End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  Emergency personnel and public services throughout Georgia scrambled to offer aid to those who needed it and found themselves quickly overwhelmed. Police, firefighters, paramedics, and military personnel were severely limited after most of their vehicles and communications didn't work, though the National Guard, ironically due to large budget cuts, primarily used vehicles that dated back to the 1970s. Such vehicles seemed impervious to the attacks. Hospitals, schools, courthouses, and prisons struggled to maintain operations after massive power grid failures. A growing fear of a wide-ranging breakdown of services occurred as a result.

  In Milledgeville, Georgia—outside Savannah—lived James Cook, a solitary man who taught history at the local Georgia College & State University, mainly referred to as GU. James was a former marine and Gulf War veteran now in his early fifties. He was recently divorced and had one son who lived in California with his own family. James liked using his hands. He loved the outdoors. It was where he truly felt at home. When not teaching, he spent most of his time outside clearing land for gardens and livestock on a seven-acre piece of property he had purchased some years prior.

  He lived in a four-bedroom house completely furnished and stocked with canned and pickled food, hygienic and medical supplies, and all sorts of items with extended shelf lives. The house itself ran on electricity. But in the event of a power outage, he had other methods in place such as small windmills, solar panels, fuel-powered generators, and twenty-four volt batteries. The generators were stored in a shed with a stockpile of fuel reserves he changed out regularly. He also used well water. It was the kind of house that ran independently from the outside world. This was its precise purpose.

  James was part of a survivalist support group that had met online and formed as a result of the present troubling times and fears for the future. They shared similar concerns and regularly communicated on the Internet through a prepper chat room. In addition to James, there was a young couple, Mark and Janice Moss, who lived in Savannah, and the Robinsons, an African American family from Atlanta. The Robinson family consisted of Terrance, Christina, and their three teenage children, Richie, Tobias, and Paula. After discovering the house, James offered the Mosses and the Robinsons an investment opportunity.

  He would move out of his apartment in Milledgeville and into the house for good. Its remote location was ideal for its operation as a “bug-out,” or “safe house,” operating as a rally point in the event of a major disaster, terrorist attack, or national emergency. James would regularly maintain the premises, both inside and out to ensure that it had well over a few months of sustainability of food, power, and water. They would live at the house in the event that they had to flee the cities they lived in. And they all felt that the day would soon come.

  When everything stopped the morning of September 21, each member of the prepper pact was beginning his day, only to find that power, communications, and mobility had been effectively dismantled in the blink of an eye. James was in the middle of his morning lecture on American Civil War history when his class was interrupted by the blackout. Many of his students panicked as their accessory devices—laptops, smartphones—no longer worked. James had no choice but to dismiss his class while warning them to be careful and to go straight to their homes if they could. He believed the strange occurrence to be caused by an EMP attack, almost without question.

  In Savannah, Mark, a car salesman, was in the middle of having coffee with his boss, Mrs. Andrews, when the power went out in a local Barnie's. They walked outside to be met by a sea of motionless cars stranded on the busy road. And when they tried their own cars, they fared no better. Mark had suspicions, but couldn't quite believe that he was actually witnessing the aftermath of an EMP strike. Janice, Mark's wife, was just arriving at the temp agency she worked at when the overhead lights above her desk went out, along with her computer and smartphone.

  A line of frustrated applicants looked to her for answers, demanding that her agency stick to their appointments regardless of the power issues. Janice, who was only vaguely aware of EMPs, didn't know exactly what to think of everything. She knew, however, that whatever had occurred was not routine or insignificant. When it seemed as if the power wasn't going to come back on, she went to her car in the parking lot. When it failed to start, she decided to hang around the building and wait as everyone else did.

  That morning, Terrance Robinson was on I-75 in Atlanta morning rush-hour traffic, behind the wheel of his semitruck to pick up a haul in South Carolina. Without warning, a flash occurred in the sky, and the engine of his eighty-thousand-pound eighteen-wheeler simply died. There was no starting it. Terrance noticed that every other vehicle on the highway had slowed to a halt as well. Things became particularly interesting as he witnessed drivers and passengers alike exiting vehicles, popping their hoods, and examining their engines in utter confusion.

  Terrance didn't have to look at his engine to know the problem. Whatever had disabled his truck had done so to every car on the road. It was no coincidence. There were no coincidences as far as he was concerned. He was fairly certain that Atlanta had just been hit with an EMP. His instincts told him so. And with his instincts came action.

  He abandoned his truck on the highway and began the five-mile journey back home. There, waiting for him, was his bug-out van, though he had no clue whether it would even start. It had never been truly tested, and all the theories about older vehicles manufactured in the late seventies being immune to an EMP could have been completely false as far as he knew. He trudged home anyway, hoping to find his wife and get his kids from school before Atlanta descended into chaos.

  At 9:30 in the morning, Christina, Terrance's wife, was about to go to work at the Dollar Store, only to find that her 1996 two-door red Chrysler LeBaron wouldn't start. She returned inside to see that they had no power. Her phone was dead. She did, however, have a handheld radio that still functioned. It was an old bulky piece of plastic. Terrance had insisted every member of the family carry one. The radios were wrapped in aluminum foil and placed in Ziploc bags to protect them against magnetic pulses. They were embarrassing devices to carry around, even when hidden. They were also suspicious looking, especially for African American kids to carry around.

