Finding Shelter: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The EMP Book 8)

by Ryan Westfield

  It wasn't a subject that Georgia knew much about. Or anything about at all. For her own pregnancies, she'd gone to the hospital, just like every other woman she'd known. There hadn't been any complications, but the doctors and nurses had been there around the clock. They'd given her an epidural, and they'd been there to soothe her and tell her that everything was OK.

  Georgia didn't feel like she could do the same for Mandy. Because, here in the woods, there weren't any machines or devices that would tell Georgia that everything was OK.

  Georgia put her arms on Mandy's shoulders.

  "What is it, Mandy?"

  John entered a moment later, ducking down. Cynthia followed him.

  Both had their guns drawn, and both holstered them upon evaluating the situation.

  "We thought you'd been attacked," said John.

  "You're not going into labor, are you?" said Cynthia.

  "Something's wrong," said Mandy. "Something's not right..."

  "Tell me what you're feeling," said Georgia.

  Mentally, Georgia was anything but calm, but she made sure to keep her voice as calm as she possibly could.

  If there was anything she'd learned from her own pregnancies, with James and Sadie, it was that having someone freaking out next to you did not help.

  For a second, she had a flashback to her ex-husband. He'd been there for James's birth, but not Sadie's. By that point, he'd been long gone. A total loser. And she'd known it all along. She should have just left him from the beginning.

  But, then again, she would not have been blessed with James and Sadie. She may have had a tougher exterior than just about anyone else, but inside, she could be a softie. At least when it came to her children.

  If anything ever happened to them, she knew that she'd hurt too much. She knew that she’d have to bury the pain, and the only way she'd be able to do that would be with violence. Extreme violence directed at whoever was responsible.

  Her ex-husband's dumb obnoxious face seemed to hang in her mind's eye for a moment.

  Then she shook it off.

  "I'm feeling weak," said Mandy. "Really weak. Like I couldn't stand up anymore."

  "You couldn't stand up?" said John, his voice rising. His distress and worry were plainly evident in his tone.

  Cynthia tugged on his arm, giving him a look to tell him to shut up. Georgia supposed that as a woman Cynthia understood more what pregnancy meant.

  It was strange, she suddenly realized that she'd never talked to Cynthia about whether or not she'd had children. For all she knew, Cynthia did have kids, and understood well the process of childbirth.

  If she did have kids, it seemed more polite not to ask about them. After all, who knew what could have happened to them. Georgia did remember that Cynthia had had a husband who'd died right after the EMP. But she'd only heard it secondhand from John one night.

  "I'll take care of this," said Georgia, turning to address John. "Why don't you wait outside. We'll let you know if we need you. Plus, the others might want to know what happened, if they heard the screaming."

  Mandy suddenly let out another scream. Georgia saw the pain on her face. It was definitely real.

  Cynthia muttered something under her breath.

  There were beads of sweat on Mandy's brow. Some of her hair had come loose from the bun she'd had it in, and it was plastered wet against her forehead.

  John gave a nod and disappeared out the door.

  The space was small, and fairly cluttered with odds and ends, things that Max had been tinkering with. Knives he'd been trying to get a good edge on again, or broken compasses he'd been trying to reassemble. Maps he'd been drawing routes on, or just studying.

  "Take her pulse, would you?" said Georgia, noticing that Cynthia had on a watch. She hoped that hers worked.

  Cynthia moved to Mandy's side, taking her hand and putting her fingers on her wrist, while watching the dial on her watch.

  "Now tell me where it hurts, Mandy," said Georgia, taking Mandy's other hand. It was her attempt at a comforting gesture. Not necessarily her strong suit.

  Mandy said nothing. Instead, she pointed at her belly.

  Cynthia looked over at Georgia, and they exchanged a look.

  The meaning of the look was clear.

  Neither of them knew what was going on.

  But they both knew that it wasn't good.

