EMP No Power Omnibus

by Donovan , J. S.

  “I’m not interested in whatever crusade you’re thinking of starting,” Cowl said callously. “I’m done with that. We are done with that. But if you want a drink, we got plenty.”

  Harper locked eyes with the hardened man. “I’m not going to act like I know you, and I’m not going to question how you got those guns. After the blackout, we’ve all acted out of desperation and selfishness. Anyone claiming otherwise is a liar and a fraud. But what’s done is done. Now you can sit on your rocking chairs and drink your troubles away while the world crumbles, or you can do your jobs.”

  Cowl watched her for a long moment, his small eyes peering deep within her soul. The male officer beside him--a young man with wraparound shades named Tanner--leaned closer to Cowl’s ear and whispered, “That truck is our way out of here. One signal to Winested and it’s ours.”

  Harper kept quiet, acting as though she heard nothing. The air became stickier, and the sniper’s scope made her sweat.

  Cowl sniffled. His handlebar mustache bounced on his lip. “Alright, Sergeant. What’s the big plan?”

  Harper took a breath, mentally conjuring the talking points she had planned during the drive over. She opened her mouth to speak when something zipped by, striking Tanner in the head. Everything went still as the officer moved his left hand to the thin black shaft burrowed in the side of his skull. His legs failed him and he dropped to the ground. His sunglasses slid down his nose.

  Harper turned to Cowl’s fist. It wrecked her cheek. She stumbled, senses overloaded by the burst of pain. She was forcefully grabbed. Her wrist bent up her taut back as the cold barrel of a pistol kissed her temple.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” Cowl said into her ear with an angry smile.

  A war cry sounded from the woods, followed by a dozen ragged men and women, hatchets and clubs held high, pitchforks pointing the charge. A man wearing a hockey mask reloaded his hunting crossbow with another bolt. Cowl shouted commands. The sniper opened fire, but the intruders didn’t slow.

  “What the hell is this?” Cowl yelled in Harper’s ear.

  “They aren’t with me!”

  Yoakley took a knee and let the assault rifle spray. The runners zigzagged. The ones that didn’t tumbled to the dirt. Out of the woods at their flank, James, Dustin, Sawyer, and Levi cut them off with a flurry of unexpected blows. As soon as it began, the assault was over.

  James and Dustin stood over two of the hostiles who thrashed but were still alive. Sawyer pressed his foot on one’s chest while Levi kept his bow trained on the man with the crossbow. The only dead were from the sniper and assault rifle.

  Yoakley and the sniper took aim at James and the others.

  “Wait!” Harper shouted. “They’re on my side.”

  Cowl drilled the gun deeper into Harper’s head. “First they’re foes and now they’re friends. You have two seconds to start making sense.”

  “The people that charged were after your weapons. We came here to intercept them.”

  Cowl sniffled. “So you wanted to steal from me?”

  “I wanted to negotiate.”

  “I’m an officer down.”

  Harper nodded. “Yes, and the people that killed him are part of a much larger band hell bent on conquest. Now can you please remove your pistol from my head?”

  After a moment, the cool pressure of the gun slipped away and Harper was given control of herself again. She inhaled deeply, combatting the trauma.

  “Yoakley, round them up. Winested, make sure there are no other surprises.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the officers replied.

  Holding the assault rifle snug at her shoulder and in one hand, Yoakley moved with precision while drawing the handcuffs from her belt. Sawyer removed his foot from the captive, letting the female officer cuff him. On the restaurant's roof, the sniper scanned the surrounding woodland from the scope of his rifle.

  Harper rubbed her cheek and grimaced as she felt the beginnings of a nasty bruise. Cowl approached Brandy’s goons while Sawyer, James, and Levi stepped aside. Cuffed, the four survivors rested on their knees before the police sergeant. Cowl held his handgun at his side.

  “Who are you with?” Cowl said to the first man who was wearing a hockey mask.

  “When Brandy hears what you’ve done, he’ll make you pay.” The thug spit through his teeth as he spoke. “Blood pays for blood.”

  Cowl’s lip twitched. “It does.”

  Bam!

  The bandit collapsed with a hole in his chest.

  Cowl turned his eyes to the other three. “I suggest you start running.”

