Grid Down: A Strike against America - An EMP Survival Story- Book Two

by Roger Hayden

  “Not now,” he whispered.

  The guard took notice and approached, zeroing in on Josh. “You say something there, partner?”

  Kelly spoke up, albeit in a naïve way. “Please, sir. We don’t belong here. We didn’t do anything wrong… Can you let us go?”

  The man threw his head back and laughed. They could smell booze on his breath as he inched closer. “Little lady, it’s not up to me. That would be the mayor’s call. He asked me to leave this lamp being how kids are scared of the dark and everything.” He bent down and placed it inches from Josh’s sneakers.

  Antonio pulled out his knife as the guard rose back up, grunting from the effort.

  Josh grabbed his arm.

  “What?” Antonio whispered.

  “Not now!” Josh said with clinched teeth.

  “Goodnight, you little shits,” the guard said, stretching. He walked to the door, laughing under his breath.

  “I need to use the bathroom!” Gabrielle said.

  The guard stopped with his back turned. “I’ll grab you a bucket.” He said no more as he left, slamming the metal door shut and locking it.

  Antonio yanked his arm away from Josh. “What’s your problem, man? That was our chance!”

  “No,” Josh said. “You could get us all killed going at him like that.”

  Antonio stared ahead and said nothing as he folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.

  “We’ll think of something soon. Trust me,” Josh said.

  Their eyes drifted down to the kerosene lamp, watching it flicker, with nothing left to do but wait.

  ***

  Reverend Phelps’s faith had never been stronger. Even though he and the remaining members of his parish had been captured walking through town as “intruders” and placed in captivity for the past two weeks, he looked to divine power for guidance. The mayor had taken keen interest in him since day one. When first captured, the congregants were taken into a warehouse, lined up against a wall, and shot at. It was a traumatic experience—a sadistic game—but no one was hit. It was meant to send the fear of God to them. The town needed people, prisoners or not.

  At first, Phelps believed spiritual intervention had saved them. But the mayor had no intention of killing them. In the time he had been held in confinement, Phelps had only seen his parish of seven one time. Harvey and Beatrice Wilson, an old-fashioned couple in their fifties, were locked up in one room, while Zach and Erin Brantley were locked up in another with their two young children, Tyler and Sloane. He friend, Dale Ripken, a Long Island landscaper, had been placed on the wall and forced to work.

  Arthur, the mayor, had a sizeable team working to construct a cement wall around the entire town. For something so ludicrous, Phelps was surprised to see how close the mayor was getting. He woke up that morning with a single ray of light from a small window high above. In his constant confinement, he had begun to lose track of the days. He stopped to work it out in his head. It was Wednesday, November 23: seventy-three days after the EMP.

  Absent his Bible, he prepared his own lesson and prayers for the day. Breakfast would come soon—usually gathered bits from MRE packages with portions getting smaller each day. He took a swig of a nearly empty water bottle and stretched.

  A knock came at his door. No one had bothered to knock before, and Phelps didn’t know what to say, if anything. He rubbed the stubble on his face, where a large bruise was still visible. The pistol-whipping he had received upon meeting the mayor was still vivid in his mind. The doorknob unlocked as the door opened, revealing the mayor himself. His had a haircut and a fresh shave. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and ironed black slacks. He held a pair of tan boots and dropped them on the ground.

  Phelps’s dirty and tattered appearance was quite the contrast. He was barefoot and wearing the torn long-sleeved shirt and jeans he’d had on the day of his capture.

  “You know, Rev, you really look like shit,” Arthur pointed out.

  Phelps looked away saying nothing.

  Arthur laughed. “Relax. That’s why I came here. It’s time you took a shower and got into some fresh clothes.”

  Arthur turned back to him and spoke with a strained, hoarse voice. “What difference does it make at this point? Just leave me alone.”

  Arthur placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, Rev. Not biting today. We’re not going to argue.” He approached the bed and spoke quietly. “Now, look. I know you still think I’m sore about you letting me down the other day, but I’ve moved on. I promise.”

  Phelps stared ahead blankly and scoffed. “I don’t care what you think, frankly.”

  “Come on, now,” Arthur said in a congenial tone. “I’m sure you don’t want to spend the entire day locked up in here, am I right?”

  Phelps shook his head and stood up. The hard cement floor was cold under his feet. He couldn’t remember what had happened to his shoes. The day of their capture was still a blur—some parts more vivid than others. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Some respect, for starters,” Arthur snapped back. “I’ve let you have this room all to yourself. You know, we got some rooms where there’s four to five people packed in there.”

  “I never asked for this, so don’t act as though you’re doing me any favors,” Phelps said.

  Arthur took a step back and scratched his chin. “Things can get a whole lot worse, trust me.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Phelps said, staring him down.

  “Okay, Reverend. Have it your way,” Arthur said with a smile. “You’ll come around soon enough. Now, come on. I’m not letting you sit here and stink up this cell all day.” He pointed to the boots by the door. “You should be a what? Size ten?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Put ’em on. We’re going for a walk.”

  Phelps felt he had no choice but to comply. He didn’t want to stay in that barren room another minute. The urge to leave, combined with Arthur’s insistence, won him over.

