End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  Patterson stared ahead in a daze. “I don't know. This is a disaster.” He then placed his face into his hands in defeat.

  “It wasn't your fault. No one is to blame for any of this,” Todd said.

  Patterson snapped out of his stupor and lashed out at those huddled around.

  “I told you all to stay back!”

  The five or so employees looked confused at his outburst. Moments later, Johnson and some others rushed to the scene with fire extinguishers in hand. They sprayed over the entire wreckage, and the fire eventually died down.

  “What are you doing?” Patterson asked them angrily.

  “They're putting out the fire, sir,” Todd said, feeling a tinge of anger himself.

  Patterson didn't respond. He pushed past them and examined the wreckage. Within the melted frame, he could see the shapes of charred bodies, but couldn't tell one from the other. A sudden sickness grew within his stomach from the awful sight, coupled with the stench of burned flesh. The crowd outside had grown considerably larger. There were close to fifteen employees standing around and gawking.

  Patterson was hunched over and looked too upset to speak, so Todd raised his arms and took over. “OK, I think we've seen enough, everyone.” He was getting sick from the fumes himself.

  “He's right,” Patterson said, rising. Everyone turned around as he approached them. “There's nothing we can do out here. No signs of any survivors. I want everyone back inside.”

  The team looked at Patterson like he was crazy. “You heard me, we have a job to do, people,” he said. There was some mild protest, but they eventually shuffled away from the crash site and back toward the plant. Todd took one last look at the remnants of the copter lying in the middle of the road as he walked back to join the others.

  Once they got back inside, Patterson insisted that they get back to work, but spirits were low and they could be pushed no more. The plant was getting darker inside as sundown approached.

  Through everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, Patterson remained undeterred. “All right, gather around, I want everyone to gather around. Listen, we're going to have to put all of this unpleasantness behind us and push on,” Patterson said, looking directly at Todd for support.

  “What are you suggesting?” Todd asked.

  “I'm suggesting that we get this plant up and running,” Patterson said.

  “And how exactly is that going to happen, sir? We simply don't have the manpower.”

  “To hell with the manpower. We're technicians, aren't we?” he called out to everyone else. There was no immediate response beyond long faces and indirect glances.

  “It's over, Mr. Patterson,” Todd said, publicly contradicting his boss.

  Patterson turned to Todd with a stunned expression. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “We should have enacted protocol immediately when the plant shut down. There's nothing more we can do from this point.”

  There were musings of support for Todd’s words as Patterson looked around in disbelief. Before he could say a word, however, Johnson interjected.

  “What do you want to do with Woodruff's body, boss?” he asked.

  “I'm not finished yet,” Patterson seethed. He turned to Todd, poking a finger in his face. “You're walking on thin ice, Mr. Broderick, and I've had just about enough of your flippant responses and underhanded comments. Am I the only responsible one around here?”

  Todd began to walk away, which Patterson instantly noticed. Raising his voice, he yelled, “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

  Todd turned around. “I'm leaving, Mr. Patterson.”

  Patterson laughed. “How are you going to do that?”

  “I'll walk,” Todd said.

  Patterson was beside himself. “Get back here, all of you. Last warning!”

  Todd kept walking, then pushed open the exit doors leading to the parking lot. The rest of the crew followed, leaving their boss distraught and livid.

  His voice echoed throughout the empty plant as he continued. “You traitors, all of you will pay!” As the door shut behind the last person to leave, Patterson stood in the dark lobby, overwhelmed, as he considered his options. He had never felt more alone.

  Ghost Town

  Atlanta, Georgia: Thursday October 1, 2020

  Terrance believed that it was time to investigate the neighborhood. He wanted answers, information that he could bring back to the bug-out house. They needed fuel and whatever else they could get their hands on. There was an inherent risk just going outside, but they had little choice. The streets would obviously be more dangerous in the evening. It was common sense. But he also wasn't sure if they were any safer in the daytime.

  Richie spoke briefly about what he knew. Street gangs had grown in size and power. One particularly influential gang had taken over the East Point Plaza, the largest mall in the area. The lack of law enforcement was startling. There was no way of knowing when such chaos would spill into their own neighborhood, but Terrance worried that it would happen soon.

  Before going out, however, he wanted to make sure that they ate. There was barely anything left in the house, as Richie had eaten whatever scraps remained. The pantry had been cleaned out and the refrigerator emptied. But Terrance had an idea. He went to the van and grabbed a large plastic bin of emergency prepper food and one four-gallon paint pail that he had brought along for the trip.

  The case was hidden in a secret compartment under the van’s carpet lining in the back. It had a week’s supply of food contained in an assortment of precooked meals in pouches. They had packs of beef stew, chicken teriyaki, and lasagna along with some granola bars and bottles of water.

  They brought their packaged food to the dinner table in the kitchen where they used to eat back when things were normal. The windows were open, allowing a slight breeze through the house. There was also the unfortunate stench of trash, uncollected around the neighborhood over the past week. Sanitation was yet another norm fading away before them, and the streets were beginning to look like mini-landfills.

  “Consider it a late lunch,” Terrance said. “Make sure you eat up. Don't let anything go to waste.”