  They eventually reunited after Terrance's exhausting five-mile walk home. Then it was time to work together and decide what to do in the midst of the major blackout. There was the bug-out van, and there was the bug-out house. Should they leave Atlanta? How much time did they have before things got worse? Or was it nothing but a temporary glitch in the entire system? Terrance and Christina didn't want to uproot their lives and flee, but they didn't want to stick until it was too late to escape either. It was a hard decision, and they were sure that their children would be less than enthused about staying in Milledgeville for a few weeks.

  “Are we going to run, or are we going to stay?” Christina asked Terrance.

  “You make it sound like a retreat,” Terrance responded.

  “We're not soldiers, we're a family, and I just want to do what's best for us. That's all I'm asking.”

  Terrance thought to himself for a moment. “I say we get the kids, pack tonight, and go to Milledgeville.”

  “Then that's what we'll do,” Christina said. She wanted Terrance to be decisive at that moment. Whatever he had answered, she was going to be supportive. Terrance then had to face what he had been putting off: starting the bug-out van. Miraculously it worked, and they began their journey to retrieve their kids from school and get to Milledgeville without drawing attention to themselves and their van—one of the few operational vehicles on the road in a city of five hundred thousand agitated and restless people.

  Each member of the prepper pact had been taken by surprise on the morning of September 21, but their instincts pushed them toward action. They had many of the same ethics, but approached planning and preparation in different ways. In a sense, each brought unique traits to the group as a whole.

  James was skilled at h
unting, building things, and possessed a mastery of the outdoors. Mark and Janice shared a combined financial sense, living comfortably within limited means. They knew how to barter and trade, knew the importance of having cash on hand, as well how to invest wisely. Though they both could probably have been bankers, they weren't. But their financial advice was a great asset to the prepper pact.

  Terrance possessed advanced mechanical skills from his years of having worked on cars since he was a child. He also knew how to read a map and navigate without the aid of modern technology. His sense of direction was impeccable.

  Christina, above all, was the weapons expert of the group. She had stocked up on several different kinds of weapons, from pistols to shotguns to rifles, and she knew of the most practical models, best ammunition types, and most affordable manufacturers. Her gun smarts were no greater than those of any advanced weapons enthusiast, but to the prepper pact, her knowledge was invaluable. As a marine, James also knew a thing or two about weapons himself.

  The Robinson kids—Richie, Tobias, and Paula—were skeptical of their parents’ interests and of their new friends. They didn't get it any more than most teenagers would. Who would expect them to? Retrieving them from school and going to Milledgeville was going to be a challenge in itself. Terrance and Christina were ready to leave now. The bug-out van took off down the empty street of their dilapidated neighborhood, and they weren't coming back without their children, despite whatever stood in the way.

  A Tale of Two Schools

  Monday, September 21, 2020, 2:35 p.m., Atlanta, Georgia

  Terrance drove cautiously, avoiding the stares and waves of those walking along the road through his neighborhood. Their blue 1977 GMC Chevrolet van stuck out like a zeppelin roaming the streets. Its engine was also considerably loud and could be heard for miles.

  “Should we be worried?” Christina asked. She glanced nervously out the window while clutching the armrest of the front passenger seat. The van had four windows: the driver's side, passenger’s side, and two on the back doors. It was hard for anyone outside to really see in, which made the van seem safer. The windows were up and the doors locked, but still Christina felt anxious. In her lap, she cradled a loaded snub-nose .38 Special. Terrance looked over and noticed the weapon gleaming in the sunlight.

  “You better keep that thing out of sight. You know we're about to go into a school, right?” Terrance believed in precautions and trusted people even less than Christina, but bringing a loaded weapon even near a school made him uncomfortable.

  “Relax, big daddy, I know how to use it. And if you think I'm foolish enough to ride around Atlanta after an EMP with no gun, then you're as dense as they come.”

  Terrance didn't respond, but instead he kept his eyes on the road. Paula's middle school was first on their list, even though it was farther than the boys’ high school. They couldn't reach her through the radio, as she had either turned hers off or had forgotten to bring it to school altogether. They had managed to get in touch with Richie and Tobias through the handheld radio that Tobias, their younger boy, had on him. Terrance told them to stay together and wait by the football field until Terrance and Christina arrived. Their plan was a simple one: get the kids and bring them home. But it was no ordinary day, and “easy” or “convenient” just wasn't in the cards.

  They were about five miles from Paula’s school, Crescent Valley Middle School. They had weaved around nearly twenty incapacitated cars along the way and realized an extra danger in having a van. Not only was it big and noticeable, but it seemed as though every wanderer on the road assumed there was plenty of room inside for them.

