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

by Hamilton, Grace

  “Wow, Grandma, that looks amazing,” Darryl Healy said. “It’s a real cake! How did you get all the ingredients?”

  His grandmother, Tabitha Healy, was grinning. She was a leathery old woman, gnarled brown hands with prominent knuckles, rough skin, and short gray hair. And she had a voice to match. “Had to trade with a neighbor for the eggs. We’ll need some chickens on this ranch, I suppose, so we can get our own eggs, but there it is. We had all the rest of the ingredients, even a bit of cocoa powder. Chocolate is your favorite, as I recall?”

  It wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to say it. “It’s the best, Grandma. Thank you.”

  His entire family—his new family, as he thought of them—were all standing around the dining room table, where the cake was displayed on a glass cake stand for all to see and admire. Despite the fire crackling in the fireplace, it was cold in the house, and everyone was wearing multiple layers and thick sweaters. His mother, Marion Healy, was pouring iced tea into cups—well, iced tea wasn’t accurate, since they didn’t have ice, at least not clean ice. There had been a brief discussion of using snow in place of ice, but no one had been particularly excited about that.

  “How did we have enough sugar for all of this?” Darryl asked, gesturing at the tea and the cake. “It must’ve taken a lot.”

  Tabitha glanced at Marion, hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, actually, we had to use the last of the sugar, but don’t you worry about that. It’s your birthday, and we’re going to celebrate. We need to celebrate, if you ask me, after all we’ve been through.” She shook her head, and for a second Darryl thought she was going to cry. But she didn’t. Instead, she pressed her lips together tightly, took a deep breath through her nostrils, and seemed to regain control of herself.

  Still missing Grandpa, Darryl thought. Of course, she was. The funeral had been a little over a month ago. Sometimes, Darryl felt as if all of the death and bloodshed hadn’t sunk in yet—the awful gunfight, dragging the bodies, all of it. That’s my life now.

  “Emma did most of the work,” Tabitha added. “She found a recipe in an old recipe book of mine in the den, and she mixed the batter and made the frosting. Your sister is pretty good at whatever she puts her mind to.”

  Darryl’s younger sister, Emma, was standing in the kitchen doorway in a puffy pink sweater, beaming. Darryl wasn’t surprised to learn that she’d baked the cake. She was always finding something to do around the ranch. Though she was the youngest person in the family, she had the most initiative, and she liked to find new tasks to occupy her mind. Darryl couldn’t keep up with her. The poor girl had been shot in the leg not a month earlier, and even that hadn’t slowed her down. Though she was mostly healed now, she walked with just a slight limp, hardly noticeable. But she never complained about the wound. In fact, she rarely mentioned it.

  They’d managed to scrounge up a couple of candles for the birthday cake, and Darryl’s father brought a long match from the fireplace to light them. As the candles crackled and flickered, Darryl thought it felt like a little bit of normalcy in a world that had otherwise turned to absolute chaos.

  “Blow out your candles,” Justine said, “but make a wish first. A good one. Don’t waste it.”

  Justine Carmichael, his closest friend—and a lot more than just a friend—was standing beside him in her purple hooded sweatshirt. Her long black hair spilled out of the front of her hood on either side of her face and hung down like strange tassels. The only survivor of her family, she’d moved in with the Healys after her parents and sister were killed by the corrupt former mayor, Gene Marshall Filmore. She’d taken over the upstairs guest room, and as far as Darryl was concerned, she fit right in. It felt like she’d always been there.

  Darryl leaned over, but he couldn’t think of a good birthday wish. He wanted to ask for something specific, something meaningful, but long seconds were passing and everyone was staring at him. For a better future, he thought finally, then he blew out the candles. Everyone applauded, as if he’d accomplished something, and he smiled, embarrassed.

