Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  Craig shifted slowly in front of Omar. Ahmed looked around nervously while holding up his leader. Omar flashed an expression of indifference at the men. Most of his face was covered in blood. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut. His cheeks looked like puffed bags. He didn’t look any bit like the fearless leader of an underground terror organization. He looked broken and defeated. But with all eyes on him, he resorted to defiance.

  Louis took another step forward, leaning closer and squinting. “Is that motherfucker smiling?” He yanked his pistol right from its holster and pointed it Omar.

  Craig raised his hands up defensively. “Louis! Louis, now wait. If he dies everything here dies with him. We need him! He could be the key to defeating ISIS.”

  “Screw that,” Louis said. “The plan was to stop this terrorist attack. Stop ’em from delivering the water. Not taking on all of ISIS.”

  Thomas stepped in. “I know we’ve all been through hell, and everyone’s emotions are hot, but we need to listen to Agent Davis. Allawi dies, all of this will have been in vain.”

  “Bullshit,” Louis said, clicking the hammer back.

  “Do it,” Jorge, one of the riders, said, egging him on.

  Craig walked closer to Louis, directly in line with the pistol’s barrel. “You can’t do this. Not with me standing here.”

  “Well, then get out of the way,” Louis said.

  Craig took a quick behind them. Past the dock and in the parking lot, the helicopters had landed. He didn’t see any sign of the authorities on foot or where they might be.

  “Homeland has found us and we need to get out of here,” Craig said, whipping his head back around to Louis. “Please. I promise to make things right and get your organization the recognition it deserves. You have to trust me on this.”

  Louis kept the pistol steady, but appeared to be contemplating Craig’s pleas.

  “Don’t make me regret this,” Louis said sternly. He slowly lowered his pistol to his side while not taking his pained eyes off of Craig.

  “I won’t,” Craig said. “Thank you.”

  A loud, blaring shot rang out from behind, splitting Omar’s head open. He flew forward onto the ground with a chunk of his skull missing and brains hanging out. For a moment, the room went silent. No one was sure what had just happened. But one look at Omar’s dead body and they began to scramble in panic.

  Ahmed hit the ground first on his knees to Omar’s side. “My Commander!” he cried out.

  “Freeze!”

  Craig and the others looked back. Federal agents stormed the warehouse with rifles drawn and stampeded toward them, shouting orders. Among the group, Deputy Jenkins emerged, flanked by Homeland officials. A long sniper rifle rested against the shoulder of one of his men. A shell was at his feet. Thomas stood close by, ghost-white. The magnitude of everything hadn’t settled in yet.

  Jenkins got closer and pointed to the Patriot Riders as they tried to escape. “Arrest those men!”

  The agents stormed past Craig and Thomas and tackled the confused men, taking them to the ground—injured and non-injured alike.

  “What the hell is going on?” Craig asked.

  Thomas looked around in awe as the Patriot Riders were arrested and brought to their feet.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, Agent Davis,” Jenkins said. He then looked to Thomas. “Both of you are.” A smile followed his stern tone. “Funny how we keep crossing paths like this.”

  Craig’s face went sour in disbelief. He stepped toward Jenkins and was blocked by a large no-nonsense man in a suit. “Allawi was going to tell us where the water shipments were going. You had no right.”

  “There are no lethal water shipments. There was no lethal shipment,” Jenkins said. “The VX agent he had been supplied with was non-lethal. We were using the shipment to track him through our informants in Dubai. But that’s all you need to know. The operation is classified.”

  Jenkins moved past his guard and got close to Craig’s face. “You see, there are other ways in stopping terrorist beyond brute force.” He paused and brought a finger to his temple. “Sometimes you have to use your head.”

  Craig turned as the remaining Patriot Riders were escorted by in handcuffs. “You can’t do this! Those men are ex-military. Combat veterans, most of them. They were helping us.”

  “No, those men are radical extremists,” Jenkins said. “But thanks for bringing them out of the woodwork for us.”

  The Patriot Riders shouted and fought as they were led out of the warehouse like common criminals.

  Thomas’s head swung around from the men to Jenkins, gesturing wildly, his eyes blazing. “You shot the very leader of the sleeper cells. Do you have any idea the sacrifice those man made so that we could capture Allawi?” Craig asked. He glared at Jenkins with an especially cold stare. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

  The Homeland entourage behind Jenkins began to move toward Craig, but Jenkins held them back.

  “Let’s be smart here. Omar Allawi is not worth the trouble. Your superiors, Calderon and Walker would like to see you back at the bunker. Where it’s safe.”

  Craig couldn’t figure it out. His mind was too disoriented to think clearly. But whatever had happened, it wasn’t right.

  “Let’s go,” Thomas said, leaning in. “We’re not going to win this here.”

  The agents loaded the Patriot Riders into an FBI cargo truck in the parking lot. In response, they struggled and called out to Craig for help.