  8

  Wilson

  For some reason, Wilson couldn't get that man from earlier that day out of his head.

  Wilson had sent many men and women to the stockades before. He'd sent many to be executed. He thought that he'd gotten used to it all.

  After all, what did it matter if a few people were sacrificed, so long as there was a good cause? As long as they were doing important work, a few lives here and there were all part of the deal. Part of what had to happen.

  How many lives had been lost overall since the EMP? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?

  Whatever the number, it was a lot.

  Of course, somewhere in Wilson's files were the official estimates on the death toll. Not to mention the death toll in the coming months.

  They weren't going to restore order to the nation without some good solid numbers.

  And without a fair bit of paperwork as well.

  It was getting late. Wilson was tired, and his back was aching. Maybe he should put in an order for a better chair. He did deserve it, after all, as Grant was always telling him.

  Wilson put out the candle that was still burning on his desk and slowly stood up, grabbing his lower back with both hands and letting out a groan of pain.

  "Anyone there?" came a gruff, familiar voice from outside the tent.

  It was Grant. His voice was unmistakable.

  Wilson felt his heart start to beat a little faster. Even after all the time he'd spent with Grant, Grant's presence still made him a little nervous. Not that he'd ever admit that. Maybe not even to himself.

  "Hey, Grant," said Wilson.

  The tent flap moved back, and Grant stepped into the room.

  He had a commanding presence. He was taller than most men. And well built. A good amount of muscle. But he didn't seem like the type who spent a lot of time working out. More likely, it had just come naturally to him.

  He was probably a little thinner than he had been before the EMP. But weren't they all?

  After all, they were on strict rations here at the camp. Everyone was. Even Grant. And those in charge of the mess halls were strict. Very strict. Men had been sent to the stockade for a week just for trying to plunder a few hundred extra calories.

  It suddenly occurred to Wilson that he didn't have any idea what Grant had done before the EMP. Which was strange. It was almost as if Grant were made for a post-apocalyptic world. It seemed as if he had just shown up, his ideas and mindset already fully formed, ready to lead. And people had been ready to follow.

  Grant stood there, arms crossed, surveying the tent. "You really must like paperwork, you bastard."

  "Someone's got to do it, and I've got a talent for it, apparently."

  "That you do, my friend, that you do."

  They spoke sometimes in a casual way, as if they were friends. And in some ways they were, but there was always a distance around Grant. Wilson was the closest to him, and he felt far away.

  Grant said nothing more, and a long silence hung in the tent. The silence made Wilson feel nervous. Anxious.

  It was strange. Wilson felt almost as if he were in trouble for something. That was the way Grant made him feel sometimes. But Wilson knew he'd done an excellent job on everything. Hell, he was practically running the camp, while Grant did whatever it was that Grant did all day.

  "What's on your mind, Grant?" said Wilson, breaking the silence. His voice cracked a little as he spoke, due to his nerves, as if he were a teenager.

  "I thought we'd go for a little walk," said Grant. "Just the two of us. A nighttime stroll."

  Grant said nothing more. Offered no ex
planation.

  "All right," said Wilson. He knew it wasn't a good idea to contradict Wilson. He'd seen men do it before.

  The last thing Wilson wanted to do right now was tell Grant that he didn't feel like going for a walk.

  And the truth was that he didn't feel like it. After all, it was late. His back hurt. And he was tired. And he didn't see the point in puttering around in the darkness. That was the duty of those who had night-watch shifts, and those who had other responsibilities.

  Wilson followed Grant out of the tent.

  The night was upon them. There was darkness everywhere, punctuated by the odd lantern, candle, or flashlight.

  Flashlights were in short supply, despite the abundance of supplies that the militia had managed to secure through countless raids and expeditions.

  Wilson knew that Grant had a couple of his own flashlights. After all, as a leader, he was entitled to the best gear.

  But Grant didn't pull one out. Instead, he just stepped out into the darkness and started walking at a brisk pace. His long legs moved rapidly.