  “I want to see my people. They should all have the opportunity to shower and change into new clothes if I can.”

  “In time,” Arthur said, leading him out of the room. “All good things come to those who wait.”

  Harvey and Beatrice’s room was at the end of the ten-room hall. The walls were made of thick concrete, and the hall was covered with drywall to conceal it. Phelps had no idea what the rooms had been originally used for, but escape would be difficult, if not impossible. Arthur led him toward the warehouse floor and past what he understood to be Zach and Erin’s room with their two children. The accommodations, he supposed, were as limited as his own: bed, waste bucket, and sometimes, food.

  Phelps followed Arthur out a door at the end of the hall, where dozens of freemen were congregated on the warehouse floor. There were unidentified boxes and crates everywhere. A large green military cargo truck was parked inside as well, taking up half the warehouse. The men looked to be preparing for something. They were all wearing tan military tactical clothes and vests. Many of the boxes were open, and Phelps could see more clothing sticking out.

  “How do you like our big score?” Arthur boasted.

  Phelps looked around. Arthur’s men studied him suspiciously. “What is all this?”

  “Intercepted a shipment,” Arthur said. “Got a few scout teams positioned a few miles outside of town. They ambushed a truck, killed the soldiers, and took everything in it. Even the truck.”

  Phelps stopped dead in his tracks and turned to Arthur. “Why are you telling me this? Are you proud of yourselves, murdering innocent people?”

  “I tell you this so that you have a clear understanding of the situation.”

  “What situation?” Phelps asked.

  “Follow me.”

  They walked to the double-door exit past a group of men digging through one of the boxes as though it were Christmas morning. Arthur pushed open the doors. The bright sunlight made Phelps squin
t. He hadn’t been outside in over two weeks. The fresh air was startling, and his lungs felt different with each breath. The grass under his feet was a big change as well. He wandered for a moment in a daze while holding his hand up to block the sun. Arthur put on a pair of sunglasses and motioned him alongside the building.

  “Where are we going?” Phelps asked.

  “Follow the dirt road,” Arthur said. “I wanna show you something first.”

  They left the warehouse in the distance and walked about a mile and a half down a dirt road, kicking up dust with each step. Arthur seemed to be in conversation mode, although talking mainly with himself.

  “I’ll tell you, Reverend. Just the other day I was ready for the snow to come falling down. Now look at it. It’s a bright sunny day.”

  Phelps said nothing but was curious himself to see such spring-like weather so close to winter. It would have been a perfect day for a stroll through town under other circumstances. As they hit a rural stretch of paved road, they continued their journey. Arthur kept talking to him, but he said little in return. It didn’t matter. He believed Arthur just liked to hear himself talk. Given the opportunity, however, Phelps finally decided to ask some questions.

  “Who are you?”

  Arthur glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t always like this, I imagine. Who were you before all this happened?”

  “I’m the mayor. Who else would I be?”

  “You weren’t always the mayor. You were a man. Someone normal, I imagine. And if you think back to who that person was, there’s a chance you can save yourself.”

  “The hell are you babbling about?” Arthur asked.

  “It’s never too late to fall under the grace of God.”

  They passed a sign for the interstate as the road wound to the right. There in front of them was a sight that nearly made Phelps sink to his knees. There was a wall. Tall and threatening. Going both ways as far as Phelps could see, and blocking both the interstate exit and the entrance into town.

  The concrete wall looked to be at least fifteen feet high. Too high to see over. A group of men at the base was working diligently to trowel wet cement from a wheelbarrow over the joints between the cinder blocks. Each man wore an orange shirt, as though they were prisoners on some kind of work release program. Two armed freemen sat in folding chairs under the shade of a maple tree, with their rifles in their laps.

  Phelps stood motionless and in complete awe of the project before him. Arthur approached and stood next to him, proudly surveying the culmination of his vision.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Phelps squinted and looked ahead. He recognized one of the workers. Wearing an orange shirt one size too big was Dale Ripken. He was bent over the handles of a wheelbarrow, slowly pushing it along the wall. He seemed to have lost a lot of weight and was dirty and unshaven.

  “Dale!” Phelps shouted and walked toward the workers.

  Dale slowly turned when he heard his name. Phelps ran toward him. “Dale! What have they done to you?”

  Phelps felt a hand grab onto his shoulder and stop him. He turned to see Arthur staring him in the face. “Not so fast, Rev. Don’t bother my men when they’re working.”

  Phelps pushed Arthur’s hand away in anger. “They’re not your men. Dale is a personal friend of mine, not some slave you can make perform forced labor.”

  Arthur belted out a laugh that garnered the attention of his two armed guards. “None of these men are forced to do anything. They volunteered.”

  Phelps tilted his head and smirked. “Now why would anyone do that?”

  Arthur held out his hand and began counting on each finger. “Well, there’s the perks. They can leave their rooms, get some fresh air, and reap the rewards.”

  “What rewards?” Phelps asked.

  “Some of them just want some booze.” He stopped, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a prescription bottle, rattling it. “Others are fine with a few of these. Chases the blues away real quick.”

