EMP: Return of the Wild West | Book 1 | Survive The Fall

by Hamilton, Grace

  EMP: Return of the Wild West

  Survive the Fall

  Survive the Attack

  Survive the Journey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, DECEMBER 2020

  Copyright © 2020 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Grace Hamilton is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Post-Apocalyptic projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  www.relaypub.com

  Blurb

  Survival of the fittest becomes harsh reality in the blink of an eye.

  Greg Healy isn’t fooled. The hunting trip is merely a ploy contrived by his wife and mother to force Greg and his father to end their estrangement. Not even Greg’s teenage daughter or his father’s hunting buddies along for the ride will be enough of a buffer to heal the rift of long-standing resentments. But the helicopter has barely dropped them in the remote Canadian wilderness when they discover their new equipment is dead with no explanation. Now they’ll have to rely on each other and resort to Old West ingenuity to find their way home—before the hunter becomes the hunted.

  For seventeen-year-old Darryl Healy, things aren’t much easier on his grandparents’ cattle ranch. Not when his highly intelligent and successful mother keeps hounding him about college applications. But college quickly loses its allure when the lights go out after a cyberattack. Frightening responsibilities fall squarely on Darryl’s unproven shoulders as a power-hungry politician is determined to confiscate the ranch’s resources—by any means necessary.

  Danger and death await the Healy family as each group attempts to navigate this terrifying new post-apocalyptic world while the vast wilderness separates them. When deceit arises from within their ranks, they’ll face threats as lethal as the grizzly bears and mountain lions lurking in the shadows.

  And in order to survive the nightmare, a deal with the devil might be their only saving grace.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  End of Survive the Fall

  Thank you!

  About Grace Hamilton

  Sneak Peek: Survive the Attack

  Also By Grace Hamilton

  1

  The rotor blades kicked up such a fierce cloud of dust and debris that Greg had to shield his face with his hands. The limbs of the trees whipped wildly, and the backwash of the rotors made the cold air sharp, stinging his exposed flesh. And then the helicopter was moving away, its deafening roar shifting tones as it flew out across the valley. Greg brushed stray leaves and dirt off his shoulder and watched the bright-blue Bell 407 disappearing in the pale eastern sky. As it went, he felt civilization going with it.

  Well, we’re in the wilderness now, he thought. No backing out of this.

  Still, he remained frozen in place until the sound of the helicopter had completely faded. Only then did he turn, willing himself to move. The others were scattered across the clearing already against a backdrop of massive lodgepole pines, black spruce, and larch trees that dominated the mountainous area. It was raw British Columbia wilderness, just about as far from civilization as you could get without parachuting into the tundra.

  All of their gear that had been unloaded from the helicopter formed an impressive pile. Greg’s father, Tuck, was already working hard to arrange the bags and boxes of tarps, ropes, blankets, and more. The leathery old man was all skin and muscle these days. Somehow Greg’s father had retained his farmer’s strength, though his flannel shirt and jeans hung loose, and he’d shriveled a bit in recent years. As Greg watched, his father grabbed a massive tent pack and heaved it off the pile like it was nothing.

  Well, this is it, Greg thought. Quality time with the old man. It’s now or never. Marion wants me to make this work, so I’d better make it work.

  He sighed and crossed the clearing. The pressure was on. Tuck heard him coming and turned. Greg’s father looked so much like him, it was as if someone had taken Greg’s broad face, shrink-wrapped it over his skull, and charred the skin slightly in an oven. That was an uncharitable assessment, of course, and Greg knew it.

  “Hey there, Dad,” Greg said. “Can I help you out?”

  Tuck was heaving the packs off the pile, carrying them over to the tents and setting them down one by one in a neat row.

  “Suit yourself,” Tuck replied, in that rough voice of his. The man had a remarkable ability to make the least little comment sound like a complete and utter dismissal.

  He doesn’t mean it. That’s what Marion would say. That’s also what his mother would have said. Greg’s wife and mother were thick as thieves when it came to this forced reconciliation.

  Greg grabbed a big bundle of sleeping bags that had been lashed together and worked it off the stack. As he did, Tuck picked up another one of the tent packs and hoisted it up like a hay bale, carrying it over to the others.

  Greg heard what sounded like distant thunder, and he glanced up at the sky. The only clouds to be seen were gathered just above the treetops to the west, but they didn’t seem threatening.

  “Well, looks like we might get rain during our first night camping. A nice, chilly autumn rain. I suppose I don’t mind.”

