For years Abi had heard horror stories about people losing their way in the woods all across the US, and especially here in the east. The Appalachian Trail was famous for swallowing lost hikers. People always thought of the east as crowded and overpopulated. They thought the last of the wilderness had been tamed, concreted and built over. They thought there wasn’t a single forest on the east coast that stretched more than a few miles before it met a road, a town, or a strip mall packed with motels and fast food restaurants, but they were dead wrong.

  In reality the east was still among the wildest landscapes in the US, and the forests were deadly and deceptive. Every year hikers and campers lost their way in the dense woods, often finding themselves disoriented just a few yards from well marked trails. It was frightening how many were either lost forever or were found dead just a stone’s throw from safety.

  Abi had always assumed these people must have been foolish and inexperienced, but now she was beginning to understand just how easy it was to get turned around in the deep forest when they were no landmarks to keep you oriented. Here she was, still woozy from a head injury with her feet covered in cuts and scratches, and she’d only been out here about an hour. She turned around and recognized nothing. She couldn’t even tell for sure which way she’d come. She couldn’t see a recognizable trail, and even her footprints were lost in the thick undergrowth.

  She knew that if she was going to survive she needed to find a road. A town. Some kind of civilization. Staying out in the woods would only mean a delayed death, a slow decline before she succumbed to exposure, dehydration or infection in amongst a million identical trees, and that meant returning to the scene of the crash.

  The train line was the only place she knew for sure she’d find safety. There was a rural road that ran alongside the tracks. The asphalt, the power lines and the tracks themselves guaranteed that she’d eventually find help, and surely by the time she made it back to the tracks the ambulances would have arrived. Fire trucks. News vans. Choppers overhead. Hell, this crash would probably make the national news. The area was probably already swarming with people looking for survivors, and here she was thinking the path to safety led through the forest. Dumb. Ignorant. This is how people die, Abi.

  She felt stupid for walking so far, but she tried not to be too hard on herself. A blow to the head can make people do some pretty absurd things. What was important now is that she didn’t make any more amateur mistakes. She needed to keep her mind clear and her thoughts straight. Think, Abi. Take stock of your situation and react calmly.

  She removed her light jacket and took a moment to tear off the arms, for once thankful that she could only afford to buy cheap sweatshop ‘fast fashion’ clothes with half assed stitching. If she owned any high quality clothes designed to last more than six months she might have spent the rest of the morning unpicking every stitch, but these came loose with just a sharp tug. Thank God for poor quality Asian outsourcing?

  The sleeves of the jacket were just wide enough to slip over her feet, one over each, and doubled up they were thick enough to keep the stones and twigs from biting into her soles on the walk back to the track. They wouldn’t fix her tender feet, but at least they’d prevent further injury.

  Now she set about finding the path back to the train. She pulled herself to her feet, hung the remains of her jacket as high as she could on the tree trunk behind her, and started walking out from the tree in an expanding spiral, carefully studying the ground for evidence of her own passage. Footprints. Broken twigs. Disturbed soil. Anything that would suggest she’d passed this way before.

  She found it on the third pass around the
tree, a spot of blood on a leaf, and almost immediately she was able to pick up the faint trail she’d made as she’d woozily dragged her feet through the undergrowth. Now she knew what she was looking for the path was obvious. She grabbed her jacket and set off, careful to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything behind.

  It took another ninety minutes of walking before she finally reached the edge of the forest, partly because she was walking slowly, carefully making sure she stuck to the faint track, but also because she had to stop every few minutes to wait for a dizzy spell to pass. She didn’t know if it was the concussion or the blood loss that was getting to her, but she knew she was in serious trouble. She couldn’t think straight. Her legs felt weak and rubbery, and as she looked down at her hands she was alarmed to see how pale her skin had become. It was almost translucent, as if every last drop of blood had been sucked from her limbs.

  Just keep walking, Abi. You can see the edge of the forest. People will be waiting at the train to help.

  Huh. As she finally stumbled from the tree line she looked around and saw the wreckage of the train a half mile or so distant, way over to her right. She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, following some other track marked by someone or something else. It didn’t matter now, but despite the wooziness she resolved never to go wandering in the woods again. That track could have led anywhere. She could have spent the last hour walking even deeper into the forest for all she knew.

  Forget it, Abi. Quit kicking yourself. You’re safe. There was the train, the wreckage still spewing out thick black smoke. But no cops, she thought as her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled in a heap to the ground. No fire trucks. No news choppers overhead.

  She was drifting in and out of consciousness now, struggling to open her eyes, but when she did she saw that her head wound was still bleeding through the makeshift bandage. The pantyhose wrapped around her head were wet and warm, and she could feel a trickle of blood down the side of her face. Oh no, she thought, dreamily. I think I’m in serious trouble.

  Her eyes closed a final time.

  And then they opened. The sun was a a few inches further across the sky, as if it had suddenly jumped.

  “Are you OK? Ma’am? What happened here? Can you talk? Can you stand?”

  She was barely aware of the voice, and she hardly felt it as arms slipped beneath her and she was lifted from the ground. A bottle of water was raised to her lips, and she gratefully gulped until it caught in her throat and she spluttered for air.

  She had no idea what was going on, but one thing she knew for sure.

  She’d been saved by an angel.

  ΅

  :::10:::

  SHEPHERD DROVE NERVOUSLY, uncomfortably aware of the strong smell of gasoline coming from the back. He knew the drunk had made at least one direct hit to the truck – the shattered side window was evidence of that – but he didn’t know what other damage he’d caused. The stench of fuel suggested that one of his precious Jerry cans was leaking, and if a few shots had reached the fuel they may have also reached the water. His supply of freeze dried food could even now be swimming in water, along with his camping gear and anything else packed close to the five gallon bottles.

