Devil's Homecoming: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (The Blackout Series Book 6)

by Bobby Akart

  “Good idea, Alex, I’ll do my best,” said Stubby, who then turned to Colton. “You and Alex have to lay down cover fire to get Jake out of there. If for some reason you can’t get the wrecker running, then use the station wagon and come up with some type of quick release on the tow chain. I don’t like that option because it’s risky as all get out.”

  “Don’t worry about this wrecker, ole hoss,” interjected Jake. “It looks like a GMC, which means there are a ton of parts lying around here for it. It’ll run. You just go in there and find our boys.”

  Colton patted Stubby on the shoulder and smiled. “We’ve got this, my friend. You be safe, find the boys, and let’s take it to the house.”

  Stubby hugged everyone and slipped off into the night. Alex watched him the longest, as she was concerned about his ability to get inside without getting hurt. These FEMA people seemed to have a crappy attitude toward the people they were supposed to support and protect.

  *****

  Stubby jogged across the road and nonchalantly walked up to the double glass doors that marked the entry to the administration building. As much as he thought about his approach to gaining entry, it really boiled down to figurin’ it out on the fly. He took a deep breath, put on his game face, and pulled the handles to enter.

  The doors were locked.

  He tried them again to make sure. Same result. Really?

  Stubby pushed his face up against the doors and cupped his eyes with his hands so he could see inside. It was dark except for a glow of light emanating from a closed door at the back of the open entry.

  He tried knocking, politely at first.

  Nothing. Stubby began to get aggravated. What kind of operation is this? It’s not that late at night.

  His mind raced as he reconsidered the entire plan. If the people in charge of this camp were this inattentive to the front door, maybe there was another way to extract the boys. Heck, he could come back tomorrow and simply ask if they’d turn them over to him, no questions asked.

  He knocked again, and when there wasn’t a response, he pounded the door. Befuddled, Stubby stomped a foot and rested his hands on his hips. Then he came up with an idea. Growing up as a kid, they used to joke that the quickest way to go to jail was to throw a brick through a post office window. As a U.S. government facility, it would guarantee you a federal jail cell.

  Stubby shrugged and looked around the landscaped beds for a brick. He found a river rock and decided that would do. He gave the door-knocking approach one more try to no avail before he heaved the heavy rock through the plate-glass door, shattering it from top to bottom.

  The rock was still skipping along the tiled floor when it rested at the foot of a National Guardsman with his rifle pointed at Stubby. Suddenly, two side doors opened in the hallway as partially dressed soldiers emerged with their weapons drawn.

  Stubby stepped into the foyer, avoiding the broken glass, and approached the men. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he announced sarcastically. “I knocked, but nobody answered. I’d like to check in and get a room, please.”

  The guards closed the gap quickly and Stubby considered running but decided to take his licks. He knew what was coming.

  “It doesn’t work like that, you moron,” shouted one guard, who wore nothing but boxer shorts.

  The other guard swung his rifle around and struck Stubby on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor. He tried to get up, and cut his left hand with glass in the process before the other guard kicked him in the ribs. He was about to receive another kick when a voice from the end of the hallway shouted at the guards.

  “That’s enough! I guess we’ll give this idiot what he wants. Cuff him and take him to the infirmary. Also, find the orderlies and tell them to clean this mess up.”

  The officer giving the orders immediately turned around and returned to his room and slammed the door behind him. Stubby thought he could hear the sound of a woman giggling in the background although the ringing in his ears distorted everything at this point.

  One of the guards kicked him in the thigh and ordered Stubby to get on his feet. He quickly obliged. He pulled a shard of glass out of his left palm and wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve before his arms were twisted behind him to be cuffed.

  One of the guards summoned two orderlies via their two-way radio system and another guard arrived to watch the front entry. Stubby was led away, hopping on his good leg. He had been given a serious charley horse and it hurt to put any weight on it.