  “If it drops a few more degrees, we might get snow,” Tuck replied. “You can handle a little precipitation, I hope. The big city hasn’t coddled you that much.”

  “I can handle whatever,” Greg said, struggling to lug the sleeping bags over to the tents. “I just hope it clears up by morning. I plan to hit the river tomorrow. I’d like to get some fishing in first thing in the morning.”

  “I was thinking we ought to hike the area first,” Tuck replied. “It’s always best to get a lay of the land.”

  Already a disagreement. Greg was caught between wanting to keep the peace and wanting to go his own way out of sheer, hateful habit. But their friendly little father-son chat was interrupted when Dad’s buddy walked over and proceeded to have one of his coughing fits.

  Eustace Simpson was a former smoker whose lungs and throat had yet to fully recover. He was a huge burly chap with an impressive red beard and a massive Cro-Magnon cranium. He wore a thick, red flan
nel jacket that strained at the buttons, and his hands were calloused and rough. Eustace was an acquaintance of Tuck and Tabitha Healy, and he also claimed to be an avid fisherman and hunter. However, Greg had his own reasons for accepting the man’s invitation, reasons he hadn’t shared with anyone, though he wondered if the man sensed his purpose.

  Eustace knows I’m an environmental lawyer, Greg thought. Surely it has crossed his mind that I have my eye on him.

  “Sun’s going down,” Eustace said in his deep voice. “We’d better get these tents set up before it’s too dark.”

  “I got you covered, buddy,” said Tommy Riedel, a small guy with a scruffy beard—one of Tuck’s other friends. “Let’s do this.”

  “Dad.”

  The last member of their camping trip was Emma, Greg’s fourteen-year-old daughter. She was a bit heavy on the eye shadow these days, and Greg thought it made her eyes look bruised, but he still saw the round-cheeked little girl she’d once been. She had her mother’s brown eyes, and wisps of blonde hair poked out of the edge of her toque.

  “Dad, I want to set up my own tent,” she said, coming up beside him. “By myself. I know how to do it.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s not a simple setup like a dome tent. You’ve never set one of these up before.”

  “I can do it. Watch me.” She brushed past him.

  Emma’s long-range plan was to become a park ranger, and she wanted to prove herself this year. She’d made that very clear. Greg was tempted to give her a bit of advice anyway, but he bit his lip and walked over to Eustace instead, helping him unfold the support poles for his much larger tunnel tent.

  “What do you think?” Eustace said, taking in the surrounding wilderness with a broad sweep of one arm. “I keep a nice campsite, eh?”

  “It’s a lovely area,” Greg replied. And, indeed, he was excited to see what it had to offer. He’d never camped this far from civilization, and the looming mountains and towering forests were breathtaking.

  “Everyone thinks we mess with the land,” Eustace said, “just because we’re a natural gas company. But you can see for yourself. This is virgin land. We haven’t done a damned thing to hurt it.”

  I’ll be the judge of that. We already know more than you think, pal, Greg thought, as outwardly he merely said, “Looks that way.”

  Tuck’s little friend Tommy was flitting about the camp, apparently too excited to focus on any one task. As Greg watched, he tried to help Emma set up her tent, but she shook her head and waved him off.

  “I did it, Dad,” Emma said. She’d set up her tent in record time, and although it didn’t look perfect—sit seemed slightly out of alignment—it was serviceable. Greg gave his daughter a round of applause.

  “Excellent,” he said. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  She gave him a withering look that suggested she didn’t believe he meant it. “Well, now I’m going to start the campfire. I can do that, too!”

  She moved to the center of the camp and began clearing a firepit among the rocks. Greg was genuinely impressed with his daughter—not just her ability but her self-reliance. He’d tried to encourage it in her over the years, and it seemed to have taken root.

  That’ll serve you well, kiddo, he thought.

  As she began stacking up kindling, Greg went to his gear and picked out a small plastic suitcase. He undid the combination lock and popped it open to reveal a rather expensive satellite phone tucked into foam padding.

  Time to make a call, he thought. Marion will want to know we’re settling in.

  The phone looked somewhat like an old Nokia cell phone from the early 2000s, though it was larger and had a much longer, thicker antenna. It was packed with a charger, a backup battery, and a bunch of other attachments and accessories that he rarely used. He worked the phone out of its padding, tucked it into his shirt pocket, then walked across the campsite, trying to appear like he was taking a casual stroll. Best to be far from Eustace, just in case he had to mention the case.

  Greg pulled the sat phone out of his pocket and pressed the on button. It usually took a few seconds to turn on, so when it didn’t respond right away, he didn’t think much of it. He double-checked to make sure he was pressing the button firmly. When it still didn’t respond, he pressed the button a few times repeatedly, shook the phone, and pressed the button one more time.