  “Seventeen years old,” Horace Bouchard said. The old man was the only one sitting down. He’d taken one of the padded chairs and pushed it back into a corner of the dining room. “Almost old enough to vote.” Horace had been the nearest neighbor to the Healy ranch for years—a crusty but kindhearted old Canadian Armed Forces veteran—but once violence broke out in town, he’d moved in with them as well. As a double amputee, he depended on a pair of prosthetic legs to get around. Though the legs were old and uncomfortable, he never complained.

  “If there even are elections by the time he’s eighteen,” Darryl’s mother said.

  She cut the first slice of cake and tipped it sideways onto a plate.

  She handed the plate to Darryl, but he passed it to Justine, who accepted it with a nod and dug in.

  “There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask,” Justine said, through a mouthful of cake. “So, you’re just now turning seventeen, but you’ve got college textbooks on your desk upstairs. What’s that all about?”

  “He skipped a grade,” Marion explained, cutting a second slice of cake. “Just like me. Got started on college early.”

  Darryl’s dad spoke up. “Skipping grades runs in the family, on Marion’s side, not my side.”

  “Well, now, Greg, let’s not forget, your father skipped three grades,” Tabitha said.

  “That’s because he dropped out of school to take care of the family farm,” Greg said.

  “It still counts as skipping,” Tabitha said.

  “If you say so.”

  Darryl finally accepted a slice of cake. His mother made sure he got an enormous slice. He dug in with the fork and found that the texture wasn’t quite right. It was dense as a pound cake, and when he tasted it, he realized it wasn’t sweet enough. Still, it was cake, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten cake.

  And this might be the last time ever, he realized. A world without birthday cake! How awful.

  As if to confirm this thought, his mother said, “I guess for the next birthday, we’ll make waffles or something. I don’t know.”

  “Wow, what if this is the last bite of cake I ever eat in my life?” Justine said, holding up the last small chunk of her cake on the end of her fork. “I guess I’d better burn it into my memory, like I did the last time I ate a slice of fresh pineapple. Gone forever. I’ll only eat cake in my dreams.” And with that, she plunged the cake into her mouth and appeared to roll it around on her tongue.

  Watching her eat, with his whole family standing around the table, Darryl had a sudden realization. Even though the world had changed, even though they struggled every single day, and even though he might be eating the last piece of cake he would ever eat, he was still happier than he’d ever been. Before the EMP, he’d been struggling to find enough motivation to make it through college, just sort of drifting from day to day, but now he had purpose. He had work to do, people to care about.

  By the somber look on Justine’s face, he assumed she didn’t feel quite the same way. She was mostly staring at her empty plate now, as if she were already reminiscing about the lost cake. He nudged her with his elbow, and she blinked rapidly, as if pulling herself out of her thoughts. Then she set the empty plate on the table.

  “It was decent,” she said, softly.

  “It won’t be the last cake ever,” Darryl’s sister said suddenly. There was a sharp edge to Emma’s voice, as if she found the idea offensive. “We’ll make another one somehow. Just you wait and see. Heck, we’ll grow our own sugar cane if we have to.”

  “Not sure we can grow sugar cane in this environment,” Tabitha said, “but there are other kinds of natural sweeteners. Plenty of maple sugar, for example.”

  “Maple cake,” Emma said, making a disgusted face. “No thanks. Maple belongs in cookies, not cake.”

  From his seat in the corner, Horace Bouchard accepted the tiniest sliver of cake. “Can’t eat much more than this,” he
said. “Never was much one for sweets. I’m more of a steak and potatoes guy.” And then he proceeded to pick up the entire slice and cram it all in his mouth. Horace was a tough-looking old guy. Though he was in his late sixties, Darryl could still see the hard edges of the old soldier. Firelight from the living room flickered faintly on the metal poles of his prosthetic legs.

  “Now, steak we have,” Tabitha said. “We’ve got more salted beef down in the root cellar than we know what to do with. You’ll get your wish come dinner time, Horace.”

  “That suits me just fine,” Horace said. “You put me to work, and I’ll earn that meal.”

