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

by Ryan Westfield

  There'd always been a set of options. There'd often been tough decisions. Tough choices. Hard calls.

  He'd had to rack his brains plenty of times before. He'd had to go with his gut. He'd had to run scenarios through his head. He'd had to just go with his instinct.

  It had always more or less worked out.

  But now?

  Max didn't think it was going to work out.

  What were they going to do?

  Sooner or later, they'd tire.

  And soon enough, Grant's men would overcome them.

  According to Wilson, Grant and his men had access to ample quantities of not just traditional pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, but other substances as well. Things like modafinil, that were used by Air Force pilots during military exercises. They were the updates, improved amphetamines, that could keep men going for days and days without fatigue.

  It wasn't going to end well.

  Max and Wilson weren't going to be able to outrun them. They weren't going to be able to hide.

  They were going to have to fight. There were no two ways about it.

  Max stopped suddenly in his tracks.

  Wilson almost ran into him, coming up from behind.

  "What are you doing?" said Wilson. "Come on. We've got to keep going. They're getting close."

  Wilson turned and looked back anxiously.

  "This is it," said Max. "Come on. Get ready. This is as good a place as any."

  "Are we going to die?"

  "Most likely," said Max.

  Wilson's face showed his terror. But it seemed that he was able to pull himself together.

  Max readied himself, getting down on the ground, gun in front of him.

  Ready to shoot. Ready to die.

  Wilson did the same. Slightly off to the side.

  There were some obstacles, some trees that provided some cover. But not much.

  There wasn't much point in trying to hide themselves, or trying to delay the inevitable.

  Grant and his men would come up, and there'd be a gun fight. If Max and Wilson hid themselves, then they wouldn't be able to shoot.

  "Better to just get it over with," grunted Max.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," said Max, speaking no more.

  His leg hurt. His whole body hurt. He thought of Mandy and hoped she was OK.

  Max's hands were right on his gun. Gripped hard. Not too hard.

  His palms were sweaty. His whole body was sweaty and uncomfortable. Somewhat itchy, too, strangely.

  But what did he expect? For death to come on in a nice, pleasant way? Did he expect to die while feeling great, while on top of the world?

  No. He never had. He'd imagined this moment countless times before. He'd known it would come. He hadn't known when. But he'd known that it would be like this. He'd known that it'd be painful and unpleasant.

  What were the chances he'd die immediately? Not good.

  If Max understood anything about Grant, it was that he was power hungry. And probably a sadist. Willing to do anything to stay on top. A sick man.

  Grant, if he could, would have Max tortured.

  It would happen fast. Max would get hit. A bullet here or there. Lodged in a leg or abdomen. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to incapacitate him.

  Then he'd be taken by Grant and his men. Maybe tied up. Maybe just beaten until he was further incapacitated.

  Then the imaginative things would start happening. From what Max had heard from Wilson and from the people in the stockade, the knives would come out.

  Max would get carved up like a Christmas turkey.

  He wouldn't enjoy it.

  Maybe they'd be the worst moments of his life. Maybe not. He didn't know.

  Max wasn't scared of torture.

  He was scared of dying. That was normal. He couldn't help it. No point in fighting it.

  The dying would end the torture. It would last a few minutes. Maybe a few hours or days if he was really unlucky. And then it would be all over. And after that, what difference would it make to anyone? What difference would it make to Max that he'd spent his last moments in intense physical and mental pain? None. He'd be dead.

  Max saw it happen in a flash.

  The men came rushing up. Four of them.

  Grant was in the rear. Massive. Bigger and more powerful looking than the other men.

  Grant's little unit wasn't expecting to find Max and Wilson there. They were expecting to find empty ground. They were expecting to keep chasing Max and Wilson.

  So they weren't ready to fight. Not yet.

  Max, though, was ready.

  His trigger finger was moving. It seemed almost automatic. Almost as if he wasn't even thinking about it.

  His gun kicked. No one fell. Someone was hit, but they kept going. Maybe a result of the drugs. Who knew?

  Max wasn't expecting what happened next.

  It all was happening so fast.

  Someone was rushing towards the oncoming men, and for a moment, Max's brain couldn't comprehend who or what it was.

  Then he realized that it was Wilson.

  Wilson, rushing the oncoming men as if he were... well, there really was no comparison. Max didn't know what it was like. It was like nothing he'd ever seen.

  Wilson held his gun at his hip, running as fast as he could, faster than Max had ever seen him run during their escape.

  It was like Wilson was a crazed warrior, carrying a flaming spear.

  "Aghhhh!" screamed Wilson, at the top of his lungs. More shouted words came out, but nothing was intelligible. The only thing he communicated was that he was in a rage, that he was attacking, that he was using everything he had.

  This wasn't just a last-ditch effort. It was something more.

  Wilson had decided how he wanted to go out, how he'd wanted to be remembered.

  Wilson went down in a flash.

  Guns fired. Gunshots echoed.

  Wilson was on his way down.

  But not without firing shots of his own.

  His gun went off like a cannon.

  Pretty close range too.