  Everyone opened their food packs and ate. They didn't have the time or patience to heat the packages up and chose to just eat them cold.

  “OK, Richie,” Terrance continued, taking a bite of beef stew. “It'll be dark soon and I need to know everything.”

  “Like what?” Richie asked.

  “Where you've been and what you've seen. Danger zones. Police sightings? Anything that can help us navigate through this mess.”

  “Things have been pretty quiet here. I came home about two days ago. Walked on foot.” Richie's face suddenly dropped, his tone less confident and saddened. “Gabby and me, you know. We had our fight, and I had to get out of there. So I came back here. Why did you come back for me? Now I feel like an asshole.”

  For a hardened seventeen year old, Richie looked genuinely sad.

  “Because your family loves and you and wants you back with us.”

  Richie was unresponsive. He chewed the last bite of his cold lasagna and stared down at the table, just as Tobias was doing.

  Terrance took notice of their despondency. They needed to get moving. “We've got to stay strong through this, boys. Now finish your food, and let's get ready.”

  It was past four in the afternoon when they left the house. Terrance ensured that every door and window was locked before they began their supply run. Terrance's handgun was concealed within the pocket of his black and red Atlanta Falcons jacket, and the revolver he recovered from John Doe was in another pocket. He told his boys to walk close and to remain alert at all times.

  Like anywhere else, the street was surprisingly quiet. The sun was shining brightly in the strangely cloudless sky. There was a desolate nature to the neighborhood that Terrance found unnerving. Trash bags were piled up at the end of each driveway they passed. There were abandoned
cars on each street and deserted homes, some boarded up. Unemployment and poverty had already affected the area. Crime had already been on the rise before the EMP strike. Now things just looked worse.

  An elderly black woman leaned out the window of her old, two-story home as Terrance and his boys walked by. “You all be careful out there, you hear me?” she said, recognizing them.

  Terrance waved. “We sure will, Ms. Peters. How are you holding up?”

  “Not good,” she said. “Not good at all.”

  Gunshots went off in the far distance like faint pops. Mrs. Peters closed her window and shrank back within her house. It could always be firecrackers, Terrance thought. But he knew better. It was strange not to see anyone outside their homes. The Robinson family knew a few of their neighbors, albeit not too well. Terrance wasn't sure how they'd fare going door-to-door. There was nothing inviting about any of the homes. Blinds were closed and windows were boarded up. Garage doors were closed.

  “I haven’t seen nobody around here,” Richie said. “I heard they was all going to a refugee camp or something.”

  “Why don’t we just go there?” Tobias asked.

  “We’re not going to some refugee camp. That’s out of the question,” Terrance answered.

  They followed the cracked, winding sidewalk to the next street, continuing their walk past other houses. They approached a family who were out in their front yard. Terrance waved politely. There was a woman sitting on the porch in the shade fanning herself. Several children were on the front lawn. Two of them, no older than six or seven, were bathing in a giant bucket as the others ran and played. The worn, heavyset woman watching them didn’t look happy. She barely even acknowledged Terrance. As they passed by, he slowed and attempted to strike up a conversation.

  “Are you guys doing OK here?”

  The woman looked up at him and shrugged. “Guess we gonna make it somehow.”

  “How are you on food and supplies?” Terrance asked. Richie and Tobias looked at him like he was crazy.

  “Low as they ever been,” the woman replied.

  “Where is everyone?” Terrance asked.

  “Trucks came and got a lot of them.”

  “Trucks?”

  “Yeah. Took them right out of here.”

  “Why didn't you go?” Terrance asked. He then looked to the other side of the porch and saw a boy, about the same age as Richie, in a wheelchair. His head was tilted up and his mouth was open. The boy didn’t look altogether there. The woman said no more and stared ahead, past Terrance. He waved and continued walking with Richie and Tobias at his side.

  “That was Mike Powell,” Richie said. “I used to go to school with him. He got shot in a drive-by.” Terrance's heart sunk at the revelation.

  As they got closer to the city, things grew more unsettling. There was an abundance of deserted vehicles, more trash, and more apparent vandalism. There were also more people. It looked as if a scourge of homeless transients had invaded the area. Some were moving about, others--men and women, young and old--were sitting on the sidewalk or on benches. Many others were rummaging through dumpsters or small corner shops that had already been cleaned out over the past week.

  “Stay close,” Terrance said to his boys.

  If they hoped to find any supplies, it became clear that they had come to the wrong place. Venturing further into the city would only be worse. Terrance looked around hoping to find someone they could talk to. They continued down the sidewalk, not making eye contact with anyone. No matter what attempts they made to remain low-key, they could not hide their apprehension. An elderly man emerged from a nearby alleyway and walked directly in their path. His baggy, dirty sweats hung on him like parachute pants.

  “Can you help a brother out?” the man asked.

  Terrance kept his eyes forward and tried to push his boys ahead, as if they were walking through the streets of Atlanta on any normal day.

  The man persisted. “Come on, you gotta have something on you.” He walked backwards, staying in front of them.

  “I don't have any money,” Terrance said quickly.

