Solar Storm (Survival EMP Book 1)

by Rob Lopez

“To jump into? That’s easy.”

  “No, I want a portal. To take me somewhere.”

  Josh raised an eyebrow. “That’s deep. Got someplace in mind?”

  “I want to go where Mom and Dad are.”

  Josh didn’t know exactly where his dad was – it was always some secret destination – but he guessed it was somewhere in the middle east. “I don’t think you want to go where Dad is.”

  Lizzy turned to him, her eyes red from crying. “But he can come through the portal and be here now. And Mom too.”

  Josh rubbed a salty tear from her cheek. “I’m sure they’ve got their own kind of magic way of getting here.”

  Lizzy deadpanned him. “They don’t.”

  “Sure they do. Dad’s, like, a special operator. He’s trained to do all sorts of weird stuff.”

  “But he’s not magic.”

  “No, but he’s got skills. They teach you how to use your initiative. And Mom was in the army too.”

  “What’s initiative?”

  “It’s where you think of things.”

  “Like how to build a plane?”

  “Not that kind of stuff, no. Least, I don’t think so. I mean, it’d be pretty cool, but, uh, no.”

  “So what’s going to happen to us?”

  “Nothing,” shrugged Josh. “Yesterday was scary, but that’s done now. Grandma’s better now, and she knows what to do. And the neighbors are all helping, you know? Everyone helps each other. We just have to wait. This is why you’ve got to keep drawing. Got no TV now.”

  Lizzy picked up the pad. “Your bear looks funny.”

  “I can’t draw.”

  “He looks like a cat.”

  Josh scrutinized his efforts. “Does a little. You’ll have to show me how to do it right.”

  Lizzy toyed with the pencil. “Do you think Mom will be here soon?”

  “Yeah, sure. You know Mom. She’s so fit, she’ll be running home. Why don’t you draw a picture of that?”

  “Running?”

  “Of course. With a bear. On the highway.”

  “Like Thelma and Louise?” said Lizzy, referring to the movie.

  “Uh, yeah. Only, without the ending where they drive off the cliff. Or the car.” Josh scratched his head. “Just add the bear.”

  *

  Lauren covered a lot of miles before she hit trouble. Pedaling hard through the gap between two trucks, she was surprised when a figure stepped out in front of her. Jamming her brakes on, she squealed to a halt just before him.

  A barrel chested dude put his hand on her handlebars. She tried to pull back but she could feel his strength locking the bike in place.

  “This doesn’t have to be painful,” said the man in a deep baritone. “I just need your bike.”

  Lauren stared into his eyes and saw no compromise there. Cautiously, she dismounted, taking a couple of steps back. She glanced behind her, but there was nobody else. If he came closer, she could run.

  The man, seeing her fear, gave her a cold smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just the way it is.” Mounting the bike, he pedaled calmly away.

  Lauren’s horror turned slowly to anger. The one thing that would get her to her children was being taken from her.

  Girl, do something. He’s right there. Are you just going to let him get away?

  Waiting until he’d picked up a little more speed, she broke into a sprint. He didn’t look back, so he didn’t see her gaining on him. Pumping hard to catch him, she grabbed hold of his hair and pulled him sideways. Off balance, he veered to one side, struggling to keep upright, then toppled off the bike.

  That wasn’t enough. Using his falling momentum, she slammed his head hard down against the concrete, leaped over his body and grabbed the bike, still running. With her heart in her mouth, she jumped onto the saddle and pedaled hard.

  The man rolled over on the concrete, and, with a look of fury, rolled back up and chased after her. Lauren’s thighs protested against this sudden effort, but she didn’t let up. With the sweat popping on her face, she switched up the gears. He got to within a foot of her when she started to pull away, then he stumbled and stopped, dizzy from his concussion.

  “You bitch,” he screamed.

  Damn right, thought Lauren, still pushing hard. She didn’t relent until she’d covered another mile. When she stopped, she was trembling from the effort. The half-digested granola bar came back up her throat, and she puked her guts up on the road. Wiping her mouth, she leaned on the bike, trying to stop the shakes.

