The Fractured Earth

by Matt Hart

  Either a nuclear or solar blast of energy that had fried modern electronic systems—including the power grid and probably everything that was connected to it. Some people would have older vehicles that would still run, and maybe some more modern ones would be okay if they were protected by a Faraday cage. Otherwise…

  I knew all that because we had some radios and junk in just such a cage in our garage.

  "Let's gear up," said my dad.

  I climbed back in the truck and reached into the back and unlocked the back doors. We removed the bags we took on the camping trip, an extra pair of socks, underwear and a shirt, my Frog Toggs rain suit, and my hunter's pack with just the essentials for survival. We pulled up the seats and opened the two bottom containers. In them, where the jack was, Dad kept his machete. There were a few times when small leaning trees on our long gravel driveway needed to be chopped down before the truck could pass. There was also a trench shovel from his time in the Army. Finally, there were some road flares next to the jack.

  Then we opened the seat backs and their two compartments. In one was a small black hiker's backpack with a gravity water filter, and a small medical kit with more items in it than in the pack belt medical kit. It also had a folding survival rifle in a locked, waterproof soft case, a Chiappa M6 .22/20, a neat little survival rifle that had two barrels; and a 20 gauge shotgun over a .22LR. It was good for birds or small game, but it only held one shell in each chamber, with a separate trigger for each barrel. Lightweight—only six pounds, easy to carry. The other seat compartment had a gun safe with nothing in it—Dad kept it in the truck in case anyone ever noticed he was carrying and asked him to leave. It could be carried almost anywhere in Massachusetts, but you have to comply if you are asked to remove it. His gun had sat in there during our trip to Arkansas, There was also a small bag of ammo. Dad added it to his backpack along with my extra clothes.

  "This bag has about 150 rounds of 9mm Federal in it, a box of 40 .22LR, and a box of 20 gauge birdshot," he told me. "I want to trade you the belt for the backpack," he said, removing a box of the 9mm rounds. "I'll keep this and my pistol, but you take the backpack with the rifle and extra rounds. That way you can use the 20-22 if you need to."

  I put the rest of the ammo in the backpack and gave Dad my belt. He snapped it on around his waist.

  "Won't that block your back holster?" I asked.

  He reached back."Yeah, it does sort of block it." He tried pulling the gun out and replacing it a few times. "It's alright. Better than putting it in my pocket."

  I knew that. He had all kinds of holsters, but settled on the back holster. He had me try all of them on as well, and I could easily see why. It was the most comfortable, best concealed, and easiest to pull out.

  He practiced reaching back and pulling the gun real quick a few more times, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. "I can still get to it okay, so I'll leave it. Plus maybe some unsuspecting robber might ask for the belt, and I could reach around and unbuckle it and pull the gun at the same time."

  "Sounds like a plan, Dad," I said.

  With him leading the way, I knew we'd make it back home easily and in one piece.

  The backpack fit everything just fine, as I knew it would, although the machete stuck out the top. I might have to strap that on. I opened the backpack, removed it, and went ahead and put it on. I had nothing except my pocketknife for quick defense, and that wouldn't do at all.

  I put the pack on and made the straps comfortable, and then Dad asked to see the pack again.

  I made an exaggerated sigh and made like it was a real burden to pull it off, and Dad laughed at my joking around.

  "I was thinking about my gun," he said. He opened the backpack and got out the ammo bag, then pulled out an extra magazine and put it in his pocket. "I forgot to get that out," he said.

  I looked confused."Really? It didn't jump out of your pocket and into the ammo bag by itself?"

  "Goofus," he said, laughing, and I laughed with him.

  "And not only that…" he said. He took the magazine out of his pocked and switched it out with the magazine in the gun. "I usually keep the seven-rounder in there, since it's easier on my back, but I want that one extra bullet—it could mean the difference between life or death."

  That's a little scary, I thought.

  One bullet?

  My steel water container went in its spot on the backpack. I took back the ammo bag and put it in the pack. Dad handed me a medical kit that I'd forgotten and I put that in. "There's more," he said, then he stuck his head in the front seat of the truck. He handed me a wind-up flashlight that still seemed to work, plus an extra S.O.G. knife that I put on my belt instead of the backpack. There was a nice Mora in my waist-pack that he could use.

  "Dad, here," I said, giving him the S.O.G. "Lemme me have my Mora." We swapped knives, and he handed me an extra emergency blanket that had been in the center console of the truck.

  I put on the backpack and started to walk toward the accident. Hang on," called Dad, so I stopped. Dang it. This probably means more weight for me.

  I went back and again took off the pack. Into it went some gum, Tylenol, and Tums out of the glove box, plus an extra jacket, Patriots’ winter hat, and some gloves from the back seats. Then Dad went to the truck's bed and opened the side containers.

  I'd almost forgotten he kept some gear in there.

