Solar Storm (Survival EMP Book 1)

by Rob Lopez

  “Mommy!” screamed the child, battering frantically at the door.

  Lauren stood transfixed. The twisting of her gut, and the adrenaline coursing through her veins, urged her to run. She couldn’t take her eyes off the child, though.

  She remembered Josh at the same age, crying on his first day at school. That had broken her heart, back then, and she hated the memory.

  But this was worse. Legs trembling, she gripped the handlebars tight until her knuckles paled.

  She couldn’t walk away. Anger boiled inside her.

  Dropping the bike, she strode to the house. The front door looked solid, so she went round the back, climbing the fence from the alley. Garbage and weeds filled the yard, but the rear door had been kicked in at some point. Lauren entered, clutching the lug wrench in both fists. Broken bottles, pieces of foil and discarded needles littered the kitchen floor. Screaming came from the front room.

  “Hold her down,” yelled a voice. Then: “You like this, bitch? I’m going to fuck you good, then you’re gonna tell us where you stashed the shit.”

  Lauren hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding, then barged into the front room. One of the men was holding the woman down, punching her in the face. The second guy stood watching, wrapping a belt around his fist. Lauren came up behind him and swung the wrench with all her might. The heavy tool smashed into the man’s skull with a loud crack, and he dropped to the ground.

  The other guy, seeing his comrade fall, reacted instantly, leaping up. Lauren swung the wrench, but the man caught it in his hand and tried to wrestle the weapon off her. Taller than Lauren, he forced her back and down. Lauren kicked at him and grabbed his other arm to stop him punching her, attempting to push back, but his strength was too great. She kneed him in the groin, eliciting a grunt, but the man freed his right arm and punched her in the face. Stumbling backwards over the body of the other guy, Lauren tumbled to the floor, losing her grip on the wrench. Dazed from the punch, she squirmed, kicking out, but it was like landing blows on a tree trunk. Her attacker paused to knead his groin, evidently feeling the pain, then switched the wrench to his right hand and loomed over her, arm raised to strike.

  Curling up in a futile attempt to weather the blow, Lauren’s hand fetched up against a pistol on the floor. It had fallen from the prostrate guy’s waist band. The weapon was a Beretta M9, the same weapon Lauren had been issued with in Iraq. Closing her hand over the familiar grip, her thumb moved automatically to the safety, clicking it off. As the wrench swung down towards her, she brought the pistol up and fired three times, the report echoing loudly in the room. Three spurts of blood leaped out from the man’s chest, and the wrench clattered down onto the bare floorboards. Before Lauren could roll clear, the man’s body tumbled down on top of her, crushing the breath from her lungs.

  Heaving the body off, she lay gasping, her ears ringing, the realization of what she had just done dawning on her. Her cheek stung, a deep pain surfacing slowly along her jaw, and the dead man’s warm blood soaked through the front of her hoodie.

  The woman she’d rescued coughed and moaned, and Lauren crawled over to her. The woman bled from her nose and cuts to her chin, and appeared dazed. Opening her eyes wide, she looked at Lauren and said, “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Lauren. “Are you okay?”

  The woman worked her jaw. “I guess.”

  Another groan signaled the waking of the man Lauren had hit with the wrench. As he rose to his knees, Lauren aimed the pistol at him. Clutching his head, he seemed surprised when he pulled his hand away and found blood on it. Taking in the scene in the room, his eyes fell on the barrel of the pistol pointing at his head. Falling backwards in shock, he scrambled up, stumbled over his feet, then staggered over to the front door. Yanking it open, he stepped out, falling off the stoop. The child, waiting outside, rushed in and threw his arms around his mother. The mother clutched him tight, whispering reassurance. The guy outside picked himself up and lurched out of sight. The mother took one look at Lauren and said, “You should have shot him.”

  Lauren was still struggling to comprehend the situation she was in. “He was no longer a threat,” she said. “Rules of engagement.”

