The Barbarous Road: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller (The Last War Book 6)

by Ryan Schow

  Only when he ran for office did that begin to change.

  For awhile his campaign manager told him to consider the states as either Democratic or Republican. Blue states, red states. He could never really wrap his mind around this limited way of thinking. He was not a career politician. He was a person. For this reason alone, what Ben wanted most was to meet the people in their hometowns where he could measure them not by the color of their state but by their value as human beings.

  Naturally the press said he was grandstanding for the cameras and pretending to stand on some sort of elevated moral directive. They said this like it was a bad thing. He refused to change or apologize for his ways, and he never revised his narrative away from the fact that he cared about the people.

  Dawn broke as he played bumper cars down most of W. Patrick. As light spilled onto the devastation that was Frederick, Maryland he saw a Kmart and eased on the brakes. The car shimmied to a stop. Half the huge building was blackened by fire and had collapsed, but half of it remained intact, save for the shattered glass entrance that was most likely a result of looting and/or vandalism.

  He drove the Chevelle over the grassy center divide and across the opposite lane, then he bumped over the sidewalk and careened down a grassy knoll into the Kmart parking lot. The muscle car creaked and whined and protested all the way, but the Detroit beast still had legs and a heart, and for that he was thankful.

  Crossing the large asphalt parking lot, he vowed to stop pushing the car so hard. Even though he didn’t like the Chevelle because it was Miles’s car, it was still the only running thing he’d seen so far.

  The rust and adobe colored Kmart with the soft green roof was soaking wet inside. Even worse, it stunk like wet ash and devastation. Overhead, in the areas not ravaged by fire, sections of the roof had caved in leaving enough light to see some semblance of the inside. He quietly stepped through shallow puddles from where the sprinkler system activated to prevent the spread of fire. Who knew if the place was full of squatters or looters? With so much debris, he watched his every step, reminding himself it was best to go slow, that slow might save his life. Ben pushed through a lot of junk, past a pack of squatters who didn’t stir as he slunk by them, and into some of the more damaged sections. That was where he found the sports department. His nose and eyes were starting to burn and he was suppressing a cough that was dying to break free. He was either going to find what he was looking for or not. Either way, he’d have to leave soon for his lungs’ sake.

  Amidst the rubble and the looted merchandise, and squashed under a collapsed beam, he found several sleeping bags still in their clear plastic casings. In the mix, he found a few camouflaged hunter’s ball caps and the empty box of a portable camp stove as well. He had to work to get it loose. Nudging the fallen beam and jerking on the sleeping bag’s plastic shell finally did the trick. Sleeping bag in hand, he grabbed a ball cap, snugged it on his head, then left the Kmart without incident.

  All along W. Patrick there were restaurants. Many of them were leveled and/or hit by drone fire, as evidenced by pieces of the surviving signs. The Burger King was torched, Famous Dave’s survived (barely), the Starbuck’s and the Red Lobster lay in ruin. Turning the car around, heading back to the highway, he saw The Outback standing undamaged. He headed inside, found most of it had been looted, but he did find a backup supply of potatoes.

  “Food is food,” he muttered to himself.

  As he walked out, he was met by two men who looked like survivors. Although they could be homeless in a regular society by their condition, there was a light to their eyes that hadn’t dimmed to the degree that he’d seen in the downtrodden.

  “Whatcha got there?” one of them said. By now the sun was up, spreading heat and light across the land. He worried they’d recognize him.

  “Found some potatoes,” he said, cradling two five pound bags. “Seems they might have had an emergency stash.”

  “You passing through?” the older of the two asked. Both seemed to be Ben’s age, early fifties, and neither seemed particularly aggressive.

  “Yeah,” Ben said, trying to assess his situation. “On my way now.”

  “She looks like hell, but she still runs, eh?” the younger said, nodding back at the Chevelle.

  “If you can believe it,” Ben told the man, pulling his hat just a touch lower, “she was a near perfect restoration about two days ago.”

  One of the guys looks at his friend, then back at Ben. “Must’ve been beautiful. Hey, you know what? Anyone ever tell you that you look like just the President?”

  The two men studied him closely, nodding.

  Would his beard, the weariness that sat heavy on his face and the ball cap hide him enough? He didn’t know. It wasn’t looking that way. All he knew was that now he felt like he might be in trouble if they thought he was the President.

  “Yeah, a time or two.” With a pounding heart but a will to help these men he said, “You guys hungry?”

  They both nodded and the older one said, “Yeah, man. Our neighborhood’s gone. We’re out scavenging. Not a whole lot left though. After the drones went down yesterday, this place was like a stocked pond at feeding time. Everyone looting everything.”

  “Anyone die?” he asked.

  “Yeah, a few people. But there are dead people everywhere and no law enforcement.”

  Without responding, Ben handed the man his extra bag of potatoes figuring he’d find more food along the way when he needed it. Besides, he could go a couple of days without eating if he needed to. He’d done it before and he’d do it again.

  “Wow,” the younger man said. “Thank you. You really could be him, you know? The President.”

  “The guy was kind of an asshole, though, don’t you think?”