  They traded quick glances and scrambled to their feet.

  “Tell this Brandy that Virginia law enforcement is back and they know his name,” Cowl shouted as the cuffed men vanished back into the woods.

  He holstered his gun. “Murphy, help me with these dead, then we’ll talk about those weapons.”

  There wasn’t much to say as they lined up the corpses beside the restaurant. The attackers were dressed in drab clothes, their crazed eyes now closed. Harper could see how Brandy had brainwashed them. He gave them the power to do anything, use anything, and kill anything they wanted if they bowed to him. Part of her pitied them. The other part burned with rage.

  Harper swigged from Cowl’s flask. She gulped down the firewater with a sour face, hoping to numb her pain, her jittery nerves, but not her sensibility. Cowl poured a little on Officer Tanner and helped Dustin place him in the shallow grave. It took a few hours, but a single long grave was dug for the others. They were stripped of useful belongings and covered in dirt, and Harper couldn’t help but wonder if they could ever go back to their normal lives when and if power returned. After stripping the last corpse, Harper knew she had no clue.

  After the bodies were in dirt mounds, Cowl wasted no time showing off the military surplus. He opened a non-functional meat locker revealing the four ammo boxes, four firearms, and a few charges of C4 explosive lined neatly on a pallet.

  “How did you find this stuff?” James asked.

  “We happened upon a National Guard vehicle after we excavated Briersville. Whoever had this stuff just went poof. We found no bodies or shell casings. It was the third week. We assumed they grabbed what they could and left the rest behind. Comparative to what they could’ve had, it wasn’t much.”

  “Honestly, I thought you would have more,” Sawyer stated.

  Cowl eyed him. “Like I said, it wasn’t much.”

  “You were in Briersville?” Dustin asked.

  Cowl nodded slowly. “Was, but once people got the idea that they would do better without law enforcement, we had to evacuate. I had my subordinates deface their uniforms. I did the same.”

  “Why?” Dustin asked.

  “We failed a lot of people. I’ll leave it at that.”

  Harper popped an ammo box open. “5.56 millimeter. James, remember the M16s we got in DC?”

  “Will these work for them?”

  Harper nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

  “You plan to take the fight to this Brandy fella?” Cowl asked with a cocked brow.

  “Yes,” Harper said confidently. “But we have a lot of work to do.”

  Cowl looked at his officers. They nodded. “You can have the supplies, but only if we join you.”

  “Absolutely,” Harper replied.

  “That’s it?” Sawyer smirked. “You’ll help just like that?”

  Cowl eyed him intensely and sniffled. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive. Some of us just want to have some peace and quiet and a chance to right wrongs. If anything, you’re the untrustworthy bunch.”

  Sawyer turned to Harper, James, Levi, and Dustin. “I see your point.”

  “Not fair,” Levi replied.

  Harper knew she needed more than a few guns and three eager cops. The Brighton crew loaded up the Humvee while Cowl, Winested, and Yoakley said their final goodbyes to their late friend. Dustin stayed back with them while Harper drove the others.


  Before leaving, James stepped out of the Humvee and pulled Cowl aside. He turned his back to Harper, making sure she couldn’t hear.

  “I don’t care if you’re a cop, the president, or Christ incarnate. You ever touch my wife or aim a gun at her again, you’re done. Do I make myself clear?”

  Cowl looked him, unblinking. “Crystal.”

  James turned back to the car.

  “You make a threat, boy,” Cowl said, “you better be willing to back it up.”

  James faced him, fists balled tightly.

  “I’m just saying,” Cowl said. “I’ve met a lot of scum in my day. Now, I won’t do nothing to your wife. But I don’t expect to hear you talk to me like that. Sound fair?”

  Cooling down, James replied, “Yeah, sounds fair.”

  He hopped into the packed Humvee and they drove off.

  After dropping off the supplies and her friends, Harper made a second trip to pick up the officers and Dustin. Upon arriving at Brighton, she allowed them a few hours of R&R before sunset. Harper washed herself in the outdoor shower. The buckets full of icy well water doused her bare skin, and she wondered if she’d ever get used to cold showers. Using a natty towel, she dried off and headed for the town hall and to the battle map within.