  “That shit don’t count round here,” said the woman. “He’s going to get his brother and the rest of the gang, and they ain’t going to be so merciful.”

  22

  “Name’s April,” said the woman. “And thanks.”

  Lauren searched the body of the man she’d shot, finding a Ruger 9mm, but no extra magazines. She also found his ID and a wad of money. She didn’t want to know the identity of the person she’d just shot, and she was about to shove it back into his pocket when April spoke up.

  “If you don’t want that money, I’ll have it.”

  Lauren appraised her. She placed April in her mid-twenties, and her kid about five, a little younger than Lizzy. An attractive woman, in spite of her bruises, and seemingly unfazed by her experience, like it was just another day in the hood.

  And maybe it was. She had a determined look in her eyes, though.

  “Mind if we split it?” said Lauren. “I might still need some.”

  She wasn’t sure how much longer cash would be worth anything, but she considered it worth having something, even if she was only going to be lighting fires with it.

  With that thought, she continued searching through the man’s clothes until she found a lighter.

  The woman seemed amused. “Seeing as you’re going to be so polite about it, sure.”

  Lauren peeled off some notes and handed over the rest. “You’d better get home quick,” she said.

  Holding her new guns ready in the pouch of her hoodie, Lauren peered out of the front door. The guy who’d fled the house was gone.

  Unfortunately, so was her bike.

  “Crap,” said Lauren. Her heart sank.

  “You’re not from round here, are you?” said April.

  “You think?”

  April looked to the bag on Lauren’s back. “Where were you headed?”

  “Home,” said Lauren.

  “Is it close?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better come with me, then.”

  April took the child’s hand and led the way out of the door. Lauren, for want of any better ideas, followed her. Staying off the street as much as possible, they moved through cluttered back alleys until they reached the rear entrance to April’s ground floor apartment. The door was already slightly open, the wood splintered around the handle. April looked cautiously through the back window before pushing at the door, listening carefully. Inside, the closets had been emptied, clothes and boxes scattered all over the floor. Floor boards had been levered up and a couch had been slashed.

  “You’d better watch from the front door,” said April. “We don’t have much time.”

  Lauren opened the door a crack and stood guard, her stomach tight. The flash of anger that led her to go on the rampage earlier had subsided, and now she dwelt on the consequences. The loss of the bike gnawed at her as she thought about the distance she still had to cover. Being the target of a gang only compounded her pessimism. Could she have shot the guy before he got away? Executed him? Should she have even got involved in the first place? And what if she saw the gang members walking up the street now? Was she prepared for a shoot-out?

  With a screwdriver, April levered up the lid of a dented, rusting washing machine and pulled out a small backpack.

  “Is that what those guys were looking for?” asked Lauren.

  “No, this is my bug-out bag,” said April. “What those guys were looking for doesn’t exist here.”

  “But I guess you couldn’t persuade them of that?”

  “No.”

  Gathering scattered tins, bottles and noodle packets, April threw them into a wheeled carry-on case and thrust it towards Lauren. “Here, you take this.”

  Lauren took it. “Why would you have a bug-out bag?”

  �
��If you lived here, you’d understand.”

  Lauren chose not to pursue the matter further. April unfolded a three wheeled jogging stroller, snapping it into place. “In you get, baby.”

  The boy had clearly outgrown the stroller, but he got in nevertheless. April threw a blanket in with him and grabbed a couple of thermal jackets and some other clothes, thrusting them into the stroller basket.

  The street remained clear, but they left via the back door and into the alley. The cracks of gunfire seemed closer now.

  “Which direction were you headed?” asked April.

  “South. The I-95.”

  “I can get you there.”

  Lauren eyed the stacked stroller. “And then?”

  “Don’t care. I’m leaving the city and never coming back.”

  “Don’t you have relatives or friends you can go to?”

  “I had a friend. His name was Choo, but he’s dead now.”

  “How did he die?”

  “You shot him.”

