She’d reached an electricity substation surrounded by a high steel fence just as night had fallen. A rusty, once-white gate had been swung open, leading to a small brick building beyond inside the compound. The building had looked like it was being used as a storage facility for the electricity company. A sign had proclaimed the substation belonged to the Johnson Power Corp of Thunderbolt, Georgia––so at least she’d been washed up in the United States, which up until then, she hadn’t been quite sure of. But the promise of getting to shelter had still been stalled by what she’d seen in examining the building itself. The door to the substation had been smashed open, splashes of blood remaining on the brickwork around it. This probably confirmed that what had happened to the people on the Sea-Hawk was more than likely to have happened there, too.
The dead body just inside the substation storeroom, head smashed and Johnson Power Corp overalls drenched in dried blood, had added another layer of certainty to the situation.
Tally had known she couldn’t pass up the chance of shelter at this point, even with the evidence of the violent death of the man, so she pulled the gate closed behind her and walked into the compound, then crouched by the body.
The body had been stiff and very cold as she’d pulled it from the storeroom and rolled it onto its back outside. She’d placed the man’s arms across his chest and found a few sheets of cardboard inside to give the corpse some semblance of dignity.
The rain had been holding off, and she’d needed to be out of the stiffening breeze and inside the storeroom. Tally had felt exposed and vulnerable outside, especially after seeing the violent way the power worker had been killed. The gate being unlocked had suggested that the worker had been trying to make it into the storeroom when he’d been set upon by persons unknown. The fact that the gate hadn’t been locked behind him indicated that he’d not had time to lock it, or maybe that his pursuers had forced their way through before he’d had a chance and then killed him just inside the small building.
It had then occurred to Tally that maybe the keys to the gate were still in the vicinity. The messy chaos and blood spatters meant that whoever had carried out the heinous act hadn’t been thinking strategically. In very much the same way that crew members of the Sea-Hawk—gripped by a sudden, supernova-induced bloodlust—had attacked each other, then Tally and the others, the power worker had been killed in a frenzy of violence.
It had taken a few minutes of scrabbling around on the floor and the area outside the storeroom for her to find the keys, but when she did, locking the gate had been her first priority.
That had at least made her feel safe. As safe as someone could feel outside civilization, with a dead body for company and murderers on the loose in the area.
So, not very safe at all, but at least she might have heard if someone was trying to get through the gate.
Inside the storeroom hadn’t been a lot warmer than outside, and she’d rubbed herself down trying to get circulation back into her tired arms and legs. There’d been no blankets––why would there be?––but she’d found a few cans of beer in a grocery store bag. Perhaps they’d been left there by the power worker for a treat between jobs. A little more digging along the racks of transformer parts, tools, and spares had revealed another grocery bag containing a bunch of candy bars, plastic packs of beef jerky, instant coffee powder, and a carton of powdered milk.
All the comforts of home.
She’d also found two packs of cigarettes.
Tally wasn’t a smoker, but a smoker had to have a way to light up. And that meant matches or a lighter, and that meant a way to make a source of heat. She hadn’t found either of those things in the storeroom with the beer and the candy, so with a deep sigh she’d gone back out to the body, lifted the cardboard, and begun to go through the pockets in the overalls.
Tally had been glad of the near full dark, which had meant the horrendous injuries the man had suffered weren’t visible. He’d been starting to smell bad, so she’d searched him with one hand while her other remained placed over her nose and mouth to filter out the worst of it.
Tally had soon located the lighter, a silver Zippo in his pants pocket, and covered him up again, going back inside the storeroom and closing the door behind her. She hadn’t been foolish enough to set a fire inside the building, but she’d wanted to be away from the body for a few minutes at least.
So much of her world had been upended in the last few weeks. She’d been shocked to the core that she could even think about searching a dead body. It was so far outside her frame of reference. In that moment, as she’d hugged her knees and clutched the lighter tight in her palm, she’d wanted her mom or dad to be there to tell her that everything was going to be okay. There hadn’t been any time to reflect on her situation as she’d made her way across the wetlands to the transmission towers and the substation; she’d been too focused on the need to get out of her wet clothes, but then, in the dark, the image of her hands searching through the dead man’s pockets had invaded every corner of her thinking.
She was a college girl. She was nineteen. She wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted to hang with her friends, and she wanted to climb or free-run.
She didn’t and had never wanted this.
It had taken a few minutes to bring her breathing back under control and to stop the trembling that had overtaken her.
I need a fire, and I need a plan, she thought.