  “You need to let them go,” Craig said to Jenkins. “They did nothing wrong. I contacted them for help. Many of them died fighting these terrorists.”

  Jenkins showed no emotion from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “We’ll work that out later. Now come with us. You can even fly in the helicopter.”

  “No thanks,” Craig said. “I have a van. We’ll drive there.”

  Two men in suits placed their hands on their pistols.

  “Are you serious?” Craig asked, looking around. Thomas dropped his rifle and put his hands in the air.

  “Please,” Jenkins said. “Let’s do this the right way.”

  Thinking of his family, Craig complied. There was little fight left in him for the time being. He followed the Homeland group out of the plant as a convoy of government vehicles pulled past the gate and surrounded the plant.

  “They’ll clean this mess up,” Jenkins said. “You know, you could be a hero in all this. Come out real good.”

  Craig and Thomas walked past all the commotion and toward the parking lot where the helicopters were. The FBI truck with the Patriot Riders drove away as more vehicles with dark-tinted windows arrived. “The ‘clean-up crew,’” thought Craig.

  He remained quiet, considering the grand conspiracy he was now a part of. Would he ever know the truth?

  As they flew over the smoking plant, Jenkins informed them that they were going to the airport, where they would take flights back to Washington. Craig said nothing as he looked out the window watching the plains pass by. Sitting next to him, Thomas said little. Craig couldn’t help wondering what it had all been for. For a moment, just before they had attacked the water plant, it had felt like they were making a real difference and saving American lives in the process. Craig took solace in Rachael and Nick. He even thought of Husein.

  “Cheer up, Agent Davis,” Jenkins said, pushing his thick headset onto his forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “We’ll see,” Craig said, looking out the window.

  If there was a conspiracy, Craig didn’t know what to make of it. He thought of taking his family and getting away, if they would even allow it. But what of his country? Was it still worth saving? He glanced at Jenkins who had begun talking into the mic on his headset.

  Yes, Craig thought. It was.

  A small fire began to burn inside of him. He wasn’t giving up. He would get to the bottom of everything. He would never quit until his dying day.

  Epilogue

>   One Year Later

  The coming war with ISIS never materialized. A series of military air strikes decimated key ISIS targets across the Middle East and a foreign coalition was formed through the United Nations to strike back. In the end, they managed to push ISIS back to its initial strongholds in Iraq and Syria, and then it was business as usual around the world.

  Phase three—the ambitious sleeper cell plan to distribute water tainted with VX nerve agents never happened, and the public had never fully learned how close they were to an excruciating death through drinking water inadvertently supplied by the federal government.

  The national recovery effort happened gradually. The infrastructure damage to the power plants and sea ports was in the hundreds of billions of dollars. Oil reserves had been tapped, emergency personnel stretched thin, and the all-volunteer military force burdened with far more than it should have been tasked with. But somehow, the United States did not collapse. The country rebuilt, moved forward, and survived.

  A year later and there had been no more terror attacks. After that time, Americans began feeling a sense of normalcy again. ISIS, as far as most were concerned, had been defeated.

  Special Agent Craig Davis was honored in a quiet ceremony along with his partner, Agent Josh Patterson, Agent Brian Thomas, and Agent Riley Keagan (posthumously). They were given the distinguished FBI Medal of Valor. Keagan’s family was presented with the FBI Memorial Star.

  The agents were honored for their efforts in combatting terrorism. An investigation cleared them of any wrongdoing. However, there was a catch: they were to retire—with their pensions intact—and were restricted from speaking publicly about the event. That was the deal.

  Above all, Craig was considered at as a potential issue within the FBI. But he had surprised his superiors, Walker and Calderon, and accepted the deal. He would walk away quietly and all anyone would ever know is that the federal government defeated the ISIS sleeper cells with its tenacity, intelligence gathering, and resolute action.

  Craig soon entered the quiet life in the Maryland suburbs, outside the city of Rockville. The same house where he faced-off against Omar’s hit squad. The house—largely in shambles—went through extensive repairs all paid for by the bureau. And what of Abu Omar Allawi? His name soon faded and became as undistinguishable as any dead terrorist leader. The “invisible sheik” soon disappeared. For the country, life went on.

  Friday July 7, 2017

  After the fear of almost losing her parents, Rachael insisted that the family visit her parent’s home in Boston, Massachusetts one weekend a month. So far, they had kept good on that routine. They would be traveling to Boston, Massachusetts the next morning.

  Before their trip, they had a relaxing evening barbecue in the backyard. Rachael was on the phone with another school teacher talking about the cumbersome new grading and assessment policies that awaited them the coming school year.

  Nick and Husein kicked around the soccer ball as Craig sat in lawn chair cradling a beer with his feet up. Everything, for the time being, seemed to be in its right place.

  Calm on the outside, Craig’s mind raced with wayward disorder. Sometimes things would come out of nowhere and consume him—questions, memories, all the things he could never talk about. The FBI had placed him in a mandatory psychiatric program to keep him stable and adjusted to retirement life. Talking through his experiences helped, but there questions that would always repeat themselves. Should I have done more? Should I do more? Did I make a difference? Was it worth it?

