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

by Ryan Westfield

  Wilson couldn't do it. The emotions were overpowering. Simply too much.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  He stood for there a few moments, gazing off at Max's back as Max continued walking, getting farther away.

  Max didn't notice. He didn't turn around.

  Wilson felt so hopeless that he couldn't even tolerate the idea of standing up. It felt as if the whole world was pushing down on him, as it were all above him rather than below him.

  He sank to his knees heavily. And then that seemed like too much effort to stay positioned like that, so he sank down, falling onto his side.

  He lay like that, essentially in the fetal position, staring straight ahead.

  Everything felt pointless. Everything felt impossible.

  There was no answer.

  There were too many problems.

  "Hey!"

  It was Max's voice.

  Wilson ignored it. His hand relaxed its grip, and the handgun clattered to the pavement.

  Footsteps nearby. Max's footsteps.

  Wilson didn't move his head, but his eyes followed Max as he strode towards him with long strides.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Wilson said nothing.

  Max extended a hand down, offering it to Wilson.

  It was too much work to take it. Too much work to get back up. Too much work to fight it all.

  Wilson ignored the hand.

  Really, it was too much work to lie there. It was too hard. Maybe there was an easier way out.

  "You know as well as I do that we've got to get going. Shit, you probably know it better than I do. They're coming for us, and they're not giving us any breaks. Like you said, they're not going to pull any punches."

  "There's no point."

  Max said nothing. Just stared at Wilson.

  Wilson lowered his gaze, his eyes focused now on the pavement. The black. The yellow line. The way the pavement was chunky. It was all up close. All easier to focus on than what was really important, than what was really going on.

  "I know exactly what they're going to do to us. There's no point in fighting back. I've never seen it work. I've been with Grant since the beginning. He's ruthless. You just don't even know. You think that..."

  "I've met men like him before," said Max. "I know what they're about."

  "I thought I knew him," said Wilson. "I thought he meant what he said."

  "You can't trust what people say. Especially when they're talking about themselves. Everyone lies."

  "I should have known that. Before the EMP, I was a... well, it doesn't matter now. What do you care what I was? But I knew people. I may have worked behind a desk, but I could still read people. I thought I knew the signs..."

  "People are tough," said Max, his voice gruff and tired.

  "I'm just going to end it all," said Wilson. He spoke quickly, and acted quickly as well. His hand seized the handgun that he had dropped.

  Wilson felt as if he'd suddenly found the answer. He felt as if he'd been looking for this answer all his life, and as if his life had been nothing but struggle, toil and hardship.

  It was if this is what he'd been looking for all along. But he didn't realize that his view of his life was distorted. It was almost as if they were false memories. He hadn't been like this before. Not all the time, anyway. He'd had his ups and downs through his professional life. Moments of depression. Moments of elation. All fairly normal. Fairly standard.

  Wilson brought the gun around quickly, his arm swinging, his elbow digging into the pavement.

  The muzzle of the handgun was pressed against his temple. He pushed harder, making the muzzle dig into his temple. Somehow the pressure felt good. Somehow the pressure felt right.

  "You're going to have to do this alone," said Wilson. His voice sounded strange and far away, even to himself.

  In a way, it was a shame to make Max do this all himself. To make him run and then get captured. To make him go through the torture and eventual death all by himself.

  But really, what was the difference? It wasn't as if Wilson's presence was necessary. It wasn't as if Wilson's presence would alleviate Max's suffering

  And even if it had, what did Wilson really owe Max? Max was a stranger. A nobody. Nothing more than just some guy.

  Wilson has his finger on the trigger.

  It was a strange sensation, knowing that he was about to pull the trigger. Knowing that he was about to put an end to it all.

  It was such an easy answer. Such a brilliantly simple solution.

  Why hadn't he thought of it before?

  Were there any last thoughts? Anything he wanted to say before he did it? Before he did himself in?

  No.

  Nothing came to mind.

  Before he could pull the trigger, something happened.

  Something slammed into his wrist. Something hard. Pain flared through his arm.

  Wilson yelped and dropped the handgun. His hand felt weak, with pain in it, and the dropping motion was automatic. Reflexive.

  Wilson turned his head to look. To see what had happened.

  It was Max's boot. Looking big. Imposing.

  It was a horribly worn-out boot. Cracked leather patches. Frayed laces. Eyelets that were almost bursting out of the leather. The side of the sole cracked and shorn away.

  The boot was pressed hard into the underside of Wilson's wrist.

  "I can't let you go through with that," growled Max.

  Something about his voice reminded Wilson of Grant. And he suddenly remembered that that had been his first impression of Max. That there'd been something Grant-like about him.

  "It's the only way out for me," said Wilson, his voice weak and frantic.

  Suddenly faced with the idea of not getting what he'd wanted, Wilson became desperate.

  His heart started to pound. It felt like his eyes were bulging. Some tears started to flow. His body felt shaky, as if his blood sugar were getting low.

  Wilson made a grab for the gun with his other hand. It was his only way out. The only thing he could think of.