  Since, no matter how fast Grant's men reacted, it wasn't fast enough. Wilson had managed to get close to them. He'd managed to do the impossible, to give Max and him a tactical advantage when one hadn't been there to begin with.

  Wilson got two of them. Hit them in the stomach. Which was pretty good, considering he wasn't really aiming at all. He was just firing from the hip, like he was in some old cowboy movie.

  Then Wilson was down on the ground.

  Max had fired three shots of his own.

  It would have been miraculous, had Wilson not died in the process.

  Max's ears were ringing horribly. His heart was pounding.

  When it was all over, mere seconds later, there was only one man still standing.

  And it was Grant.

  Tall and massive Grant.

  Fury on his face. A mean face. A horrible face.

  Max took aim. He tried to take his time, while moving swiftly. His hands were steady.

  Max knew he could make the shot.

  Grant wasn't fast enough. In fact, Grant didn't seem to be acting rationally. He had dropped his gun. A long gun. Dropped it to the ground.

  Grant's face was twisting, transforming. His mouth was open as he was screaming.

  Max couldn't hear Grant's screaming over the intense ringing in his ears.

  Max didn't know what he was saying.

  But he saw what was happening.

  Grant's desires had shaped his behavior. They had overtaken him. They had prevented him from thinking or acting rationally.

  What Grant should have done is stood in place and shot Max to death.

  But he didn't.

  Now the ball was in Max's court. All he had to do was shoot.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  No kickback.

  No noise.

  The gun was jammed. Just an empty trigger pull, accomp
lishing nothing.

  Grant was coming at him fast. He looked like a linebacker. A linebacker who could do the 100 in 10 seconds flat. A linebacker who knew how to sprint, who knew how to pick up his knees, who knew how to move his arms. He knew how to propel himself forward.

  He was mere feet from Max when he launched himself forward. Half-jump, half just thrusting himself froward

  Max had no knife. No working gun.

  Wilson's gun was far away.

  This was going to be hand-to-hand combat. This was going to be a fight to the death. Nothing but their hands.

  Unless Grant pulled a knife.

  Anything was possible.

  Grant's huge body smashed into Max.

  It was hard to tell what was happening.

  The impact seemed to make Max's vision go blurry for a moment.

  And it stayed blurry.

  Grant's hands were huge. Abnormally large. And strong.

  His hands were around Max's neck. Grant's legs were splayed out as he crouched over Max's body.

  Max was on his belly. Grant's breath was hot and close to his neck.

  "You're going to die," hissed Grant, his voice deep and intense. "But don't worry, it's not going to happen fast... I'm just going to choke you out... when you wake up you're going to be in more pain than you've ever imagined..."

  So Max had been right. Grant wanted to prolong his suffering.

  Not that it mattered much.

  "You hate me more than Wilson?" Max managed to say, despite the hands around his neck.

  "Wilson..." grunted Grant, not adding any more.

  "He's still alive," said Max.

  It was a classic trick. The classic trick. It was a variation on "look, what's that over there?"

  But it worked. Even if it was dumb, it still worked.

  Grant looked, turning his big massive head on his big muscular neck.

  Max brought both his legs up at the same time, as hard as he could. He had to pull them backwards, since he was on his belly.

  It was his knees that connected with Grant's groin.

  Max kicked backward with everything he had.

  And it made a difference.

  Grant squealed in pain. A high-pitched squeal.

  Max didn't know how he did it but he managed to squirm his way out from under Grant, breaking free of the hands on his neck that were weakening.

  It was all a blur.

  Hard to say what happened in what order.

  But now they were locked together, like wrestlers. Both of them on their knees. Both of their heads pressed against each other. Max's forehead hurt from the pressure.

  Max's neck hurt from the strain of pressing as hard as he could against Grant's.

  Grant's face was red. His cheeks were puffed out. His teeth were gritted. He wore an intense grimace.

  "You're going to wish you were dead," hissed Grant.

  Max didn't waste his breath talking. He didn't waste his energy.

  But he knew what to do. He had to trick him. Distract him.

  Max smiled. A big, creepy smile. Showed all his teeth. Really got the corners of his mouth up high.

  It unnerved Grant. Max could tell that much.

  It gave Grant just that moment of hesitation that Max needed.

  Max had spotted the knife on Grant's belt earlier.

  He reached for it now, completely blind, his eyes staying locked on Grant's, his forehead staying pressed hard against Grant's.

  Grant's hands were once again at Max's throat, but it didn't matter. Max ignored it and just kept on flashing his absurd smile, as if everything was fine with the world or it just really didn't matter, as if he'd just completely lost his mind.

  Max moved fast. Trying to get the knife.

  It was hard doing it blind.

  Max's first attempt missed. Instead, he just grabbed a bit of Grant's thigh.

  It was as if he were making an awkward pass at him or something.

  Max's hand fumbled around.

  Found the knife.

  It was a fancy fixed blade in a fancy holster.

  The sheath was leather. Fortunately, there was no small piece of leather that snapped in place, securing the knife.

  The knife stayed in just by friction. The sheath was tight.

  Max wrapped his fingers around the cool handle. It was a strange-feeling material. Without seeing it, he knew it was something fancy. Something strange. Maybe some kind of rare stone. Pearl? Was that possible?