  “Oh, Horace, you’ve earned your keep around here and then some,” Tabitha said.

  Darryl thought his grandmother looked tired, and he considered saying something. She also served herself a rather large piece of cake, which surely wasn’t good for her diabetic diet. Darryl worried about her health, and he kept an eye on her constantly, looking for signs or symptoms of a deteriorating condition. She pushed herself too much, and she’d been standing around all morning. Fortunately, she soon pulled a chair back and sat down, fanning herself with her hand.

  After cake, Darryl grabbed his coat and made his way onto the porch, brushing off one of the rocking chairs before sitting down. Deep snow covered the front yard, hiding the driveway and piling up on the fence posts. After a minute, Justine joined him, having changed into ski pants. When she settled into her seat, she didn’t bother brushing off the snow.

  “I like that feeling,” she said, “when you sink down into the snow. It’s sort of comforting.”

  “Isn’t it cold on your butt?” he said.

  “Sure, but I don’t mind the cold,” she replied with a shrug. She jammed her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and gazed off toward the fence. Darryl heard a soft crunch as she slowly sank deeper into the snow of her seat.

  Darryl rocked quietly for a minute. There was a profound silence, the piles of snow making the whole world feel insulated and still. Fortunately, the rest of the family took a hint and didn’t join them on the porch right away. He heard them moving around inside. Someone was stoking the fire in the fireplace. Someone else was headed upstairs.

  Justine had pushed her hood back just enough to reveal her face. Dark eyes, round cheeks, jet-black hair—he’d grown very fond of that face. However, there was something downcast in her eyes, something distant in her gaze. She seemed upset, though he couldn’t imagine why. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. What if she didn’t want to talk about it? Still, he hated to see her like this, especially on his birthday.

  She wasn’t the only one. Darryl’s father hadn’t said more than ten words during the birthday celebration. Heck, he hadn’t said more than about twenty words in the last two days. Why now, after they’d done so much to recover from the attack, from the tragedy, from all of the awfulness after the EMP, why now were some sliding into despair?

  Talk about it later, he told himself. For now, just try to enjoy the day. You’re seventeen. It’s your birthday, and things aren’t so bad anymore.

  Get your copy of Survive the Attack

  Available January 13th, 2021

  www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

  BLURB

  Family comes first—and he’ll do whatever it takes to protect his from the looming storm.

  Even before becoming a husband and father, safety had been Shane McDonald’s priority for most of his forty-five years. As a nuclear engineer, it’s his responsibility to keep the Sequoyah Nuclear Plant functioning at optimum levels to avoid what protesters fear most—a meltdown.

  But when a coronal mass ejection from the sun wipes out power across the globe, stopping a nuclear chain reaction is no longer his primary concern.

  Now Shane must trek across hundreds of miles to ensure the safety of his loved ones in a world rapidly disintegrating into lawlessness. Yet with few functioning automobiles and a blind teenage daughter to protect, it’ll require careful planning to reach his prepper mother-in-law’s and reunite with his family.

  His wife has her hands full as well. When her brother’s chemo drip suddenly stops working and her son gets stuck in the hospital elevator, all Jodi McDonald wants is the security of her husband’s steady presence. But with a weakened brother and inexperienced son to look after, Jodi must remain strong amid the chaos and help guide them to her mother’s.

  However, even the best laid plans go awry as the miles stretch out between them. Supply thefts run rampant. Those who have necessities prey on those who don’t. Minds broken by hardship kill on sight.

  But the fatal mistake comes when thugs threaten the McDonald’s little girl.

  Shane must find the strength to do the unthinkable—or watch his family suffer the consequences.