  “Hey, man, let me get on that bus! Come on, man!” an eager young man dressed in all red shouted from the side of the road. He ran and jumped out in front of the van, causing Terrance to jerk the wheel to the side, avoiding the man by mere inches. Christina could feel her heart stop. What she wouldn't have done for a cigarette, and the day hadn't even started. It was their closest call yet, marking the first time that someone had actively tried to block their way and stop them. They both knew that soon it would get much worse. Fortunately, Paula’s school was only a few miles away.

  “Did you try the radio again and see if she's there?” Terrance asked.

  “I told you, she doesn't have it on her. I know that child,” she answered, leaning over toward the van radio. She fiddled with the buttons trying to find a station but couldn't even hear static.

  “I could never get the radio in this thing working,” Terrance said, taking notice.

  “Just checking. It'd be nice to hear what they're saying on the news.”

  “They probably don't even know what to say,” Terrance said.

  “Of course they know. Someone always knows. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

  After navigating through side streets, they got back on the main road and passed a group of teenagers moving down the sidewalk with their smartphones in the air, desperately trying to get them to work. The middle school was right up the street. Christina wondered if the students had been released early. The thought worried her. The van approached the school entrance, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The school faculty parking lot was full. It looked like a normal school day. No other children were roaming the premises, and it was quiet. At the end of the drop-off ramp was the front office. It was dark inside the building, but movement could be seen as their van approached.

  Near the administrator building were lines of brick buildings with arched, teal-colored metal roofs. A chain link fence enclosed the buildings with only a single entrance and exit in the front. The faculty parking lot to the side of the school was nearly full, and not a soul roamed its premises. Everything looked oddly serene, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. But indeed it was; the school administrators were simply in denial that this was anything beyond a temporary power outage. Terrance pulled the van to the curb by the front office. His hand hovered over the ignition switch, and he hesitated.

  “I don't think I should to shut off the engine.”

  Christina gave him a curious look as she reached for the door handle. “Maybe you should just wait here van while I go get Paula.”

  “Maybe I will,” Terrance said.

  “Well, good,” Christina replied. The van door squeaked as she opened it.

  “Good then,” Terrance said back. “Glad we're on the same page.”

  “We are,”

  “Go get Paula then.”

  “I am!”

  “Good.”

  Christina stepped out of the van and began walking toward the red administrator building.

  She pushed through the glass double doors and entered the darkened waiting room. She walked over a rug displaying an embroidered emblem of a sun rising over a crescent valley. A receptionist desk with high walls was ahead, but it was hard to see if anyone was sitting behind it. To her right, at the far corner of the room, was a hallway with offices. Christina heard several voices talking over each other from one of the rooms. The voices discussed the power outage and sudden lack of communications. She moved closer to the hallway and tried to listen.

  “We're talking about a major shutdown here. But if this is a wide-ranging issue throughout Atlanta, I would suggest that the kids are probably better off here. We can't simply release them.”

  “Can I help you?” a woman said to Christina, calling from the receptionist desk.

  Startled, Christina turned to her. “Yes,” she answered. “My name is Christina Robinson. I'm here to pick up my daughter for a dental appointment.” The woman's hair was pinned back in a bun. She wore a pearl necklace and a blazer and sat upright with her arms folded over her desk, looking agitated. The computer at her desk was off.

  The woman gave a slight smile. “Yes, we can certainly help you with that. What is your daughter's name?” she asked.

  “Her name is Paula Robinson. She's in the eighth grade.”

  The woman nodded and instinctively picked up a w
alkie-talkie next to her. She pressed the button and began to speak. “Mr. Wallace, we need to locate a student whose parent has arrived—” Suddenly, she stopped and set the walkie-talkie back down in a manner of defeat. “I keep forgetting that this is broken. I don't know what's going on.”

  “I'm not sure,” Christina answered. “I just hope that whatever it is, it's only temporary.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry, can I see some form of identification, please?” the woman interrupted.

  “Yes, of course,” Christina said, searching her purse. It made her feel a little better that the school verified who came and picked up the kids, even though it was slightly strange to have to prove that she was Paula's mother. She handed the woman her driver's license. The woman gave it a quick look and handed it back.

  The receptionist was about to elaborate on school visitor policy, when suddenly a portly silver-haired administrator wearing a badge on a long-sleeved dress shirt entered the room with a walkie-talkie in hand.

  “Mr. Wallace,” the receptionist said with relief. “I've been trying to get you on the radio.”

  “Well, Deborah, as you know, nothing is really working at the moment,” he replied. He almost walked past them, but the receptionist held out her arm to stop him.

  “We need to locate a student. Her mother is here to pick her up for a dentist appointment.”

  Mr. Wallace stopped, slightly annoyed, and looked to Christina. “What's the child's name and grade?” he asked.

  “Her name is Paula Robinson. She's in the eighth grade,” the receptionist said, accidentally talking over Christina.

  “OK,” Mr. Wallace said, scratching his chin. “Shouldn't be too hard to track down. I'll be back in a moment.” Before Christina could say anything, he turned away and went back down the hallway from where he came.

  “He'll find her,” Deborah said, going back to her desk.

  Christina paced the room in anticipation. She moved back toward the hallway where the heated discussion was taking place earlier and listened.