  He had extra water bottles, Millennium bars, some paracord, a trash bag with a few things in it, and a Swiss Army knife. We put most of it in the backpack, but Dad took out the medical kit and kept some water bottles. Finally geared up, we started walking back to the accident.

  Dad held two water bottles and the medical kit as we approached the scene. He probably figured holding those out as a peace offering wouldn't get us shot, or at least the people there wouldn't be afraid of us. Not many people carried this kind of emergency gear around in Massachusetts.

  "Lemme have some bandages and wipes, and one of the bottles," I said to Dad. He opened the medical kit and handed me a few supplies.

  We probably looked a sight—both of us six foot four, with cargo pants, earth-tone shirts, and hiking boots—a camouflage hunter's pack belt on my dad, and a black backpack with a machete in a belt on me.

  As I climbed out of the ditch and up onto the road, I looked both ways before stepping out.

  Force of habit. I wondered if the next generation would need to look both ways.

  "Is everyone okay up here?" asked Dad cautiously. I didn't see any fires or completely crumpled cars, so I was hopeful that no one was seriously hurt.

  "I think so," said the man who still had a running truck, an older guy. "The big rig seemed to go out of control, like maybe the driver fell asleep, but at least he didn't kill anyone. Are you okay too?"

  Definitely a northerner. Back in Texas where I grew up, he would have asked, "Are y'all okay too.”

  "Yeah, we're fine," said my dad. "Could I ask you a question?"

  "If you want a ride somewhere, I can't help you—I'm sure the police will be along soon, son."

  Son—Dad's almost sixty years old. I laughed silently. I liked this old guy.

  "My name is Bill," said my Dad. "This is Mark. And it's not about that. There's something you should know about what happened here."

  The old man looked at us curiously, taking in all our gear. His eyes flickered to the water and medical kit that Dad held, and he asked, "Are you a doctor or EMT?"

  "No sir, just here to help if I can. Look, this wasn't a driver that fell asleep. His truck lost all power."

  He looked at us like we were half nuts. "Now how could you know that?" he asked, incredulous.

  I said, "Because the same thing happened to our truck, and those other two cars up there were already out of control before the semi showed up. And your truck is still running. Do you know what that means? Because we do.”

  Less than one percent of Americans are prepared to survive for extended periods without the supportive infra
structure of a modern society. Less than one percent would recognize what had happened.

  This guy is a ninety-nine percenter.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Sir," said my dad, "we've been hit by an EMP, an electromagnetic pulse. It's disabled all sophisticated electronics, like in those vehicles, but older ones like your truck can still work since they don't rely on them so much. Do you have a cell phone? I'll bet dollars to donuts it doesn't work anymore."

  "That's crazy," he said, pulling out his phone. "It's charged, and I just called my sis…" He trailed off, looking at the device. He pressed buttons, shook it, then looked at us again with a blank expression.

  "EMP," I said. "They can be caused by a strong solar flare, or … they can also be caused by a high altitude nuclear blast, theoretically before an invasion to cripple the country."

  It was a long wait before he spoke again.

  "Uh..." he said. "What?" he added a few seconds later.

  "Sir," Dad said, "you have a working vehicle. Maybe the only one on this entire highway right now. That means two things: one, people are going to want your truck. And two, you could give me a ride home. The police aren't coming. This has happened all over the state, possibly the eastern part of the U.S. Maybe even further."

  He paused and looked around at the scene. I looked too, belatedly realizing I should have been providing some kind of security watch as he talked to the old man.

  The accident victims were all out of their cars, and a few of them were looking from us to the truck driver and back again. I walked a ways away so I could keep everyone in view. Dad continued: "There are some people who will just take your truck. You've seen the riots in places like Ferguson and Baltimore. Hell, even in Keene, New Hampshire—students riot just because they are having a pumpkin festival!"

  I pulled my water bottle off my bag, a bit of a stretching exercise since the pocket was hard to reach when the pack was on. I opened it and took a drink, then looped its paracord lanyard over my head.

  "It's going to get bad, sir," said Dad. "We can help protect your truck. We'd like to get a ride toward Salisburg as far as you'll go, and we can help protect you if you'll take us."

  He paused again, but it didn't look like the dude was going to say anything. I tapped Dad on the shoulder and looked back down the road. He followed my gaze.

  Still looking down the road, he said, "You need to act quickly, though. Things are going to get really bad really fast. Anyone on this road or over on the other side," he said, pointing to the eastbound lanes, "might know what we know, and they might not ask nicely or take 'No' for an answer. Please?"

  I sighed when the old man didn't speak and just stared at Dad with frightened eyes. My dad looked back to the driver. "Think about it, but don't think too long." He gestured with his head toward the east, back up the road. The old man looked back and saw what I had seen—three big guys walking down the middle of the road toward us. They'd been in the other car that the semi had forced off the road when it first lost power.

  With that, Dad touched my arm and we walked over to the accident and started asking if everyone was okay. We gave a bottle of water to a disheveled woman and checked on the semi driver. He had climbed out of his truck window and was leaning against his tires, tapping at a cell phone with frustration.