  She walked for a while after that, taking deep breaths and glancing behind her. When she found a car with an unlocked trunk, she raided it for a heavy lug wrench, and told herself she was not going to be caught unprepared again.

  Giving every vehicle a wide berth from that point on, she witnessed a gang of youths looting a truck on the opposite highway. The driver, who’d been sleeping in his cab, staggered away, his face dripping blood. The youths passed out boxes of electrical goods to waiting hands. Lauren didn’t waste time rubbernecking.

  17

  “I thought vehicles that didn’t have fuel injection or onboard computers weren’t affected by EMP?” said Rick.

  “That’s the theory,” agreed Flynn, lifting up the hood.

  It was a battered old Ford pickup on a dirt road that Rick had spotted from the main highway. Rick could see where sparks from the battery had burnt a pinhole in the hood. Flynn leaned over to examine the engine bay.

  “Course, that might not apply to the big old storm we witnessed. Check out the starter motor,” said Flynn.

  Rick peered in. The starter was a blackened hulk. “What the hell happened to that?”

  “My guess is that the storm induced a powerful current in the wires. The longer the wire, the more powerful the current. The winding on that motor constitutes one hell of a long aerial.”

  Scott rapped his knuckles on the steel panel of the pickup. “I heard that vehicles are supposed to act like natural Faraday cages to protect what’s inside.”

  “So are plane fuselages,” said Flynn. “Didn’t help the air force, did it?”

  Rick glanced at Kowalski, but the pilot was still bummed by what happened at the dam, and didn’t feel inclined to give his opinion.

  “Besides, this isn’t a complete cage,” said Flynn, pointing to the open ground beneath the engine.

  Rick checked round the vehicle. The keys were still in the ignition, and empty propane cylinders lay in the truck bed. The driver had abandoned the vehicle in a hurry, probably thinking the whole thing was going to blow.

  Rick scratched the stubble on his face and looked to where Walt sat in the dust, head bowed with exhaustion. “Pity,” said Rick. “Could have done with something that still worked.”

  Flynn looked thoughtfully at the engine. “The plug leads look okay, and the ignition coil is buried beneath the air filter. Doesn’t look burnt on the outside. If we push-start it, we might be able to get it to go.”

  “Yeah,” said Leroy, “or we can end up pushing some heavy ass piece of shit for no reason.”

  Rick looked at the bumpy dirt track. “It’s worth a shot, but we’ll have to push it to the road.”

  “Oh, now you’re just making me feel even better,” said Leroy.

  Rick slapped him on the shoulder. “You know I have your best interests at heart.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Walt! Jump in the cab. You’re steering.”

  Walt dragged himself to the vehicle and took the wheel. Rick examined his face, putting a hand on his brow. “How you feeling?” he asked.

  “Cold,” said Walt.

  Rick could feel the fever on his skin. “How’s your vision?”

  “Okay, I think,” said Walt, squinting.

  “Hang in there. We’ll get help soon.”

  They pushed the pickup over the bumps to the road. Once on the smooth surface, Walt switched on the ignition and engaged second gear.

  “Everybody ready?” s
aid Rick.

  Everyone nodded, and they started rolling the vehicle forward, picking up the speed until they were running with it. Walt released the clutch and the pickup juddered, digging its nose in, and the engine fired.

  Flynn listened to the ragged engine note. “Doesn’t sound like it’s firing on all its cylinders.”

  “Don’t care,” said Rick. “Take over the wheel. Walt, move up. Everyone else in the back.”

  The pickup rocked like a nervous horse as it set off up the road.

  *

  An hour later, Rick banged his fist on the roof of the cab to halt the pickup. Ahead sprawled the dusty white buildings of Manbij. Rick trained his binoculars on the checkpoint on the road.

  The sandbagged emplacement appeared to be unmanned.

  “Jamie,” said Rick, nodding towards the checkpoint.

  The two jumped down and began walking, one each side of the road. Rick eased off his safety catch, scanning as he walked. Behind the emplacement was an adobe hut, and parked by that were two pickups. Sparse olive groves flanked both sides of the road. Rick halted and crouched, turning to see that Leroy and Scott had already dismounted, rifles aimed. Waving at them, Rick directed them into the groves.