  Stubby did his best to act incoherent and troublesome for the guards, although not overplaying it. He was keenly aware of his surroundings and made mental notes of everything he saw. From the sounds and smells emanating from the closed doors, he gathered the administration building had been converted to the guards’ barracks.

  As they continued pulling him toward the east end of the building, he glanced down another hallway and saw two guards smoking cigarettes just outside the door.

  They reached the end and pushed the handle on a glass door, opening it into a courtyard between three large buildings. A fence connected the corners of these buildings, which prevented refugee access. There were no guards necessary for this area. They stood him upright and pushed him forward.

  “Don’t run off, short stuff,” growled the heavyset taller guard.

  The guard laughed. “This bum ain’t goin’ anywhere. He’s probably gonna enjoy the best meals of his life in here.”

  “Yeah, especially the ALPO served on crackers.” The taller guard laughed. “These people in here are so dang stupid.”

  They continued across the courtyard and reached a building marked the Jim Moss Center for Nursing. Blood dripped down Stubby’s face and blocked his vision somewhat. At least the ringing in his ears had subsided.

  The infirmary seemed clean and it was well lit. A smallish woman who had been reading a paperback book walked from around a desk in the center of the large entry and studied Stubby’s face.

  “Here ya go, Annie Wilkes.” The taller guard laughed. “This one busted through the front door a few minutes ago, literally. He cut his hand and bumped his head in the process. He was talkin’ trash too. Ya might wanna keep him in cuffs.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Nurse Annie Wilkes as she cupped Stubby’s bearded chin and looked into his eyes. “You ain’t gonna give me any trouble, are ya?”

  Stubby shook his head from side to side. “No, ma’am,” he replied politely. He had to be careful because he wasn’t sure which side of the fence the nurse belonged to.

  “Okay, gentlemen, we’ll take it from here,” the nurse said as she led Stubby to an examination room. She cut loose the zip-tie restraints, which were beginning to cut into Stubby’s wrists. He rubbed his wrists to relieve the pressure, drawing a wince because of his lacerated hand.

  “Well, mister, you’re all busted up, ain’t ya?” observed the nurse.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Stubby replied. “I guess I kinda had it comin’. I knocked on the front door to come in and nobody answered. I gotta little impatient and threw a big rock through the glass door. Your friends there didn’t appreciate my improvised doorbell.”

  She took Stubby’s injured hand in hers and chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, they ain’t my friends, trust me. I don’t wanna be here anymore than the rest of these folks. It’s just that my husband and I ran out of options and they promised us our own private quarters plus the good meals they feed the guards. At our age, we decided that’s the best we could do under the circumstances.”

  “Well, thank you for taking care of me, Nurse Wilkes,” said Stubby. “My name is Clarence.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Clarence, but my name isn’t Annie Wilkes. They call me that because I like to read and take care of patients. My real name is Donna Sheridan. My husband and I are retired physician’s assistants. Fred handles the day shift and I take the night shift. You’ll see him in the morning.”

  Stubby wiped his face off with his sleeve and Nurse Donna qu
ickly grabbed some gauze to begin cleaning him up. She retrieved an orange jumpsuit from a cabinet and encouraged Stubby to get out of his blood-soaked clothes. At first Stubby hesitated, but then he thought it would be a good idea to mix in with the crowd.

  While she politely turned her back, he stripped down to his skivvies and changed into the jumpsuit. It hung on him like a sack of potatoes, but it was comfortable nonetheless.

  “Clarence,” the nurse said, “I’ll have an orderly wash these up for you. We have some folks here like Fred and I who volunteer to do chores for the guards in exchange for better food. Trust me, if you broke in here for three hots and a cot, you’ve come to the wrong place. Folks are sleeping on the floor. The meals they serve refugees don’t resemble real food. We don’t have near enough medication to keep the elderly alive. Heck, we probably lose two or three a day to malnutrition.”