  It didn't matter.

  Max had been ignoring the hands around his neck. But now he couldn't ignore the light-headed feeling, the sensation that he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen.

  He had mere seconds.

  Max pulled the knife from its sheath. He moved fast.

  He moved his hand to the right, swinging the knife out far. Then he brought it back, moving as swiftly and as forcefully as he could.

  The blade of the knife plunged into Grant's side.

  Grant let out a grunt of pain, but managed to keep his eyes focused on Max's, and his fingers around Max's throat.

  Max had never felt this lightheaded. Never felt so close to passing out.

  It was almost like he was drowning. There was some distant memory from somewhere that was trying to surface, but it stayed put.

  Max brought the knife back out. Then in again, plunging it into Grant's body.

  Grant was a hardened, muscular man. But it didn't matter. The knife was sharp. It was double-edged. It was a real weapon, with a sharp point. And it plunged through Grant's muscles easily, slicing them apart as if it were surgeon's scalpel

  The hands around Max's neck were loosening a little.

  "You'll never..." growled Grant, bits of his spittle flying and hitting Max's face.

  Grant's eyes had fury in them. They were locked onto Max's.

  Max stabbed him again. And again.

  And again.

  By the time he'd stabbed him for the tenth time, Grant was done.

  His eyes were blank. Pupils rolled back in his head. A strange frothy substance on the corners of his lips. His hands had gone limp.

  Max kept the knife in, driving it in even harder.

  It took a huge effort to push Grant's inert body off of him.

  But he did it. Grunting in pain and exhaustion.

  There was blood soaking the hand that he'd stabbed with. Blood up to nearly his elbow. His hand felt cold and weak from the intense effort.

  Max's neck hurt.

  It seemed like he couldn't quite get enough air to breathe.

  He staggered away from the scene, his eyes casting around on the ground.

  He didn't know if everyone was dead yet. He needed a weapon. There was no time to celebrate.

  He found it. A handgun someone had dropped. Not his own Glock, but it would have to do.

  Grant was dead. His body was still. Max walked back over, checked the pulse.

  No pulse.

  Good.

  Max made the rounds.

  Wilson was obviously dead. Shot to pieces. His body was torn up from the bullets. A gruesome sight. No point in even checking the pulse.

  The three others were on the ground. Max went to them each in turn.

  The first two were dead. No pulse. Stone-cold dead. Good. Easier that way.

  The third was still alive.

  Max didn't have to take his pulse to find that out. When he got close, he could hear the man's ragged breathing even over the roaring in his ears.

  The man was spread out, stretched out. Lying face-up on his back. His arms were out to his side, spread all the way out.

  The man had a short haircut. Reminiscent of the military.

  He had a well-developed musculature. Impressive in these lean times when food was scarce.

  Max didn't give his action a second thought. He pressed the muzzle of his gun against the forehead. Squeezed the trigger.

  Point blank. Messy. But he didn't have time to try to play nice and clean.
>
  Another life lost. Another human dead. Out of how many?

  Max didn't know. But he wasn't going to be another statistic.

  Now that he'd somehow defeated the undefeatable crack team, he knew he could get back to the camp alive. He knew he could outpace the other teams that were farther off course, father behind. Maybe they wouldn't even pursue him.

  It was all because of Wilson. Wilson's sacrifice.

  Max glanced down at Wilson's destroyed body. He owed his life to this man.

  But Max didn't let his gaze linger long. He didn't let himself get too sentimental. Instead, he started digging through the pockets of every man there. And that included Wilson.

  Max took would be useful to him. It didn't take long.

  He'd lost his own gun. His Glock. But he'd gained others.

  It wasn't the actual gun so much that mattered, but what you did with it. And things like knowledge and circumstance. And luck. Luck had a lot to do with it.

  Less than ten minutes later, Max was leaving the bodies behind.

  He had a pack full of the gear he'd harvested. He had guns and he had ammunition. He had food and he had water.

  Most importantly, he knew where he was going.

  His neck hurt and his body was tired. His leg hurt, as it almost always did.

  Max set off at a good pace, not wanting to waste any time.

  He didn't glance back. Not once. He didn't need to the see the bodies again. They were just dead people. Nothing useful left there.

  Someone would find them at some point. Maybe other members of the cult-like militia camp that Grant had run.

  Max would make it back to his own camp, an entirely different sort of camp.

  He'd travel mostly at night. He'd take his time, doing everything safely. He'd make sure he got back. He'd make sure that he was there for Mandy when their kid was born.

  Max was tired. Exhausted. But it didn't matter. He'd been through this sort of thing before. He knew that his body wouldn't give out on him for several hours more. He knew that although he'd already pushed himself, he could keep pushing himself.

  Max understood the limits of his body. He understood what it could take.

  He knew he'd live.

  It was a little strange, heading back from the camp.

  He'd left his own wife to try to make a difference. He'd thought, on setting out, that he was too hardened and jaded to be caught in the idealism trap.

  But he'd been caught in it nonetheless. He'd thought that he could make a difference. He'd thought that he could change the world.