  Wilson had to practically jog to keep up. He tried to stay abreast of Grant, but it was difficult, and he kept finding himself lagging behind.

  The activity of the camp had certainly died down since the daytime, but there was still quite a bit going on. After all, things had to get done. Wilson had signed off on a lot of the orders himself. So there were plenty of men and women who were going to work all the through the night tonight. They'd sleep during the day, of course.

  Their camp was huge. At least a 1,000 men and women. Wilson couldn't remember the exact population figure at the moment.

  The camp spread for miles. And it seemed as if Grant wanted to walk to the camp's edge tonight, because he never stopped. He just wound his way through the lines of men and women working away, with Wilson trotting behind him.

  They'd walked in silence for half an hour, when Wilson had almost had enough of it all. After all, he was huffing and puffing. His legs ached and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He'd skipped his dinner that night, and had been planning on having it right before bed. But now, it seemed that there was no dinner in sight.

  Wilson was really lagging behind now. He could just see Grant's back. And the back of his head.

  Grant wasn't slowing down at all. And he never once turned around to see if Wilson was still there.

  "What's this all about anyway, Grant?" said Wilson, in a rare moment of sticking up for himself. "I was thinking I'd be hitting the sack around now."

  Grant stopped dead in his tracks. Turned around.

  Wilson almost ran smack into him. But he stopped too.

  Grant stared right at him.

  They were near a man who appeared to be digging a trench. The man wore a headlamp, and its very pale white light cast strange stark shadows on Grant's face. There in the shadows, there in the darkness, he had never looked more severe or imposing.

  The man who was digging didn't even look up. He looked like he was digging with all the fervor and strength he had, as if he was carrying out severe sentencing, as if he'd be sentenced to death if he stopped. And, for all Wilson knew, that was actually the case. Wilson had a good memory, but he didn't have every penal sentence on the tip of his tongue. There was a reason he used all those clipboards.

  "This is about the future," said Grant, his voice low and deep. "This is about strength. This is about doing what's right. This is about..."

  Wilson had heard this kind of stuff before. These were the kinds of words that Grant used so successfully to speak to the crowds. They ate this kind of stuff up.

  For some reason, Wilson felt that he could speak up about it. Maybe it was because he was tired. Maybe he was just feeling a little impatient for whatever reason.

  "Come on, Grant," said Wilson, interrupt him. "I've heard this all before. It's good stuff, but save it for the crowds, won't you? Just spit it out. What'd you drag me out here in the dark for?"

  "I wanted to show you something," said Grant.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Wilson.

  "Well, if you're that impatient, I can tell you it's only a minute away."

  "A minute away?" said Wilson, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his voice. "What's a minute away from here?"

  "The stockade," said Grant simply. He turned around and began marching off, his large frame almost disappearing into the darkness.

  The man digging the trench suddenly looked up. His headlamp shone directly onto Wilson, who shielded his eyes from the bright light.

  What did Grant want to show Wilson at the stockade?

  His curiosity piqued, and still just as annoyed as before, Wilson started off. He picked up his pace, trying not to let Grant get out of view.

  Grant was either wrong or lying. It took about ten more minutes of rapid walking to reach the stockade.

  When they got there, Grant stood there, staring at the fence, with his hands on his hips. His legs were spread more than shoulder-width apart, but he still looked as tall and as imposing as ever.

  Wilson was panting, and he doubled over, his hands on his knees, as he gasped for breath.

  "Everything all right, sir?" said a guard, approaching Grant somewhat timidly.

  Having Grant show up at the stockade, or anywhere for that matter, was unusual. And it was often an anxiety-provoking event for whoever was on duty. Wilson had no doubt that this guard would be telling everyone he knew that Grant himself had shown up on his overnight shift.

  Grant didn't answer, he just gave the guard a stiff nod. "How's he doing?"