  Stubby sat quietly while Nurse Donna washed out the cut on his hand and bandaged it up. He wiggled his fingers and clenched his fist, pleased that he maintained his mobility. After she had Stubby hold a compress to his head wound, the bleeding subsided and she put a large butterfly bandage over the gash.

  “You’re probably gonna have a scar there, but it will heal up fairly quickly,” she said. “I’ve seen them bring in a lot worse, you know.”

  Stubby sensed an opening. “Ma’am, my friend’s son went missing a couple of days ago. A neighbor claims he was beaten and dragged into a truck or something like that. The boy’s in his late teens, thin and lanky. His name is Chase. Have you seen him?”

  “Well, I’ll be dogged. What a small world,” she replied. “They did bring him in here. Badly beaten, that one was. Fred and I fixed him up with some fluids and Advil. Young people can bounce back faster than folks like me and you, I’ll tell you that.”

  Stubby tried not to jump out of his orange jumpsuit with excitement. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s down the hallway in a recovery room,” she said. “Fred was gonna look in on him in the morning, and if he slept well, he was gonna be transferred into the GenPop.”

  “GenPop?” asked Stubby.

  “General population,” she replied. “That’s what the FEMA folks call the refugees. If they’ve committed a dangerous crime, then we fix them up and they’re locked in the hole.”

  “The hole?” Stubby’s curiosity accompanied his desire to learn more about his surroundings.

  “Oh, honey. You don’t ever wanna go near the hole. You can trust me on that one.”

  Stubby nodded and contemplated what happened in the hole. Then he got back to business.

  “May I visit with the young man, Chase? I mean if you don’t mind.”

  Nurse Donna helped Stubby off the treatment table and he got steady on his feet. The charley horse needed to be worked out, but he had time to do that. He wanted to lay eyes on Chase.

  “Come on with me, Clarence,” she replied. “I’ll do you one better than that. There’s another bed in his room. You guys can hang out together until Fred comes in to check on you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Stubby, smiling. Just what the doctor ordered.

  Chapter 20

  Evening, November 26

  FEMA Camp #3

  Jackson

  The group split up into two teams and began their preparations. Coach Carey and Beau spent the evening on the south side of FEMA Camp #3, studying and exploring the fence line, looking for vulnerabilities they might have missed on their earlier recon assignment. Jake, Colton, and Alex were huddled under the hood of the old wrecker, staring down into the abyss of an engine that hadn’t started in years.

  “This thing is supposed to be our secret weapon?” asked Alex snarkily.

  “I’ve seen better,” replied Jake. He pulled on some plug wires and fumbled through the engine parts to squeeze the hoses. “Believe it or not, it’s not in bad shape. We’re fixin’ to find out if it’ll run.”

  Jake put his most valuable post-apocalyptic talent to work and made his way under the dash of the old wrecker. The rusted-out vehicle would be strong enough to serve their purpose, which was to provide a gaping hole for the refugees and prisoners of the camp to come streaming out. If they couldn’t get the wrecker to run, then their other option was to use the Chevy station wagon. The car’s engine had more than enough power with its four-hundred-and-fifty-four-cubic-inch engine, but the tires were balding. It was likely the lightweight rear end would spin, unable to rip the fence down.

  The wrecker’s weight was sufficient to get traction to the four rear wheels. The right front tire was flat, so they’d have to find and mount a replacement. It didn’t have to match perfectly. Old Hoss, as Jake dubbed the nearly fifty-year-old machine, just needed to pull the fence twenty feet. That would git ’er done.

  Jake prepared the ignition wires and touched them together.

  TICK—TICK—TICK.

  Jake grunted as he slid out from under the steering wheel. He came back around and joined the two heads staring inside the engine compartment of the wrecker.

  “Battery’s dead. We’ve got to find another one that’s got top posts like this one.” Jake tapped the end of his flashlight on the old Eveready.

  “Alex, you stand watch at the entrance. Jake and I will rustle up a battery. There are some newer model cars parked at the rear of the Exxon down the street. I’m thinkin’ that any batteries around the junkyard will be worthless.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” said Alex.