  Phelps cut Arthur off. “This is barbaric. You can’t treat people in this manner. This is a crime against God’s law.”

  “Really?” Arthur said keenly. He dug the tip of his boot into the ground and kicked up some dirt. “Well, I’ve been on both sides of the fence, and I can tell you that I understand the criminal justice system a little better now. The key is to protect the law-abiding from those who break the law. All of those men committed crimes and are now facing the consequences.”

  “What crime did Dale commit? What about me?”

  Arthur looked at him with a matter-of-fact expression, almost as though the answer were obvious. “Trespassing. Of course.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Phelps responded. His voice, although hoarse, was getting loud enough to gain the attention of the workers.

  “Come here,” Arthur said, leading him to the shade of a nearby tree and out of earshot of the workers.

  Phelps reluctantly followed. He was about to plead his case, when Arthur spun around in full command mode. “It’s over,” he began.

  “What are you talking about?” Phelps said, incredulous.

  “I’m talking about the world we know. Now, listen to this.” Without saying another word, Arthur reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small radio, the size of his palm. “Found this beauty during one of our raids. I haven’t been able to figure out why some things still work and why other things don’t, but for the past week they’ve been talking about an EMP. Do you know what an EMP is?”

  Phelps thought to himself. “Yes. A missile designed to take down the power grids.”

  “Exactly. Well, someone attacked us and meant to do us grave damage. Iran. Russia. North Korea. Take your pick. If you had told me a month ago that the power would still be out and everything that followed would still be the same, I wouldn’t have believed you.” Arthur paused and took a deep breath. “But here we are. Now, I want you to listen to something.” He turned the radio on and scrolled through the channels with his thumb pressed on a knob. Nothing but static could be heard. “You hear that?” he asked.

  Phelps leaned in closer. “What, the static?”

  “Yes. That’s all there is now. No broadcasts, no emergency messages, nothing.” He turned the radio off and put it back in his pocket. “It’s over, Rev. We’re not going back to the way things were. This is the way things are. So you’re going to have to think real good and real hard about what you’re going to do from here on out.”

  Phelps turned and looked at the wall. He would need an extension ladder to get over it at the very least. He couldn’t believe that Arthur had actually built the thing.

  “It’s almost done too,” Arthur said, enjoying the look of disbelief on Phelps’s face. “Pretty soon there’ll be no way into town and no way out.”

  Phelps swung his head in Arthur’s direction and pleaded. “Please let them go. I implore you to search your soul for mercy. Join me on the path toward righteousness and save your soul before it’s too late!”

  Arthur cupped his chin with one hand and nodded, as if considering it. Phelps didn’t know if his words would make a bit of difference. He was confident, however, that if Arthur opened his eyes to God, no matter how far he had strayed, there was a good chance they could all be saved. The entire town could be.

  “I’ll let your friends go,” Arthur said in a hushed tone.

  Phelps froze. Arthur’s words took him completely by surprise. “I’m sorry? You’ll…”

  “Let your friends go. All of them. On one condition, of course.”

  He didn’t want to hear it, but he asked, “Which is?” The catch came as predictably as Phelps had imagined.

  “After so many casualties the other day, there’s an undeniable sense of demoralization around town. And once people realize that things are going to stay like this, it’s going to get worse. My methods can only go so far in keeping this town in order. The people need so
mething. They need something to believe in.”

  Phelps nodded. “Faith is the cornerstone of a healthy existence.”

  “I agree, and that’s why I want you to talk to our townspeople and spread your message.”

  Perplexed, Phelps leaned in closer. “You want me to…”

  “Preach the gospel,” Arthur said. “Deliver the word unto the people and convince them of my own divinity as a leader.”

  Phelps blinked rapidly and thought to himself as Arthur continued. “Here’s the deal. You convince the people of my divine power as a messenger of God, and I’ll free your friends.”

  “I can’t do that,” Phelps said. “That goes against the entirety of what I believe, and I will lose the grace of God with such blasphemy.”

  Arthur smiled. “I knew you’d resist. After all, you failed to convince your followers to fight with me at the camp, and I’m sure you’d fail at this as well, if I allowed it.” Arthur leaned in closely and spoke with menace in his voice. “But fail me this time, and things are going to get a whole lot worse for you and your people. That much, I guarantee.”

  ***

  Twenty-four hours had passed, and the children still hadn’t seen the light of day. When pressed about using the restrooms, the guards tossed a bucket into the room. “Enjoy!” one of them had said. They’d been provided little—some gruel, hardened bread, and a single water bottle to share between the eight of them. Confined in a dank cell with just a kerosene lamp to illuminate the darkness was bad enough, but not knowing their fate was even worse. There was nothing to do but wait.

  Wait for word from their captors. Wait to be rescued. Or simply wait for whatever was in store for them. Antonio wasn’t one for waiting around, and after long hours of agonizing uncertainty, he had had enough.

  “We’re getting out of here tonight,” he announced to the room. The others lay about on the mattresses, exhausted by sheer boredom but too unnerved to sleep. Nobody said anything. Antonio paced the limited confines of the room, walking in circles, his knife in hand.