  “Money ain't no good around here. I'm talking about food and water. The basics.”

  “I'm sorry, we don't have anything,” Terrance said.

  “You gotta help me, please sir,” the elderly man said. “They done closed the retirement home, and I got nowhere else to go.”

  Terrance picked up his pace and they passed the man just as they hit the corner of an intersection. Suddenly they were swamped by several others. Terrance felt his jacket for his pistol. “We don't have anything,” he protested. “We're as bad off as the rest of you.” He pushed his way through as Richie and Tobias followed. Suddenly, a granola bar fell out of Tobias's pocket and hit the ground after he bumped into a lumbering, obese man. The crowd stopped and fixated on the plastic wrapping like it was a Thanksgiving roast.

  “It's mine!” another scraggly, wild-eyed man shouted. He lunged for the bar as others followed. They went to the ground in a ball of twisted fury; fighting, kicking, and scratching like animals.

  “Come on,” Terrance said. “Move.” They took the first turn down a back street leading into downtown. They stopped completely upon turning a corner. The streets were clogged with cars. Some of them had been torched, along with several buildings. Smoke was everywhere; it was inescapable. They passed shops and examined each one through smashed-in windows. There didn't seem to be anything left. The liquor store, it seemed, got the worst of it. A ransacked gun shop the next block over concerned Terrance even more.

  They crossed another intersection, which led to a corner CVS store. The windows were still intact, and it looked promising. However, as soon as they approached the doors, they were met by two young, well-dressed men brandishing shotguns. Terrance jumped back, startled. He held his arms out, shielding Richie and Tobias.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Wrong store, homey,” the sunglasses-wearing man on the right said. “You just keep on walking.”

  “What are you talking about?” Terrance asked in defiance.

  “He means that this store is claimed. It belongs to us now. Clear enough, old timer?” his red, bandana-wearing partner answered.

  Terrance said no more. He signaled his boys to turn around and walk back the way they came. As they moved away, Terrance looked over his shoulder the entire time. They took a side street, attempting to avoid the people who had nearly mobbed them before. They stopped for a breather in the shade of a nearby alleyway. Terrance looked to Richie.

  “Tell me everything you know about this so-called refugee camp.”

  Richie looked down at the dirty pavement below.

  “Gabby wanted to go, but I didn’t. We had a fight. She said she was leaving. The army was, like, picking people up in these trucks. I heard they were taking people to the stadium to control the crime. I don't know.”

  “Did you see these trucks?” Terrance asked.

  “No,” Richie said, looking up. “Some friends of hers came by. This one dude, Marcus, was all over our business, so I stepped in. Things just got out of control after and we went to blows. Gabby got pissed and went to the camp without me. That's what happened.”

  Terrance looked at Richie sympathetically. He could tell that the boy still carried some shame. “It's OK, let's go back to the house.”

  Gas Run

  It was nearing eight in the evening, although they had no way to verify the time. Terrance's watch had stopped the day of the EMP strike. The next plan was to get fuel. There seemed nothing in Atlanta worth staying around for. Terrance thought of his beloved semi-trailer and how he’d left it in the middle of I-75. Would he ever drive it again?

  He would sell the clothes off his back for a simple news report. As he sat on the living room couch with candles lit everywhere, his mind drifted to feelings of abandonment. He too felt it, just as the people on the street did. They had been left behind. Left to fend for themselves. It was unconscionabl
e. Richie and Tobias were in their rooms, gathering belongings for the trip back to Milledgeville, although Terrance told them to pack light. They soon came into the living room carrying bags.

  “Take a seat,” Terrance said. Richie and Tobias sat on the couch across from him. Terrance continued. “In the van, I have four fuel cans. We may not be able to fill them all, but I want to try. It's the only way we're getting out of here and back to your mother and sister. I also have a hose and multi-tool.”

  Terrance rarely went anywhere without his pocket-sized multi-tool. “Both of you will carry two cans each. I'm the hose man. If that don't work, then I'll crawl underneath the car and puncture a hole through the fuel tank. While I'm doing this, I want you both to be looking in opposite directions. You're my lookout.”

  “What's the big deal?” Richie asked. “Some of the cars have been sitting around for days.”

  “We still need to be extra careful. Fuel remains a hot commodity. You have generators, oil lamps, people still need it to help make fire for cooking.”

  His boys said nothing. Terrance continued. “Just do what I tell you and we'll be done with this before you know it.”

  Richie and Tobias gave him the thumbs up. They were ready.

  They soon ventured out into the neighborhood street, dressed in black.

  “Have you ever done anything like this before?” Tobias asked.

  At first, Terrance wasn't sure what to say. “In my younger days, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Times were hard. I was just getting by.”

  “Was it worse than now?” Tobias asked.

  Terrance thought to himself, then spoke. “No son, this is about the worse I’ve seen it for anyone.”

  They walked under the concealment of night without flashlights or anything that would draw attention. It was strange not to see a single street light working or car moving on the road. The stars had never seemed so bright.

  Tobias wondered how his friends were doing. Richie felt disconnected too. He wanted to message Gabby and see how she was holding up at the so-called refugee camp. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't.