  Jake started toward the road and hollered back at Colton, “Grab that tire iron. We might need to bust in the windows to get to the hood latch.”

  “I love you, honey,” said Colton as he gave his daughter a peck on the cheek. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “I love you too, Daddy. I will.”

  Colton jogged off into the darkness, attempting to catch Jake, who’d strutted off with a purpose. He’d picked up his pace considerably with Chase at risk. Alex hoped that after Chase was rescued, it might mark a new beginning for him and his dad.

  Alex walked around to the front of the auto salvage’s offices and sat on a mesh lawn chair. She looked around at the property. Now everybody’s car was junk except for the ones that had avoided the fate of the Highway 70 Auto Salvage in years past.

  Other than an occasional barking dog in the distance, the night was quiet and still. Alex’s mind wandered as she thought about the events of the last month. She’d seen more drama than most kids see in a lifetime. But she no longer considered herself a kid. Before the solar storm, she was somewhat defined by her age—what grade she was in or whether she could drive a car. Within a few years, she’d be able to vote, serve in the military, or drink alcohol. In a normal world, all of these things were defined by her legal age.

  Now age didn’t matter. You were defined by your ability to survive. It didn’t matter whether you were fifteen or fifty. All that mattered was whether you could provide for yourself and the ones you loved, with the priorities being shelter, water, food, and security.

  Alex’s birthday, her sweet sixteenth, was coming up in just a couple of weeks. For a young woman, this was once considered a rite of passage and an event to be celebrated. Alex wondered if her parents would remember. Personally, she didn’t care if it was considered a day when she would be considered to have come of age.

  She’d come of age the day she killed Jimmy Holder’s stepfather. Unlike most people who would probably have a mental breakdown of some kind after taking another’s life, she did not. She was glad to be alive and would do it again to protect herself.

  After that fateful moment, killing took on a whole new purpose. Sure, it was necessary to defend herself and the ones she loved. Shooting to kill now took on another justification—eliminating threats.

  The day she’d joined Charlie Koch in their sniper hides, she didn’t see Junior’s men as human beings. They were menaces, bad actors who intended to do her harm. She’d shot and killed without compunction.

  She would never admit this to h
er folks, but Alex had changed in the moment she killed Mr. Holder. Sitting quietly in her room that afternoon, she’d turned to the Bible, seeking answers. She’d found the Gospel of Matthew and read it repeatedly. Eventually, she’d twisted the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount to read do unto others before they do unto you.

  Kill, or be killed.

  *****

  Coach Carey and Beau entered the UPS offices through a broken glass door. With their weapons at the ready, they slowly crossed over the pieces of shattered glass and tried to allow their eyes to adjust to the complete darkness.

  Beau bumped into the back of his dad and they dropped to one knee to assess the situation.

  “Dad, it’s pitch black in here. If we turn on a flashlight, anybody hiding will be all over us.”

  “I agree, son, but we can’t find the things we need this way. We gotta take a chance.”

  Beau reached into his backpack and took out a small tactical flashlight that he’d packed. His other one was affixed to the rail mount on his AR-15.

  “Dad, let’s make our way into the package-sorting area in the back. We’ll stop and listen; then I’ll turn this light on and slide it across the floor. If anybody’s hiding in there, it might flush them out.”

  “Good idea,” his dad replied. Coach Carey felt his way through the entrance and around the back of the customer service counters. Debris was everywhere, as the facility appeared to have been looted early and often.

  He slowly pushed open the lightweight steel swinging doors and was greeted with a rush of stale, humid air. Without electricity, the rear of the building had no ventilation and the hundreds of cardboard boxes raised humidity levels within the building considerably.

  Beau joined his father’s side. The ambient light coming through the skylight helped their visibility as their eyes adjusted.

  “Doesn’t look like we’ll need the flashlight,” quipped Beau. “Besides, there isn’t any floor to slide it down anyway.”