The fire had been the easy part. She’d known that lighting it might bring inquisitive people her way, but the lock on the gate had been sturdy, and the rolls of razor wire along the top of the fence should deter all but the most enthusiastic of interlopers. There’d been crates on wooden pallets in the store full of spares, so she’d broken one open with a small fire ax she’d found next to an extinguisher at the back of the storeroom. There’d been more than enough paper-wrapped components to use to get the fire started, which she’d lit on the most sheltered side of the building—this thankfully being on the side opposite of the body.
Once the fire had been lit, she’d started to plan.
Two hours later, she’d come to several inescapable conclusions. Finding her dad had to be a priority, but how to do it? She had no idea where he might have washed up, or even if he had. What about Poppet? Would they be together or would they have been separated, too? Having no real idea how many hours she’d been in the water, or where the currents had taken her, meant that just searching the wetlands without purpose was unlikely to lead to a significant find.
What she needed was equipment, food, transport, and if the death of the power worker was anything to go by, a weapon of some kind. Her mom had given Storm and Tally knowledge of the gun in the lockbox under the floorboards by her bed in case of a home invasion, and had let them come to the range on a few occasions to learn how to shoot the Cobra. Tally wasn’t like many of her friends who were vehemently anti-gun––she was more ambivalent to their possession and use. She saw them as necessary in many circumstances, and so the idea of finding a gun for personal protection was as important as food and water. Especially if she meant to find her dad.
She’d find none of the baseline things she needed by going back to the beach. If she was going to think about this practically, what she needed was to get to the town or city that the transmission towers had fed with electricity before the supernova. There, if she kept her head down and stayed out of the way of people, there’d be a chance she might be able to get what she needed.
The warmth from the fire was beguiling, making her drowsy as she dried out and got to feel more comfortable. She’d eaten two of the candy bars and drunk a beer. That warmed her inside, but she knew alcohol wasn’t a good way to stay hydrated; in fact, it could have the opposite effect. She’d need to find clean water soon, too. Any water she’d crossed in creeks so far had been undrinkable.
On the Sea-Hawk, she’d constructed a pretty good heat-based filtration system to turn seawater to fresh, but she’d had the advantage of materials that co
uld be readily adapted to the project. There was none of that in the substation. Here in the windswept wetlands of, she assumed, coastal Georgia, she’d have to move further inland to find water she could drink. Even then, there’d be no knowing if it would be fresh or healthy.
There were so many things to consider when the normal, accepted, and coddling certainties of life had been taken away. Water, food, staying warm, and an ability to defend oneself were the life essentials now. When the faucets were turned off, the store was empty and all you had was the ability to make one small fist, then the idea of fending alone was beyond daunting.
And then there was the consideration of her father, and where he might be at that moment.
As much as the pull of wanting to find her dad had been gripping her, the need to do it methodically and with the right tools was rising.
Before the supernova, she’d given Storm a collection of books for his e-reader about survival and prepping for disaster. He’d been bored with having to sit for long periods while recovering from the chemo, and appreciated some nonfiction that would have practical applications. She’d chosen the books for Storm on the basis that the two of them had a long-term plan to go and do some wilderness climbing when he was recovered. And so, the more they knew about the baselines of survival, the better. The knowledge she’d gleaned had stood her in good stead on the Sea-Hawk, and she hoped, now she’d found herself in a more desperate survival situation, that the snippets of knowledge she’d gained would continue to come in useful.
But those had to be considerations for the morning. In the night to come, she’d be warm, and the edge would be taken off her hunger by the candy bars––even if they offered only empty calories. She’d need proper sustenance soon.
Her eyelids became droopy, her knees drawn up under her chin. She caught herself drifting off a couple of times. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep in front of the fire outside the building. The fire would eventually burn itself out, and who knew what the elements would throw at her? So, shaking her head, she stood, patting the last of the embers down with her shoe. She moved around the substation to the door, trying to avoid the cardboard-covered body lying five feet from the entrance.
That’s when she heard the rattle of the gate as someone tried to open it.
She spun away from the door and looked into the well of darkness engulfing the far side of the fence. The sky had been overcast, not showing any stars or moonlight, the clouds having moved in as she’d sat by the fire. Any warmth and comfort she’d accrued in the last two hours had left her body now, leaving her shivering.
She was able to see a few feet beyond the fence, but see she saw no shapes, and nor could she hear the sound of movement.
It was possible an animal had brushed against the fence and clattered the frame in the small amount of play between it and the gate. But the sound had definitely been a rattle, not a single movement, as if someone was trying to see if it would open.