  "Damn phone, what the hell? It was charged," I heard him mumble.

  "Hey, are you okay, sir?" I asked. "Looks like you've got a cut on your hand, there." I could see an angry red mark on his left hand.

  "Yeah, scraped it on the door while climbing out. Listen, could I use your phone? Mine isn't working."

  "Don't have one, sorry." No lie, I really didn't have one anymore. It was just a doorstop now, sitting in my dad's truck. A little doorstop in a really big door. "I have some water if you need it, and an antiseptic wipe and a bandage, though." I handed him the last water bottle and the bandage stuff. I had one more bottle in my backpack, plus my steel bottle. I didn't worry about water—Massachusetts is wet country, especially in the north near the New Hampshire border where I lived, and we had plenty of ways to disinfect it in the hunting belt and medical kit.

  "Thanks," he said, taking the offered supplies. "What the hell happened, man? My truck just died! Those things are almost impossible to handle without any power."

  "I think you did well. You recovered and slowed down enough, and no one is seriously hurt." I glanced back at the old man and his one working truck. He was talking to his other passengers and pointing our way. I shifted my glance down the highway. The three guys from the other car were about three hundred yards away. "No one is seriously hurt," I repeated, a little more quietly. I could make out the three better now, and one was actually a rather large woman wearing a plaid, long-sleeved shirt and dark sweatpants. She was dangerous just from a fashion sense—a guy could burn his eyes out looking at that getup.

  Of course, who was I to talk, decked out in camo and sporting a machete? The other two had on camouflage pants and long sleeve shirts, and reminded me of a mechanic who’d once worked on a camper that died on a trip to the Smoky Mountains. I figured he could just lift that old thing up on blocks without a ramp.

  I didn't see anything in their hands, which was worse than one of them with a tire iron. Dad had the same thought, pulling me away from the driver. "We can't anticipate what we can't see, so we'd better assume one of them has a handgun. A rifle or shotgun doesn't seem likely, since they all have their hands out and I don't see a barrel poking up over a shoulder."

  Of course, those sweatpants could be hiding a bazooka and no one would know. I smirked, imagining her handing it to one of the Mongo twins and them saying, "Yuck, ma! That wuz down yer drawers!"

  In any case, time was running out. They were two hundred yards away, and they weren't smiling.

  We walked, at a normal speed, back to the old man's truck. "They're getting pretty close now. Do we have a deal?" asked my dad.

  "How do I know you aren't just as bad, or worse?" asked the old man.

  "Frankly you don't, but I can tell you this: I know a little bit about what's going on. I think I can defend myself and my son, and probably you and your family. And I think trouble is coming at you right now. But I'm not going to try and take your truck, nor am I going to defend you without being invited to. The law is pretty clear on this—I have to let them take the truck unless it's endangering my life or those of innocents. So take us with you or get out of the truck right now and let these people have it. Or take your chances."

  I looked at the old man, and Dad, back at the three approaching strangers, and at the old lady in the truck. The old man just looked back. The old lady in the truck glared daggers at me. "Jonathan, you get in this truck right now! We're leaving and we aren't taking anyone with us, especially not some backwoods survival type nutcases!"

  I looked at Dad and he shrugged, looking pointedly at the three others, now within a hundred yards, then back at the old man. The old man shrugged and got into his truck. I looked at the three people coming up, and they started jogging. I don't think they could run, but I didn't want to test that lugging all this gear. Dad and I began walking away. I took one last look at the truck with a question in my eyes, but they were just in there arguing and not looking at us.

  We walked quickly off the highway and headed toward the brush, glancing back as the trio puffed their way to the truck, which was still just sitting there. When I reached the tree line, we turned left and headed west, still watching the accident scene over my shoulder. I could hear a loud discussion but couldn't make out any words.

  Dad turned right again, with me following three feet or so behind, and headed into the trees and the brush. When we had a little bit of concealment, Dad stopped and we looked back at the accident. I was sure those three were going to demand a ride, and take one if it wasn't given.

  Dad had the same thought. "This isn't going to end well," he said. I had a sense that they understood what had happened too, and I wanted my gear and frag
ile flesh out of their reach.

  "Did you see the other passenger?" he asked.

  "No," I admitted, "but it might have been someone small."

  "Like a little girl or boy?" he asked. I nodded. I knew what he why he was asking. Maybe a teenage girl.

  "Should we go back?"

  "Mark, I hate this, but there's little we can do without risking our lives."

  I fought the heaviness of my chest and nodded.

  "We have no way of knowing what kind of weapons those three might have. All we have is the survival rifle and my Shield. A 20 gauge birdshot round would need to be right in their face, and you'd be lucky if the .22LR could penetrate their denim jackets and shirts with enough force to do any damage. Headshots might kill them, but that's fiction for the movies—we'll miss for sure. And with only two shots, you can't reload quickly enough. Only my handgun stands a chance."