  Before he could grab the gun, Max kicked it. The gun went clattering across the pavement, bouncing slightly on the uneven road.

  "It's the only thing I can do," said Wilson. "You don't understand what you're up against. You don't understand what we're facing."

  Suddenly, Max's hands were on Wilson's shoulders. Max was leaning down over him, and now he pulled. Hard.

  Wilson was pulled up roughly to his feet.

  Max didn't look nearly as strong as he was. It was that wiry strength. That hidden strength.

  Max pulled Wilson roughly towards him.

  Max's face was right up against Wilson's. Wilson could see every feature, every pore. He could feel Max's hot breath.

  It was like those army movies, where the drill sergeant got right in the face of the recruit. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Threatened him, until he did what he wanted.

  But Max didn't do that. he didn't yell. He didn't scream.

  Instead, he spoke in a low, calm voice.

  "We're not guaranteed to survive," he said. "But if you come with me, I promise that you have at least a chance. And you're right, you understand the consequences better than I do. You understand exactly what they'll do to us. That's partly what's making it so hard for you. It's easier if you can't imagine the consequences. It's easier if you can forget, if you can just plow on forward."

  "Easy for you to say."

  "Exactly," said Max. "I have a lot of practice with this. And because I'm good at this, I'm going to give you some tips. Tips on how to deal with this."

  "It's not going to help."

  "Even so, you're going to listen. Now the way I think about it is this: They're coming for us. They're people that we don't like. To put it mildly. Now do we want to make it easy for them? Do we want them to laugh about us later, when they're sitting around, cracking open beers that they scavenged from somewhere? Do we want to go out like that, or do
we want to go down as legends, as people who fought for their survival, fought for what’s right?"

  "It doesn't matter," said Wilson. "After we're dead, we're dead. We just die, and that's it. Nothing matters after that."

  Max shrugged. "Everyone has their own opinion on that," he said. "Me? I've got my opinions. I've got my beliefs. I keep them to myself. I'm not trying to convince you of anything. Except I need to correct you on one point. One crucial point."

  "What’s that?"

  "You think that you're dead and that's that. It's not. If you die, the world's still here. Dying is the easy way out. The coward's choice and the hero's choice. Seems like a contradiction but it's not. If you die, Grant and the others are still there. Still able to terrorize. Still able to torture. Still as power hungry as ever. If you kill yourself, it's just selfish. Just the choice of a man who wants to close his eyes and pretend that the world will disappear when he does it."

  Wilson didn't want to admit it to himself, but he could see that there was truth in Max's words.

  Wilson felt something change in his body. It was his emotions. It was the tension that had been there, that had been holding his captive.

  The tension was starting to melt away.

  It seemed as if Max had provided him with the answer he'd needed. It was the way out that he hadn't been able to see before.

  "If I'm already willing to die," said Wilson, his voice sounding strong and confident. He couldn't remember the last time his voice had sounded like this. "Then there's no reason to fear dying at the hands of those who follow us."

  "Exactly," said Max. "Couldn't have said it any better myself."

  Max released his grip on Wilson, and Wilson found himself standing up all by himself. Supporting his own weight. Standing on his own two feet. All the clichés applied.

  He felt like a man.

  It was a strange, sudden twist. A sudden change in outlook.

  Suddenly, a plan started developing in Wilson's mind.

  "OK," he said. "Here's what we've got to do..."

  "What we've got to do is run," said Max. "They're going to be closing in. We didn't have much of a head start. Come on, I'm glad you're feeling better. But we've got to go."

  "Run like rats in the night?" said Wilson.

  "Exactly," said Max. "When the time comes, we'll fight. But for now, we run."

  "I've got a better idea," said Wilson.

  "You do?"

  Wilson nodded. "I know how they work," he said. "I know what they're thinking. And, more importantly, I know what Grant is thinking."

  "Then spit it out," said Max.

  Max's posture said that he was ready to listen. That he was ready to change his plans.

  The pressure was all on Wilson now.

  But it felt good.

  It felt good to be relied on. It felt good to want to fight.

  Wilson was going take down Grant, even if it was the last thing he did.

  He hadn't done it when he'd had the chance, and now he was going to make the chance. Create opportunity.

  19

  Cynthia

  It had been a long, long night.

  Mandy hadn't seemed to be getting better. In fact, it had seemed that with each howl, she was getting worse.

  The pain had become intense. All sorts of pain. Seemingly diverse sources. Cramping. Sharp, shooting pain. Diffuse pain that seemed to be everywhere at once.

  It was morning now. The sun was coming up.

  Dan and James had been up all night on watch. They were serious about it. Serious about keeping everyone safe. Serious about defense and about duty. They'd learned well from Max.

  Max had said that it'd been more important to impart an attitude on the kids rather than any specific skill. Of course, they'd been taught plenty of skills.

  But if they knew that they could learn, if they understood what it actually meant to be able to learn, they'd be able to pick up the skill themselves when the time came.

  "How's she doing?" said Dan, poking his head into the structure.