  The last time he’d encountered this checkpoint, a Kurdish flag had been flying. That was soon replaced by the more diplomatically correct flag of the Manbij Military Council, a cobbled together entity of rival militias. No flag flew now, however, and that made Rick cautious. Nodding again to Jamie, he resumed his advance.

  The emplacement was empty, with boxes of machine gun bullets, but no machine gun. The door to the hut lay open, but that too was devoid of any life. A pornographic magazine was tossed on a bunk and a bowl of fresh olives lay uneaten on the desk.

  Rick checked the vehicles, but they were dead, streaks of soot marking the edges of the hoods. Military grade radios were rendered useless.

  “Looks like they bugged out,” said Rick.

  “In a hurry, too,” said Jamie.

  Checking for booby traps, Rick entered the hut, sniffing at the olives.

  “Hey, look at this,” said Jamie. “They got halal MREs.”

  Cases of US army meals-ready-to-eat were stacked in a corner, all marked as halal. Jamie opened a case, extracting the foil packages. “Lamb and Barley Stew, Black Bean and Chicken, bagel chips and fruit loops. That’s real thoughtful.”

  Rick searched the hut for a first aid kit, but came up empty handed. Stepping outside, he waved at Flynn to bring the pickup in. Leroy and Scott emerged from the grove.

  “So what we got?” said Scott.

  “A lot of nothing,” said Rick. “They’ve abandoned their post and I don’t know why.”

  “Spooked by the storm, do you think?”

  “No, they left this morning. We’ll take a break to eat, then move on. There should be a Ranger unit by the Al Sab barracks. They’ll have a medic.”

  Jamie came out with a pack of sunflower seeds, cracking shells in his teeth and spitting them out.

  “Got anything else besides bird food?” asked Leroy.

  “Inside, man,” said Jamie. “Enough MREs to constipate you for a week. No pork, though. All halal.”

  Flynn halted the truck outside the hut. Rick leaned into the cab. “Keep it running,” he said. “Grab what you can to eat.” He opened the door and peeled back Walt’s bandage to examine the wound. It looked bad and smelled bad.

  “It’s just a matter of time,” said Walt languidly.

  “Don’t give me that shit,” said Rick. “You drinking plenty?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Walt, looking genuinely disorientated.

  Rick examined his eyes and snapped his fingers in front of them to get them to focus. “Fight it, Walt. Don’t quit on me.” Unhooking Walt’s water tube, Rick shoved it between Walt’s lips. “Drink. We’ve got more water inside. Stay hydrated.”

  Jamie and Leroy brought out the cases of MREs and laid them in the truck bed, while Scott brought out a plastic water cooler container. While everyone squeezed the contents of the foil packages straight into their mouths, Kowalski handled his gingerly.

  “Isn’t there any way to heat these?” he asked.

  “No time,” said Rick, wiping his mouth.

  “But it looks like dog food.”

  Scott laughed. “Air force don’t like army chow.”

  Kowalski narrowed his eyes at him. “Just not used to this.”

  “You hungry, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I’m hungry, smartass.”

  “Stop bitching and start eating, then.”

  “Stop arguing,” said Rick. “Top up your water containers and fill your pouches with as much food as you can cram in.”

  Kowalski wrinkled his face, then pulled out cold chunks of meat with his fingers. Delicately, he tasted it. It wasn’t to his liking, but he started eating anyway.

  *

  The city of Mabij had been fought over by almost every faction in the Syrian civil war, and it showed. Buildings carried the effects of bombing campaigns and entire blocks had been bulldozed to rubble. Some semblance of normal life should have returned by now, however, and Rick was disturbed at how deserted the streets were. Abandoned vehicles sat at junctions, and people peered cautiously from the windows of their apartments, as if they expected something.

  Rick called a halt outside a shuttered pharmacy.

  “Tell me you’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Scott.

  “I’m not saying it,” said Rick. “I’m not Harrison Ford.”

  But he felt it, nonetheless.