  Battery must be dead, he thought. He went back to the briefcase, grabbed the charging cable, and plugged the phone into the backup charger. He gave it a few seconds, then tried to turn it on again. Still nothing.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. “This damn thing is practically new. I tested it yesterday. Yesterday.”

  With a pocketknife, he worked open the battery case, then swapped out the battery with the extra in the briefcase. This time, he pressed the power button as hard as he could and held it there for almost a full minute. The phone still didn’t turn on.

  “Son of a—” He bit off the curse. Emma was close by, her fire already crackling. Marion didn’t like it when he cussed in front of her.

  “Dad, look. It’s already going pretty good.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw his daughter adding sticks to a small, steady fire. She was doing a great job, but the sudden anxiety spoiled the moment for him. He needed this stupid phone to work.

  “Very nice,” he managed to say, then turned and smacked the satellite phone against his palm.

  He tried the power button one last time and got no response. Disgusted, he tossed the phone back into the briefcase, dumped the battery charger on top of it, and slammed the briefcase shut.

  “Problem?”

  He looked up into the bony face of his father. Why did the man always look like he’d sucked on a lemon?

  “The stupid sat phone is dead,” Greg replied. “It was working this morning. Somehow, between the time we left the hotel and the time we landed at the campsite, it died.”

  “Well, we are supposed to be roughing it, after all,” Tuck replied. “Maybe nature did you a favor.”

  “I need…we need that phone,” Greg said. “What if there’s an emergency?”

  “We have first aid kits,” Tuck said.

  “I promised Marion I’d get in touch with her so she’d know we all arrived safe and sound.”

  Eustace walked over then, brushing his big, ruddy hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Take the battery out. Let it sit overnight inside your tent. Maybe the cold messed with it. Try it again in the morning.”

  “That’s…” A stupid idea. But it wouldn’t help his cause to say it, so he pressed his lips together instead. “Yeah, I’ll try that, Eustace. Thanks.”

  He picked up the briefcase, carried it over to where he intended to set up his tent, and dumped it on the ground in disgust.

  The batteries were brand-new. The phone was working just a few hours ago. It doesn’t make any sense.

  2

  From his place on the bed, his view of the world through the window was all sky, not a single cloud. Darryl Healy had taken a long afternoon nap, mostly out of boredom, and he now had a pounding headache. The window was right at the head of his bed, inches from his pillow, so he could feel the crisp, cold evening air seeping through the glass.

  I’ll bet they’re real cold way up on that mountain, he thought. He felt a moment of regret not being with his family, but he quickly pushed it out of his mind.

  Not yet ready to get up, he’d turned on a news podcast and set his phone on the big desk beside the bed. The woman droning on about various global events had a pleasant voice. It was producing a bit of a heady, buzz-like ASMR effect, making Darryl even less willing to get up. Despite this, he was only half-listening to the actual content.

  “They’re called ANPRIM,” she said. “That’s A-N-P-R-I-M. Do we know what that stands for? With all of their messages, I don’t think they’ve revealed the meaning of their name yet.”

  The mention of ANPRIM ruined the ASMR ef
fect immediately. Darryl had heard of ANPRIM before. Indeed, they’d been on the news sporadically over the last year or so, though he hadn’t paid much attention. They were some large anti-technology terrorist group that had damaged bridges, hacked into government computers, stolen information, and threatened worse. But, after all, wasn’t there always some terrorist group somewhere threatening everyone?

  “For a group trying to maintain media attention, they are remarkably secretive about their actual identity,” a second person said. “However, what information we do have suggests that we’re dealing with a very large group of people working across multiple countries. Ironically, they seem to have technical expertise of a high order, which is why they’ve been quite effective at disseminating their message…and their threats.”

  “And what is that message?” the anchor asked.

  “What we’re talking about here are, essentially, modern-day Luddites,” the pundit said. “As you may recall, the Luddites were English textile workers in the nineteenth century who felt their jobs were threatened by industrial machinery. They conducted acts of sabotage in textile factories across Nottinghamshire, Yorkshire, and Lancashire.”

  “So, ANPRIM feels like technology has once again become a threat?” the anchor asked.

  “That’s right,” the pundit replied. “They decry the supposed dehumanization caused by the technocracy—their name for the modern world, which they claim has stolen the dignity of the common people. Like the Luddites, they have threatened to break the foundation of the worldwide industrial empire using our own tools against us.”