  They both looked at each other and said, “No. No he wasn’t.”

  “Really?” Ben said, surprised.

  “We finally got a President who refused to crap on the Constitution, a true patriot who understood he worked for the people and not the other way around, and now he gets a raw deal? I mean, think about it. This guy takes on this monumental responsibility only to lose the country on his watch? Talk about a cruel twist of fate.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Ben was thinking.

  “If the poor bastard is alive,” the other one said, “he’s got to be devastated.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Ben said. “Good luck to you, fellas.”

  “Same, same,” the older one replied.

  As he was driving away from The Outback with his potatoes and this new perspective, he thought back to what Miles told him on the drive down. They’d been talking about how Ben could use his former position of power to lead the new Republic.

  “You can do anything, man. Anything you want,” Miles had said. “I mean, you’re friendly with The Silver Queen, and you made a decent name for yourself as President.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m friendly. And if you ever put a gun to my head and ask me to say that, I’ll pull the trigger for you.”

  He laughed and said, “It’s not that bad. You’re just not seeing the big picture.”

  “If I survive, die or kill myself, what does it matter?”

  “You don’t get it. You’re a nobody right now. You’re a has been that will probably never be again. Unless you decide otherwise. I can help with that.”

  “You say that like I should be happy to leave the awesome responsibility that my position demanded. But I’m not. Which is why you’re right when you say I don’t matter. And if I need you to help me gain significance with the people again, then I’m a lot worse off than I thought.”

  “Quit with the crybaby crap, Ben. You were the country’s last leader and you personally took down the drones that would’ve killed everyone anyway. You had no choice. We frame you as the leader who—by the skin of his teeth—saved humanity. That’s a tall wave my friend.”

  “I’m not going to be the face of your new abomination.”

  “Yo
u know what happens if you don’t let us tell people how to think of you? These morons, these useless eaters, they’ll go for the lowest common denominator.”

  “Which is?”

  “You show that stupid face of yours and you know what people are going to see? They’re going to see the man who let their country die. Every death they’ve had, it’s on your hands. Your hands!”

  “People are smarter than that.”

  “Do you really think that? I mean, these idiots will believe anything. That’s the cornerstone to big league politics. You tell them what they want to hear the way they want to hear it, then you get their vote and keep the back door dealings contained through your associations with the press. That’s how it worked in the technology age, and it can work like that in the dark ages, too, albeit a little slower and without the reach. Word of mouth will be everything.”

  He’d turned and scowled at Miles. The man was speaking the truth, and as sick as it was to speak so openly of this ugly side of politics, he couldn’t argue the point.

  “Without the media and the internet, without Hollywood to do your bidding, your word will not reach the masses for years, or ever,” Ben argued. “So what you say about me, good or otherwise, won’t matter.”

  “If we’ve learned anything in politics, it’s that a carefully crafted lie travels halfway around the world before the truth can even get its pants on in the morning. Yes, there is no internet, no TV, no mainstream media for us to steer public opinion. All these people have is the memory of you being President when the modern world fell. Hundreds of millions will have died by the time we surface and they will need a leader. Think of this as a true grassroots campaign where we get you kicked off right.”

  “This bleak, murderous vision you have of our future is your fault, Miles. And I’m not going to be The Silver Queen’s puppet.”

  “You’re missing the point completely.”

  “You’re not a human, a victim, or an innocent in this. You’re the damn devil!”

  “Don’t forget, even Lucifer was granted his own kingdom by which to reign.”

  This was several days ago, and now he left Miles to die alone in the dark. They would not be working together. They would not run the post industrial revolution together. He had his own path. A rocky road that would certainly test his resolve. Not only must he begin to rebuild the world currently being destroyed, he’d have to do so surviving his family. How could he do that? How could he live without wanting to join them by his own means every second of every single day?

  Just then he hit the brakes. Pulled to a stop in the middle of the road. Ben laid eyes on a gun shop that hadn’t been looted or destroyed and an idea sprung to mind. Rather a solution to the problem he’d been mulling around. On closer inspection, the windows of this standalone store were broken, but there were bars on those same windows and a drop-down gate in front of the entrance. He got out of the car, walked to the shop, peeked inside.

  The guns were still there.

  Getting back in the car, weighing some pretty heavy options, he finally said, “Screw it,” then put the Chevelle in reverse and backed up until he got enough road. Taking a deep breath, but resolute, he dropped the beast in gear, smashed the accelerator and steered straight for the side of the building, the muscle car devouring every last inch of the road.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Our Mack truck sits on half the sidewalk, mostly blocking the narrow road for traffic. The traffic isn’t there though. Everything’s changed. Life has changed, irrevocably. I stand outside, the salty breeze blowing off the ocean leaving the air tangy and somewhat tinged with the bitter nip of dissipating smoke.

  To sniff the air, you’d think the smoke will always be there. I wish it would blow through already.

  Climbing up on the ramming structure built and bolted to the front of the truck, it’s like some battering ram out of a Road Warrior type movie. I stand on the hood, scan the surrounding area. It’s not tall enough to see past our own neighborhood, so I climb on top of the cab and then on the sleeper, with stands a few inches higher than the cab itself. There are a few single story homes I can see over, and it’s exactly what I expect: the perpetual haze.