  A large red circle encased the town of Hamsburrow. Harper used a ruler to estimate the distance from Brighton. Eighteen miles. After taking note, she slid the ruler’s tail to Bimberg. Six miles. According to Howie, Brandy sent his “generals” to capture it before the attack on Brighton. If his information proved true--which it hadn’t failed yet--then Hamsburrow was roughly the same size as Brighton and would have the proper motivation to stop Brandy’s regime. Even with the addition of three trained officers, they still lacked the numbers. Hamsburrow, Harper know, could be their saving grace. Well, only if the strangers complied. Still, Harper couldn’t think of a scenario where an average human being would be content under Brandy’s rule. Especially women. Harper shivered. Her other options—i.e. assault Bimberg or hold Brighton—were just as risky.

  When the moon ruled the sky and darkness covered everything, the small mob of friends, widowers, and townsfolk gathered around the town hall. They formed a disjointed horseshoe around Harper’s inexpensive and scratched work table flanked by the heat and light of two inferno-spitting trash cans. The glow of orange flames lapped at their glistening foreheads, chapped lips, and sober eyes.

  Sawyer and Karla watched with hands in their pockets, ignorant of their shared pose. James crossed his arms. The red nick on his shaved head captured light and shimmered. Police Sergeant Cowl stood by his officers Yoakley and Winested while he sniffed and scratched his impressive handlebar mustache. Trudy had her hands on her hips and her normal less-than-friendly expression, while Dustin indulged in his newfound nicotine addiction with a gum full of Grizzly dip retrieved from the officers. In her funeral blacks, Martha Doyle clenched her rosary beads. Recovering from the gunshot wound, Farris winced as his wife supported him with an enveloping arm around his waist. Kimmy, Dr. Hanson, Pastor Bruce, and all of Brighton’s populace formed up under Harper. Her voice owned the silence of Brighton.

  “The Bimberg factory is our target,” Harper stated, her voice booming into the crowd. “It is also an extremely high risk operation. Ideally, we’d train for weeks and gather exorbitant amounts of intel. However, Brandy could be at our doorstep any day now, and we cannot afford another assault on our walls. Since proper training is out of the equation, we need to adopt the trial-by-fire method. Most of us tasted this during Brandy’s first attack, but defending is far easier than conquering. Tonight, and for the coming nights, we are going to be leading several operations to dismantle Brandy’s strength. Thereafter, we will free a town called Hamsburrow and make the final assault on Bimberg. Who’s with me?”

  The speech garnered more prayers than praise but, in the end, everyone volunteered. The weak and feeble took care of supply detail. Those against violence made for scouts and map makers. The rest signed on as soldiers. Their uniforms were overalls and their skills lacked refinement. However, iron wills overcame fears and they chose their weapons.

  A strange feeling bloomed in them all. One that only warriors felt. Pride and dread danced a deadly jig. Duty and determination set the beat.

  It began that night. They formed squads of five, each one of Brighton’s lead taking command of a unit. They prowled through the wilderness guided by dim torches. Kimmy’s mouse-like figure took point. The diner gal opened the map. Her brow crinkled as she studied the circles and symbols. Harper leaned in beside her and pointed a finger. Kimmy apologized and Harper swiftly forgave her. She signaled the torchbearer. The man nodded and snuffed out the flaming stool leg. After a quiet creep, they stopped right before one of Brandy’s camps. Harper huddled her allies together. She felt their arms but could only see their shadowy silhouettes and hear their rapid breaths.

  Harper bounced her eyes between them and whispered. “Jonas, left flank. Blaine, go right. Kimmy and Roger are on me. We’re cutting through the center. Remember, we strike as one. No retreat. Got it? Good.”

  Harper unsheathed her machete. The others drew their axes and pitchforks before scurrying into position. A thumbs up ascended from a bush in the left flank. Another appeared out the side of a tree. Harper lifted her own. Counting back from three, they charged. The world blurred. The tangos had time to crane their head but failed to duck the machete slash. Four of the men turned on Harper after the first fell. She sidestepped, avoiding a woodcutter’s axe, and went in for another strike. Right flank pitchforked his adversary. Left and his target locked arms. Roger assisted Harper with blind swings. Kimmy froze, watching the chaos unfold.