  Lauren wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. At the end of the alley, they peered out, checking the street was safe, then dashed across to the next alley. Not far away, they could hear shouts and the blast of gunfire.

  “You’ve arrived in the middle of a war,” said April in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Are people fighting over food and water already?” said Lauren.

  April laughed. “Food and water? Hell, no. These people are fighting over drugs. Ain’t no more shipments coming to town. The Lafayette Crew and the Johnsons are fighting to raid each other’s stashes, just so’s they can sell drugs to the freaks and crackheads who ain’t gonna get their welfare checks at the turn of the month anyway. It’s a crazy war for crazy people. Once the dumbasses realize this ain’t no temporary situation, the desperate loons on the street are going to be stealing people’s food to barter for cocaine. Then they’ll die. It’s going to be fifty shades of ugly, and I don’t want to see it.”

  Lauren thought it looked pretty ugly already. As they neared the downtown, they saw the riots. People smashed windows and shutters and broke into stores and restaurants. Boxes and bags were carried out. Sports equipment, clothing and TVs were clutched in people’s arms. Shopping carts carried away a lot more. Youths with masks over their faces looted cars and hurled petrol bombs at the Children’s Museum for no reason that Lauren could see. Waves of choking smoke filled the streets. A police cruiser was crushed as a gang jumped up and down on it. Police presence was minimal, and as they passed the harbor, Lauren saw a thin line of them, watching impotently as looters emptied a pharmacy. Youths ripped up stones from the sidewalk and hurled them at the cops, forcing them back. The police appeared poorly equipped, with only a few riot shields between them, and they were more interested in self-preservation than taking offensive action. Heavily outnumbered and unable to call for backup, they yielded ground until they became distant and irrelevant. The youths celebrated with whoops and shouts, and Baltimore burned.

  April led the way down the Inner Harbor walk. The old harbor was a tourist attraction, with the USS Constellation, a civil war sailing ship, moored on its own. Burning embers floated on the breeze, and Lauren thought it was only a matter of time before they caught on the ship’s rigging or wooden structure. The only tourists around now were the scavengers and opportunists who ran in and out of the harbor malls. It was an intimidating atmosphere to be pushing through and at one point, a guy with a knife ran up to them and yelled, “Give me that bag!”

  Lauren pulled both guns out of her pouch and aimed them at him. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  The would-be mugger didn’t waste time expressing his dismay. He took off, looking for easier targets.

  “Should have shot him, too,” said April phlegmatically.

  “Just get us out of here, okay?” said Lauren, pocketing the guns and keeping a nervous all-round watch.

  “You look pretty badass, with all that blood on you,” said April. “Like Kill Bill.”

  “I hated that movie. How much further?”

  “Entrance to the freeway is two blocks that way.”

  A guy with a leather jacket and a cash register tray decided he didn’t have enough. Coming out of a kitsch store and museum, he spied Lauren’s bags and waved a revolver. Lauren, on edge, pulled out the Beretta and, in a two handed stance, fired two shots to center mass. The man, discharging the revolver into the air, fell backwards, the cash tray tumbling and spilling coins. Nearby scavengers dashed for cover, and April sped up. Lauren backed after her, keeping her gun on the guy. He twitched, leaking blood on the paving, but didn’t get up.

  “Got myself a kick-ass soccer mom,” said April gleefully.

  Lauren’s head reeled. She hadn’t planned to shoot, but it was instinctive. Running with April across a highway, she pocketed the gun again, feeling the hot barrel against her stomach. Down a side street she glimpsed the police discharging their firearms while retreating, possibly reacting to the shots she had fired, though they were shooting at the rioters.

  “Can you not be so damned cheerful about this?” she said to April as they ran.

  “Sorry,” puffed April. “I get sarcastic when I’m nervous.”

  Her kid in the stroller leaned forward, a stony expression on his face. He looked like a figurehead on the prow of a ship, and Lauren could only wonder what was running through his mind. From the moment they’d left the house, he hadn’t shown a trace of emotion.