  “What are you doing?” Corrine asks from below.

  “The skies look like they’ve been smudged with charcoal, but you know what?”

  “What?” she asks, shading her eyes.

  I look down to where she’s standing with the start of a smile on my face.

  “No drones.”

  “No drones,” she says, but without a smile.

  Her relief lies in her voice, but there is not much reprieve for a young girl who lost her father and nearly lost her soul in the same week.

  The smile fades from my face as I wonder about the San Francisco skies. Did Indigo make it? Is she alive? You know how when a broken mind becomes fixated on one point, and no matter the point, the mind will dig and churn and obsess over a billion possibilities and the only thing that will give that fretful mind absolution is an answer? That’s how I’m feeling.

  The question is this: Is she still alive? Then answer to that question is over four hundred treacherous miles away.

  As I stand up here, looking at the city I know will never be the same, I wonder if the answer I get will be the answer to unwind my brain, or completely destroy it.

  “Nick?” Corrine asks from below.

  I look down at her again, trying to pull my thoughts out of San Francisco and to more immediate concerns. Corrine is a little softer around the edges than Indigo, and wears her loss of innocence in ways that scream and whisper so many things I cannot bear to hear. I have to look away from her because I can’t stop wondering if Indigo now has that same look. Like she lost her life, and her father. Will she be this child?

  “Nick,” she says, less animated.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Bailey says you have a daughter.”

  “I do.”

  “Indigo?”

  “I was just thinking about her.”

  “Is she…I mean, do you know…have you talked to her at all?”

  “Just after it happened,” I say, eyes back on the horizon, my attention on this sort of frenzied need to do something, to move, to scream or hit something.

  “Bailey says San Francisco is under attack, too.”

  “Sounds like Bailey has a lot to say.”

  Corrine falls silent. The breath I’ve been holding rushes out of me at the realization that I am being rude to a girl with bigger problems than me at this point.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, eyes downcast when I look at her.

  “It’s okay. I’m just worried is all. Every since this happened, I’ve been obsessed with getting home, making sure she’s okay.”

  “My dad could get like that sometimes.”

  “Some kids, they’re kind of, well…they suck. And some kids are absolute angels. Indigo’s had a hard run of life, like you it sounds, and she’s a good kid. A really good kid. Same as it looks like you are. I try not to worry too much, but as a parent, you’re always going to worry about your kids. And in situations as dire as these, it’s even more so.”

  “So long as they don’t suck, right?” she says.

  I look at her, slowly nodding my head. After that, Corrine doesn’t say anything. She just puts her hands in her pockets and avoids eye contact with me. Her eyes begin to water and she takes a discreet swipe at them. Her emotion hits me and I think I might be able to understand a little of what she’s going through. I get off the rig, walk over to her and pull her in my arms where she settles in and starts crying.

  She doesn’t say anything and I don’t let go of her. When I start to relax my arms to move from her embrace, she holds on a little tighter until her tears run dry. And then she lets go, tilts her head down and walks inside without even saying a word.

  It’s funny how my eyes are bone dry right now. How can I think of myself so thoroughly while this little girl’s heart has not only bee
n broken, but shattered?

  When Marcus walks outside with weapons and water, he stops, looks at me and says, “We’re going to need another car. Something old. Early seventies, late sixties.”

  “Why?”

  “Amber and Abigail are coming with us.”

  “When we first got the yacht, you were firmly telling Quentin you didn’t want any extra mouths to feed. You didn’t want extra opinions. Or infighting. Now, three people later…”

  “Save it, Nick. You know what we need.”

  “You just speaking your mind, or are you brainstorming your to-do list?”

  He flashes me a look, one that says he’s in an extra bad mood.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, needled by my own disjointed emotions.

  “This is turning into a damn caravan,” he growls. Then: “But it’s my fault. I just…I can’t let them stay here alone. They’ll die. I mean, they can’t even take care of themselves.”

  “So you’re going to be their Mother Theresa?”

  “Don’t confuse pity for sainthood.”

  “You act like it’s pity, but I’m starting to see what you’re about.”

  “And what’s that, Nick?”

  “You don’t want to care about people, so you keep them at a distance. If you don’t, then you’ll start to care and that’s a problem for you.”

  “Has this worked with you?” he says with a fair amount of sarcasm. “Because you and me are in each other’s proximity. So do you see me caring about you?”

  “I can’t say I do.”

  “I almost don’t like you 24/7, so I’d say your theory blows.”

  “You think I don’t know you care about me or Bailey at least somewhat? Why? Because I don’t tip toe around the big bad bearded wolf?”

  Now he’s ignoring me, arranging the sleeper enough to fit maybe Corrine and Abigail. In truth, I’m glad we’re bringing them. They can’t survive on their own here, and if they can, it’s not going to be without a cost.

  “You just keep playing Mister Bitter Isolationist,” I continue, “but sooner or later, you’re going to have to just be who you are, even with others around.”