  One of the men tackled Harper by slamming his shoulder into her waist. In a blink, she hit the dirt. The man raked his nails into Harper’s taut hair and yanked. Harper’s fingers swiftly probed the dirt for her felled weapon. The man drew out his pocketknife from his jeans and, with a flick of a wrist, ejected the blade. Harper’s palm pressed into his fat nose, pushing his face back, her other hand desperately reaching for the machete. The pocketknife’s point was an inch away from her kidney.

  A wet thunk.

  The man’s eyes rolled back and he slumped on top of her. His face hit the dirt while his foul breath faded. Catching her breath, Harper traced her vision up the man’s balding head, seeing Kimmy looming above. Streams of tears poured down the diner girl’s rosy cheeks. She didn’t touch the hatchet buried in the man’s head. With a mighty push, Harper lifted the body enough to slide out from under its weight.

  Weapons tumbled from the final two thugs’ grasps as the left and right flank closed in. Kimmy helped Harper to her feet. The violence subsided.

  Harper squeezed the young girl’s arm, failing to find the right words.

  “Survivors?” Roger asked.

  “Lock them up,” Harper said. “We’ll divvy out justice when Brandy is dead.”

  The rest of the strike teams returned home with various degrees of success. Locked in basements, the captives--twelve in total--were fed heavily rationed greens while Brighton enjoyed a full cooked meal. Some of the farmers boasted about the battle while others looked into nowhere. Harper reminded them they’d be back at it tomorrow. At that, most lost their appetites.

  Brighton started reluctantly early the next morning. Howie provided more information and when the other prisoners saw his tasty rewards, they chimed in. With a near complete map of Brandy’s Virginian conquest, the strike teams set out. James and Dustin’s crew hit camps, Levi tracked supply caravans moving wheeled carts between camps, Trudy kept Brighton’s fortifications strong and its soldiers equipped, while Harper led assaults on two larger settlements. Within the day, Brandy’s left wing was crippled, two of his “generals” were captured, the children he used as eyes and ears had turned coat and, although not all were battle-ready, Brighton’s army had nearly doubled. Casualties equated to four. Captives neared twenty-six.

  Day two
shattered their confidence. Brandy must’ve caught wind of the assaults because the majority of the camps were alert and ready for an attack. A blitz on a caravan failed, finishing a squad and nearly killing Levi. James and Dustin’s teams fused together and led more brutal attacks against the camps. Highwaymen ambushed Sawyer, but he fended off the attackers in a feat that his squadron described as the “Alamo 2.0.” Harper spent her time moving between squadrons, getting an idea of losses and replenishing their ranks. After six more casualties, Trudy unboxed the M16s. Harper gave one to each squad and briefed them on the weapon’s basic functions. She warned them that if the gun jammed, they were SOL.

  By the night's end, Harper managed to clear the south side, leaving the western Smokies and the northern reaches under Brandy’s control. After some advanced persuasion techniques involving a fine meal, James, and a vase, one of Brandy’s generals broke. He told Harper of Brandy’s imminent attack on Brighton. Moreover, Brandy was gathering his total force for the assault.

  Results. Twenty-two dead in total, forty-one captive, sixteen women saved from prostitution with seventy-five percent joining the war, thirty-nine new recruits (counting casualties), children lost: 0. Brighton’s army totaled approximately fifty-two soldiers.

  “It’s safe to assume Brandy has upwards of two hundred,” Harper told the war council. “We have a quarter of that.”

  “And guns,” Dustin said as he bent his cap’s bill. “Can’t forget guns.”

  “Brandy has guns, too,” James said and then cursed loudly.

  Harper looked around the table at familiar faces darkened by the last forty-eight hours. “We can stick to the plan and retake Hamsburrow, or we march on Bimberg now. If we spend another day in Brighton, we’ll be wiped.”

  “We’re wiped if we attack head on. At least we have walls in Brighton,” Levi pointed out as he combed his salt and pepper hair.

  “I agree with pretty boy,” Sawyer said. A nasty baseball stitch curved from his hairline to his brow. “Let them come to us. We can take them.”

  Trudy shook her head. “The children are here. If we lose, they’re as good as dead.”