  23

  Josh held Lizzy’s hand at the back of the crowd as more people emerged from their houses for the impromptu street meeting. The atmosphere was tense.

  “When is the power coming back on?” yelled someone.

  The chairman of the neighborhood association stood in the middle of the road next to a cop, who had his bicycle with him. “Please, everyone,” said the chairman, “save your questions till the end. Officer Copeland has taken the time to visit as many neighborhoods as possible, and he has to visit more, so let’s keep this brief.”

  “What about the water?” called someone else.

  The police officer, looking a little weary, held his hand up. “Settle down, everybody. I’ll answer your questions as best I can, but we’ve all got to stay calm. We’re doing our best to make sure people get what they need, but understand that we’re kind of stretched right now. If you’re willing to help, we’d appreciate your assistance.”

  “Are you working on the power yet?”

  The officer tried to see who’d asked the question, but there were too many faces. “We’ve got engineers working around the clock at the McGuire plant, and they’re doing the best they can, but there’s been a lot of damage.”

  “Isn’t that a nuclear power plant?”

  “Yes sir, it is, but don’t go worrying about that now.”

  “Are you kidding me?” said another voice. “If the pumps are out, the core’s going to melt down. It’s going to blow.”

  A wave of consternation rippled through the crowd.

  “Please,” said the officer, “we’ve got our best people working on it. Last I heard, they were using generators to pump water from the lake to cool the reactors. These people are dedicated and professional. They know what they’re doing.”

  “So did the people at Fukushima.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that. I’ve just come to tell you that you haven’t been forgotten. We’re coordinating relief operations with the Red Cross and the military at Fort Bragg, and we’re going to try and get supplies into the city. As soon as we’ve got distribution centers set up, I’ll be round to let you know. In the meantime, be patient and help each other out.”

  “Are we under martial law?” said another voice.

  “No, sir, we are not. This is a State of Emergency and all normal laws apply. Please don’t consider taking the law into your own hands. I know some of you are armed, but permits for concealed handguns are still required for compliance with the law. Please do not be tempted to break this la
w.”

  “Yes, but can we rely on you to protect us? You’re the first police officer I’ve seen in three days. When are we going to see more?”

  “We’re doing the best we can, ma’am. Some of us have families too.”

  It was Grandma who’d asked the last question, and like everyone else, she didn’t appear convinced by the answer. The chairman, meanwhile, shook the police officer’s hand, bidding him goodbye, and the officer mounted his bike and cycled away.

  Someone near Josh turned and said, “We won’t see him again for another three days now.”

  “Three days?” replied another. “More like never. He’ll cycle right out of town and he won’t come back.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be the case,” said Grandma, not liking the speaker’s tone. “He’s an officer of the law and he has a duty.”

  “Duty my ass. A few more days without pay or water, and he’ll use that badge and gun to look after his kin, and nobody else.”

  “Listen up, everybody,” called the chairman. “I understand there are concerns, and believe me, I share them, but we can get through this. You heard Officer Copeland’s news, so be assured that the authorities are doing everything they can to return things to normal. In the meantime, let’s look out for each other, especially the elderly folk. If you think anyone needs help, don’t hesitate to offer. We’ve got a few hours of daylight left, so I propose we hold a swap meet, right here in the street, and we can barter excess goods and services. If you’ve got useful skills, bring them to the table. And one last thing: if anyone takes water from the creek, make sure you boil it first. We don’t want anyone getting ill. And if you’re using candles tonight, please take precautions. I cannot stress this enough. The last thing we need is a house fire, right now. That’s everything. We’ll set up some tables and see what people can bring. Let’s have some community spirit.”

  As the crowd dispersed, the speaker that Grandma didn’t like muttered, “Damn plant is going to blow and this city’s going to glow like Chernobyl, but hell yeah, let’s have some community spirit and worry about candles.”