  Dismounting, he signaled his men into combat ready positions and strode over to the pharmacy. He gave the shutters a hopeful shake, but nobody responded from within. Taking a wrecking bar from the pickup’s toolbox, he inserted one end into the padlock at the bottom of the shutter, then stamped on the bar to break the lock. Raising the shutter noisily, he looked inside.

  It was an open booth, with creams, sunglasses and shampoo. Rifling through the packs on a medicine shelf, he read the inscriptions in Arabic and English, finding only mild painkillers and flu remedies. Smashing a wooden cabinet at the back, he searched in vain for antibiotics.

  “We’ve got company,” said Flynn.

  Rick came back out and saw a large body of gunmen filtering into the street from the junction at the end. They were casual about it, but one of them carried an RPG.

  “Any idea who they might be?” said Rick.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Rick walked forward. If they were local fighters, it would be better to forestall a misunderstanding early.

  He never got the chance to introduce himself. The gunmen raised their rifles, and the one with the RPG dropped to one knee and aimed his rocket launcher.

  “Cover,” shouted Rick.

  The RPG fired with a backwash of dust, and the rocket streaked down the middle of the street and slammed into the pickup. The explosion blew the vehicle apart in a hail of flame and debris.

  Crouched in a doorway, Rick shrank down as shrapnel pattered against the walls.

  18

  Walt had been in the pickup. With his ears ringing from the concussive blast, Rick turned in horror, seeing the smoking wreck. Time slowed down for a moment, and he remembered Walt’s last words about it only being a matter of time.

  And the fact that he had a baby waiting for him back home.

  Rick felt the shame of having made a bad call. He should have ordered Walt out of the truck when they halted. He shouldn’t have been so complacent. The warning signs were there, but he’d ignored them.

  Then he saw a figure crawling in the dust away from the vehicle. It was Walt, and his leg was on fire.

  Time snapped back into place, and Rick turned towards the threat. The RPG gunner was loading another rocket into his tube.

  Rick locked him in his sights and fired three rapid shots, all impacting on the man’s chest. The gunner sat back on his ass, looking shocked, then s
lumped down dead.

  Another gunman ran out to retrieve the RPG. Rick dropped him with a single shot. By now, the rest of his team had the street covered with precision shots and the remaining gunmen had taken cover. Rick turned again, saw Jamie dragging Walt to a doorway, and assessed the situation.

  There was no way back. The street was too straight and with too little cover. Ahead, however, was an alleyway.

  “Scott! Leroy! Secure that alley. And give me smoke.”

  The volume of fire increased as the gunmen recovered from their setback and began spraying the street with bullets. As Scott and Leroy prepared to move, Rick and Flynn switched to automatic fire and began putting down bursts at every enemy head that appeared, forcing them to flinch back. Scott and Leroy sprinted forward, bullets ricocheting around them, and dived into the alley.

  “Reloading,” called Rick as he pulled another magazine from his pouches.

  Flynn kept him covered until he was ready. As Rick leveled his rifle to resume firing, a smoke grenade sailed out of the alley, bouncing onto the middle of the street, spewing out fumes. When the street was obscured, Rick slapped Flynn on the shoulder. “Get to the alley. Secure the other end.”

  Watching Flynn go, Rick steeled himself, then ran across the street to Jamie’s position. Although the gunmen couldn’t see him anymore, they continued to fire blindly through the smokescreen, and Rick ran through a hail of zipping bullets, sliding to a halt against the wall. Jamie poured water over the burns on Walt’s leg, having already cut away the pants leg. Kowalski cowered behind him, bewildered by the noise and bleeding from shrapnel impacts on the side of his face.

  Rick, with no time for finesse, lifted Walt’s head up roughly. “Are you okay?” he said.

  Walt blinked. “I think that woke me up,” he said.

  “Can you make it to the alley?”

  “Yeah, I can walk.”

  “I need you to run, soldier.”

  Walt locked eyes with him. “Well, sure, why not?”

  Rick nodded, satisfied that Walt was still with him. All he needed were his legs and a sense of humor.

  “Kowalski, help him up.”

  The pilot looked at him as if he were mad.