  There was weariness on his face. Big dark bags under his eyes. But there was also determination in those very same eyes. Determination etched all over his face.

  "She's OK. Thanks for the water. No word from Georgia or anyone else?"

  Dan just shook his head, and ducked his head back outside.

  It wasn't strange to see a kid acting like that. Not now.

  He was as much of an adult as the rest of them. In a way.

  In a way, he and James and Sadie had adapted better to the post-EMP world than the "adults" had. They'd known the pre-EMP world, but not for nearly as long as the others.

  Cynthia, on the other hand, by comparison, had decades of the pre-EMP easy industrialized life. That was what she was used to.

  In fact, it seemed as if Cynthia had had a harder time than the others adapting.

  Sure, she knew about the chores she needed to do. She had learned them all. She had learned to shoot a gun. She had learned to fight. She had learned about knives and axes and about making fire. She'd learned about hunting and about foraging food.

  But while the others always seemed to think about their plans for the future, about survival tactics, Cynthia's mind seemed to instead drift towards memories of her past life. Memories of life with her husband in their quiet little house. Memories of TV shows and good meals paired with good wines. Memories of nights out with friends at trendy bars, memories of walking down the dark streets of Philadelphia, swaying from happiness and drink, arm in arm with her husband.

  Those days were all gone.

  The others, sure, seemed to remember them. They seemed to suffer some brief momentary pangs of memory.

  But with Cynthia it was different. She could tell it was stronger.

  That was the way she was. She was more sensitive. She always had been.

  She'd buried it all deep down. The others had no idea that she felt like this. They thought she was a no-nonsense woman. Practical. Didn't dwell in the past. Thought only of practicality and the future.

  But that wasn't reality.

  She was too sensitive for her own good. Back when the hordes had come, when Cynthia with the others had had to slaughter unending numbers of them, she had cried the nights away, weeping silently so that John wouldn't hear anything.

  She still thought of those days. She still thought of the faces of the men and women that she'd killed. They were faces with the crazed eyes, with the wide pupils, with the gaunt intense lines of emaciation.

  And now, just when everything seemed to be settling down, problems had started up again.

  It was almost too much for Cynthia to deal with.

  She hadn't wanted Max to leave. She hadn't wanted him to go off on his own. She didn't like the idea of him leaving Mandy here.

  Sure, in a way it was a horrible thing for him to do. And in another way, it was noble. He'd do anything for a better world for his kid, even if it meant that he might never meet that very same kid.

  The promise of a newborn in the camp had seemed... Well, it had buoyed Cynthia's spirits a little. It had made it seem like things would once again be possible, as if things wouldn't remain static and stuck forever.

  Maybe they wouldn't have to live in hiding forever. Maybe eventually they'd burst forth back into the world.

  The child had meant hope. It had been a symbol.

  And now? That was all in jeopardy.

  Cynthia had combed through the midwifery book by candlelight.

  There were many things that could have been wrong with the pregnancy and the baby.

  And Cynthia didn't have the power to do anything about them. Not one of them.

  She had no training as a midwife, and the book didn't go into enough detail. It wasn't that sort of book.

  And, anyway, when it came to serious pregnancy complications, the book pretty much just advised that the midwife take the pregnant woman to the hospital as soon as possible.

  What good was that to Mandy
and Cynthia? None.

  So there was really nothing to do but try to help with the pain. Be there for her. Hold her hand.

  Those kinds of things. Useless, really.

  Cynthia preferred things that worked. Things like penicillin, which could arrest an infection before it got serious. The results were clear-cut.

  She needed something like that now. But she knew that it wasn't going to happen.

  Mandy's noises of pain had gotten so bad that Cynthia had figured that at best, Mandy was going to lose the baby.

  At worst, they were going to lose both Mandy and the baby.

  And Cynthia was going to have to watch it all happen.

  Cynthia didn't know if she could bear to do it.

  But who else was there?

  She couldn't leave Mandy there on her own. That'd be cruel.

  The kids couldn't handle it.

  "How are you feeling?" said Cynthia, in her gentlest tones. She placed her hand lightly on Mandy's shoulder.

  Mandy hadn't been asleep, but she'd been in some kind of dazed state.

  She stirred a little now, moving her body somewhat restlessly, acting as if she had been asleep.

  "Better," said Mandy, but her voice sounded weak.

  But she wasn't grunting in pain. She wasn't panting laboriously.

  "Everything feel all right?"

  Mandy shrugged. "I guess so," she said.

  "You seem like you're feeling a lot better actually. No more pain?"

  "Not really," said Mandy. "I just feel exhausted. Depleted, I guess."

  "Hmmm."

  "Did you find anything that book? Anything that it might be?"

  "A few things caught my attention, but..." Cynthia didn't quite know what to say. It was hard to find a delicate way to say that there was nothing they'd be able to do for any of those problems.

  Mandy nodded, though, as if she already understood.

  "I was worried about getting pregnant in the first place," she said. "It seemed crazy to want to bring up a child in this world."

  "Life has to go on," said Cynthia. "Just because we don't have electricity, and the government had fallen away..."