  "Sorry, sir? Who?"

  "The new one. The one who came in today."

  Grant pointed into the dimness of the stockade. The darkness hid most everything, but there were three figures there, huddled against the fencing.

  Wilson couldn't tell that new prisoner, Max, from the others. Not in the darkness.

  So how could Grant?

  And how did Grant know about the new prisoners? How had he even heard about Max, about some nobody impudent upstart?

  "He's... fine, I guess..." said the guard, not really knowing what to say.

  "He's not going to be fine pretty soon," growled Grant, his tone of voice changing from its normal low and rumbly tones to downright sinister and vicious.

  "Sir?" said the guard.

  "Bring him here," growled Grant. "I'm going to personally make sure that this... person... understands the power of my authority."

  "This is why you brought me here? So you can torture some nobody prisoner? How do you even know about this?"

  "I have ears all over. And I wouldn't exactly call it torture."

  Wilson should have remembered the spies. After all, Grant confided in no one, but plenty confided in him. Told him everything.

  Wilson didn't know what to make of all this. After all, it wasn't like there were any laws on the books about torture. Shit, they tortured people all the time at the militia camp. After all, if nothing else, it got the job done. And they typically didn't have time to waste at the camp. If information was needed, it was needed sooner rather than later.

  But the real question was why was Grant bothering to do any of this himself?

  And why did he want Wilson to see it?

  It didn't make sense.

  Suddenly, a dull thud. A grunt of pain.

  Wilson looked up into the darkness to see the guard roughly dragging the man who had been in his tent only earlier today.

  It was the same man. But he was bound and gagged. He didn't struggle as he was dumped roughly at Grant's feet, and he barely reacted as the guard kicked him hard in the stomach.

  "That's enough," growled Grant. "I'll take him from here."

  9

  Terry

  Terry still couldn't believe his luck. It was almost as if the stars had all aligned to give him just exactly what he'd wanted.

  It hadn't been that long after he'd come up with his plan that this girl had delivered herself right to him.

 
; She hadn't been the least bit suspicious. Not after the initial meeting. She'd marched right alongside him all the way to his house.

  It was almost sad, hearing her talk for so long about all the kinds of games she wanted to play with his daughter.

  Oh, he listened. He lent her a good ear. And he even chimed in with stories of his daughter. Real stories. Telling this girl Sadie all about the types of games she liked to play, and all the fun they'd have together.

  Now, Terry was a quick thinker. But not as quick as he would have liked. After all, he did have to come up with his plan more or less on the spot.

  He'd never kidnapped anyone before, so he carefully ran through the plan in his head as this girl, Sadie, jabbered on happily about all kinds of things.

  It was nice that Sadie was also happy, now that she seemed to trust him so much, to tell him all about the camp where she lived.

  Now, Terry knew all about Georgia, Sadie's mother. About Max. About John, and Cynthia, everyone else.

  He knew about it all.

  And he was boiling inside when he heard about it all. He didn't let on to Sadie. Not in the least bit. But he knew that her mother and the other adults were the people who were responsible for stealing all the supplies in the area. They were the ones who were completely responsible for the downfall of Terry and his family. They were the ones who had kept Terry on a starvation-level diet.

  And meanwhile, while the girl talked, Terry concocted his plan.

  One option was to bring Sadie into the house with his wife and daughter, with Olivia and Lilly. There'd really be no need to actually "kidnap" her in the traditional sense. He could just let her play with Lilly. Then when Sadie wanted to go home, he could make up some lie about why she couldn't return.

  That probably wasn't the best idea. Sooner or later, Sadie would insist on returning home. And then what? He'd have to tie her up? In front of his daughter?

  He didn't want to expose Lilly to that kind of stuff. Not if he could help it.

  And Terry doubted that his wife would approve. She had always been a gentle soul. Much like himself.

  But now he was willing to do what it took. He'd do anything to keep his family alive.