  Grab your copy of Crumbling World (Surviving the End Book One) from

  www.GraceHamiltonBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  Violet must have sensed the furious crowd gathered in front of the gate. In the rearview mirror, Shane saw her sit up straighter and cock her head to one side. Ruby, her black lab guide dog, responded to the sudden change in her body language and looked at her with concern. Roughly two dozen people had gathered in a grassy area alongside the entry road to the Sequoyah Nuclear Plant, some of them carrying neatly stenciled signs as they marched back and forth. On the other side of the road two police officers stood watching in front of their patrol car.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” Violet said. “I can hear a crowd of people. It sounds like they’re chanting.”

  He hadn’t intended to tell her about the protestors. He had been hoping to avoid having to explain to his daughter why people were protesting his place of work on Take Your Child to Work Day. She was fourteen, but she was also somewhat naïve. Shane had perhaps sheltered her too much as a child, waiting to protect her from danger, from bullies, from so many possible problems, particularly because of her disability. This had only recently become difficult, as she began to push back, growing into a questioning teen who would no longer accept easy answers.

  “Just some people,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

  As the car drew up alongside the protestors, the words of their chant became clear.

  “Shut it down! Shut it down! Shut it down!”

  Ruby had been sprawled across the back seat, but she rose now and placed her head on Violet’s lap. Some would have mistaken this for a gesture of affection. Shane recognized it as a protective move.

  “Why are they saying that?” Violet asked, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Is something wrong? They sound angry.”

  Trying to ignore the hateful stares of the protestors, Shane slowed as he approached the guard station next to the front gate. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for his work ID, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation to his daughter. Violet tended to think the best of people, and he didn’t want her to lose that optimism.

  “They’re just exercising their first amendment rights,” he said. “Freedom of speech is a beautiful thing, even if the things being said are questionable.”

  “So they’re protesting the power plant?” she asked.

  “Well…yes,” he replied, hoping she would leave it at that.

  “That happens a lot here, huh?” she said. “A lot of people protest?”

  “No, only occasionally. Generally, when we make the news for some reason or another.”

  “Why are they so mad this time? Did your company do something wrong?”

  “They’re upset because of the talk about adding a third reactor to the plant. Our service area is growing, and we could use another reactor, but as soon as it hit the news, people in the community started complaining. I imagine they organized some kind of protest gathering on social media, and here they are. It’s fine. People are entitled to voice their concerns.” He flashed his ID to the guard, who gave him an anxious smile and waved him through the open gate. The parking lot bey
ond was emptier than usual. At two minutes to four in the afternoon, they were smack-dab in the middle of a shift change. Had the protestors planned it that way, hoping to catch the bulk of the second shift workers as they pulled into the gate? It seemed likely. “If you ask me, they’re being rather alarmist. People like this, I don’t think they get it.”

  “They don’t get what, Dad?” Violet asked.

  He carefully considered his words before answering. Would his daughter think less of him if she understood the controversial nature of his chosen industry? “Well, Violet, sweetheart, nuclear energy is the cleanest and safest form of energy in the world—hands down, no question—but the word nuclear makes some people nervous. They assume radiation is seeping into the environment and creating three-eyed fish in the river.”

  Violet laughed at that. “Is it?”

  “No, of course not. The radiation is fully contained.”

  Ahead, the vast gray cooling towers rose on either side of a domed containment building, billowing steam into a crisp late-April sky. Shane could see the curve of the Tennessee River where it slipped behind the plant in a broad arc. It was a sight that never failed to impress him, even after these many years, and he wished his daughter could enjoy it. As he pulled into the closest row of parking spaces, he considered ways he might convey the majesty of this place to her.

  “Dad,” she said, “we talked about nuclear power in our science class at school. Our teacher said nuclear power plants are dangerous because if they overheat, they can go into a meltdown. She said meltdowns have happened before, and they hurt a lot of people, even poisoned whole cities. Is that true? Could it happen here?”

  “It’s true. But did your teacher mention that more people die in coal mines every year than have ever died from nuclear meltdowns?” Shane said.

  Violet persisted. “But a meltdown could happen here?”

  Shane grunted unhappily. “That would require a very severe accident.”