  He knew he needed to pull over and assess the truck and his supplies ASAP, but he was all too aware that he had to get as far as possible from the road. Who knew whether the drunk would try to pursue him down the track?

  No, he had to prioritize the threats against him. The order of priorities right now were his own life, the truck, and then the supplies, and as long as the first two may still be in jeopardy he couldn’t afford to worry about the third. He’d drive on until he was sure he was safe.

  The track was much rougher than he remembered from the times he’d hiked it in his youth. In his memory it had been a smooth trail, flat and level where years of use by the power company had dug an arrow straight line through the forest, but either his memory sucked or the company had switched their service vehicles to bicycles, because this was rough as hell. Even with its high clearance the Jeep struggled to make headway, and every few yards a rock embedded in the ground scraped against the underside.

  After ten minutes of driving at a slow crawl he finally began to relax a little, reducing his glances in the rear view mirror from once every few seconds to a couple of times each minute. Behind him the track was blessedly clear. It looked as if that asshole hadn’t bothered to lay chase.

  Now he had time to take stock as he negotiated the track, and with every moment of thought the situation seemed even more dire. He reached into the glove box for his cigarettes, an occasional treat he allowed himself after giving up the ten a day habit he’d maintained throughout his twenties. He was about to scratch one of his strike anywhere matches on the dash when he suddenly remembered the spilled fuel, and he angrily shoved the cigarettes back in his pocket.

  When the power had gone out he’d assumed he’d have the jump on everyone else. He’d figured it’d take most regular people hours or maybe even days to realize that this wasn’t just a regular power outage, and by the time the real panic set in he’d be safely dug in at the cabin, miles from the nearest paved road and well clear of the inevitable madness that would follow. He figured he could safely ride out the storm at the cabin, just wait it out for a few weeks or months until the worst of the panic was over and – hopefully – the government and military had managed to get a grip on the situation and restore some kind of order.

  But what now? If the guy back on the road was anything to go by there were already threats present. In the hundred miles or so between Willow Falls and the cabin he’d expected to find his path blocked a few times, and maybe to have to deal with confused and scared people, but it hadn’t really occurred to him that there might be people like the drunk out there already; people who knew exactly what was going on, but who’d already chosen to deal with the crisis with violence. That threw everything out of whack. It meant that no road was safe. He’d have to be even more cautious. Even more vigilant.

  He drove on in a dark mood, wincing with pain each time the tires hit a hidden rock and bounced his head against the roof, and when he finally saw the trail open out as it reached the train line he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d driven down there in the past, and while the road beside the track couldn’t be trusted he knew he could follow the gravel trail on the other side. Even if the road was blocked he should be able to sail through.

  Best of all the trail beside the train tracks would give him pretty much a straight shot all the way to Roanoke. Aside from a few tunnels cut through the hills the tracks would take him halfway to his destination, hopefully without coming across another soul.

  The trail hit the tree line and the Jeep emerged onto the wide stretch of grass and loose gravel between the tracks and the forest, and as soon as his view was clear he slammed on the brakes and stared, mouth hanging open, at something he’d never expected to see.

  About a half mile down the track two trains lay in a torn, mangled heap. That was already bizarre enough but the really crazy thing, as if there was anything about the sight that could be described as normal, was that one of the trains was an old steam engine, the kind he used to construct from model kits as a kid. It was a beautiful thing, solid iron and still gleaming in the sunlight despite the wreck. The modern train, on the other hand, was some anonymous looking silver tube, ripped open like a tin can beside the track.

  Shepherd was torn. It was obvious from the smoke rising from the wreck that this had happened within the last few hours. He knew he should stop and check for survivors, but his father’s voice in the back of his mind chastised him. What the hell are you gonna do with survivors, Jim? Take ‘em to hospital? Lug ‘em back to the cabin and play nursemaid, handing out your morphine like candy until you’re all out?

  He hated that voice, but he knew it was right. Nobody could have come through that crash without serious injuries, and Shepherd had no medical training beyond the beginner’s EMT course he’d
sat through before he was given his badge. He could take care of cuts and scrapes and, with a little luck, stabilize someone until the professionals showed up, but how could he take care of someone with broken bones? Crush injuries? Open wounds?

  He drove slowly by the crash site, his window rolled down. He told himself that he wouldn’t stop, but he’d listen out for yells. A good compromise, if only to settle his conscience. At least then he could convince himself he’d looked for survivors. He could fool himself that he’d at least tried.

  There was nothing. All he could hear was the crackle of flames as the wreckage continued to burn. Most of the carriages were just charred and blackened husks, and it looked as if the fire had swept quickly through it. If anyone had been left on board when the flames reached them they were long gone now.

  He turned away from the wreckage, still guilty but at least satisfied he hadn’t left anyone in agony, and he turned back to the track ahead. He drove on, hoping against hope he didn’t see anything else like that before reaching the cabin. His father would have passed by without a blink, but Shepherd didn’t have the stomach for it.

  This was the cost – and the curse – of believing yourself to be a good man, Shepherd knew. You could go through life with the smug, self satisfied glow of thinking you’re a good, honorable person, but when the time comes to actually be good, to test your worth and virtue when it really mattered, you have to either prove yourself right or let your ego take a brutal beating.

  Shepherd’s ego was in the toilet. First Ron and Kath. His friends in Willow Falls. The wife and kids of the drunk, and now the people on the train he’d all too easily convinced himself were dead. He’d found an excuse to avoid helping all of them, some logical reason why he was doing them a favor rather than screwing them over.