  His psychiatrist had suggested writing down his thoughts, and Craig had taken him at his word. He had been writing about a lot. He took a swig of beer and looked up. There was calmness in the sky and Craig could feel it.

  After Craig and the family traveled to Boston the next morning, a twenty-foot moving truck roared down their road on Tilford Lane and backed into a three bedroom house recently sold, from across the street.

  Two Buick station wagons followed and parked on the side of the street. The moving truck beeped as it slowly backed in to the driveway as a group of young men got out of Buicks, carrying bags and luggage. They looked like normal-aged college kids, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirts, and football Jerseys.

  The moving truck stopped, parked about ten feet from the garage. Two men walked behind the truck, opened the back door, and pulled out a long ramp affixed to the tailgate. Once opened, everyone began moving in and out of the truck, unpacking it.

  Eleven men in all, they spoke to each other in Arabic, laughing and joking around. Some of the neighbors took notice, but didn’t feel anything beyond annoyance. The residents enjoyed their peace and quiet. The new arrivals were young, rowdy males. What was becoming of neighborhood?

  As the men continued to unpack, Jamil, a lanky man with curly hair approached his friend, Sameer, the oldest in the group. His head was shaved clean, and he had a trim beard lined along his jaw and chin. They had traveled far from their hometown of Sahar, Yemen, entered the US on student Visas, and enrolled at George Washington University in DC.

  “What do you think, Sameer?” Jamil asked. They had been speaking English more and more to each other as a means to fit in. “Is this good? The area, I mean.”

  Sameer crossed his arms and looked around, watching the others unpack. It was going to be a long night. “Neighborhood is quiet enough. I like it. It’s perfect.”

  Jamil patted him on the back. “Good to hear.”

  “Yes, tonight we drink,” Sameer said.

  The two men laughed and went inside to join the others in unpacking and settling in. They had little knowledge of the house across the street or the story of the retired FBI agent who lived in it. They only knew that great things lay ahead for them and their friends in their new country, the United States of America.

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  EMP No Power

  1

  Lights Out

  The deafening alarm of a reversing forklift ricocheted off the high, windowless walls. Fingers struck a distant desktop keyboard while the hasty boots of untested privates clacked against the stained concrete floor. Other soldiers grunted as they heaved crates to their designated locations, and pens slashed against filing cards. Above the chaos and clatter, Sergeant Harper Murphy owned the room. With respectable posture, she patrolled through, clipboard in hand, taking stock of MREs and water bottles. She compared numbers, jotted down a note, and called over Private Walker.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the boy replied. Seemingly unaffected by the cool AC, sweat glued his stubby bangs to his freckled forehead.

  “You’re in charge of the rations, Private Walker. Am I correct?” Harper asked sternly.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Harper presented the clipboard, placing her finger on the number. “Then why are we short twelve MREs?”

  The boy struggled to keep eye contact. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  Harper glared. “Find the box, Private. Don’t make me ask again. Dismissed.”

  Walker thanked her and turned away, his strut morphing into a worried jog the farther away he went. Harper sighed, remembering the words of h
er commanding officer: You’re not their friend. She never liked that, especially since she worked with them day in and day out, but as she was a non-commanding officer, authority was the duty and burden she would continue to bear as she advanced through the military’s ranks.

  A buzz rattled her pocket. She slid the phone out far enough to see the number. Oh great. Tucking herself behind a caged shelf, Harper answered the call. James repeated her name twice before she replied. She couldn’t erase the image of him and that bar bimbo, drunk and stripped of their clothes.

  “You can’t keep me from seeing my son, Harper.” His voice was laced with venom.

  With a watchful eye to the bustling warehouse, Harper suppressed her voice. “Eli’s old enough to make his own decisions. If he wanted to stay with you, he would.”

  She heard the quick suck of air as James pulled his mouth from the phone, probably to stifle a curse. Muffled chatter passed by him. He returned to line, desperate. “When is this going to end?”

  More activity on his end. Muffled laughter. Indistinguishable music. A bar. Harper shut her eyes and breathed in through her nose.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Good-bye, James.”

  “Harper, come on. Can’t we be adults about this--”

  Her finger lingered on the phone’s button for moment. The perfect, stubble-enclosed smile and joyous eyes of James’s picture peered up at her. She missed the times when that brought her comfort.

  Boooosh.

  In a blink, Harper’s phone, the lights, and the AC cut off. Forklifts crashed into crates and slashed the darkness with radiant rays from their headlights. Worried dialogue filled the room. Feeling her way across the caged shelf, she placed herself to where she believed she faced the room. “Everyone, calm down!” At her command, the voices died. The forklifts hummed.

  Harper pressed her way into the middle of the room. “We’ve had a momentary power outage. Everyone is on standby until I state otherwise. Am I clear?”