Tally’s eyes, which had been staring into the ember’s moments before, began adjusting better to the darkness. She could see the tall lattice of the nearest transmission tower stretched over that section of sky, and feel a thin breeze ruffling the grassy tussocks, and in the distance the call of a disturbed waterfowl crackled and croaked.
She wrapped her arms around her torso and took a step towards the gate, but froze before her foot fully touched down, keeping her weight on her back leg.
This could be a mistake. A big one.
If there was someone out there, and they were watching the substation, they were likely armed. There was a distinct possibility that there was more than one of them, and going towards the gate would provide a better target for their shot if they were about to make one. So, Tally turned, and with a near leap, bounded through the substation door and pushed it closed behind her.
In the darkness of the small building, she heard the raggedness of her breathing and the thumping of her heart. There’d be no sleep for her now, not when it was clear she was not alone. She would have to find a way to get out from behind the fence without drawing attention to herself, with no weapons and no element of surprise.
If she couldn’t do that, she’d be trapped there until the persons or person watching moved on, or found a way to open the gate for themselves.
6
The bullets tore into the wood by Josh’s head as he pushed the shaking Poppet to the ground and tried to shield her from the gunfire.
The air was filled with the rat-a-tat-tat of small arms fire, and the decking exploded at their feet in a fashion that threw up dust and splinters.
“I said, don’t move.” Harve’s voice cut across the space at the back of the mansion. “I’m not a sports shooter. I like my executionees to not try to make a contest of it.”
Poppet was in a bad way.
She wasn’t injured physically, and she wasn’t necessarily terrified. Her body was being wracked by the ravages of acute alcohol withdrawal. It had been as much as Josh could do to get her to her feet and drag her out into the corridor, down the back flight of stairs to the rear of the mansion, and out through a window. Josh should have known something wasn’t right when he’d said the word, “Poppet,” and she’d answered, “Vodka.”
They hadn’t had any time to find her a barrel of Dutch courage. Matters were too pressing for that. Josh had wanted them both out of the building, then on the way back to the coast to find Tally.
Poppet Langolini was what in another time would have been called a gangster’s moll. Her husband, Joey Langolini, had died helping Josh get her off the abandoned liner Empress in the middle of the Atlantic, killed by the ravaging bursts of machine gun fire from the supernova-affected crew. She’d been in the lifeboat with Josh and his daughter when it had smashed into the rocks, and like the others, had been thrown into the water.
Josh hadn’t realized how much alcohol the fifty-year-old platinum blonde had needed to retain her equilibrium on a day-to-day basis. She’d located Captain Rollins’ rum store on the Sea-Hawk within an hour of coming aboard—“I know where addicts hide their stash,” she’d said, winking at Josh—and had kept herself busy drinking it while she’d helped them navigate back west to the U.S.
Obviously, being wrecked in the lifeboat without any alcohol, and then trapped on the rocks, rescued, and brought by Carly back to the mansion, had not been conducive to her performance. The first thing she’d done when Josh had picked her up was to be repeatedly sick on the floor, and then reach out a hand which had been vibrating like a jackhammer.
Josh had seen many drunks exhibiting similar symptoms on the streets of Jacksonville when he’d been a cop, but never in a woman from such a gilded background as Poppet’s. The well-heeled very rarely suffered withdrawal from alcohol like this. They had enough money to keep their drug of choice flowing.
Poppet had hobbled down the corridor clinging to Josh. She’d just about managed the stairs, and then he’d had to heave her out of the window first before following her through.
It was then that the bullets had spat at them, freezing Poppet where she’d stood and causing Josh to move to protect her.
“Don’t shoot!” Josh called to Harve, putting up his hands. “We surrender!”
Another burst of gunfire smashed into the wall.
“What makes you think I want you to surrender, fool? I just want to enjoy myself before I hang your carcasses with all the others in the avenue…” Harve called back cheerily, as if he was making arrangements to meet up for a drink and maybe a meal with an old friend.
“Harve? Why are you trying to kill my house?”
The voice was that of Trace Parker, his laconic Southern drawl unmistakable.
Josh risked a look up. Trace was sticking his head out of an upstairs window, looking with some distaste at the bullet holes peppering the clapboard wall of this aspect of the mansion.
“They’ve escaped, Trace. You know what we do with people who try to escape…. I thought…”
Trace sighed. “T
hat’s it, Harve, you didn’t think. You’re like three bulls in a boutique china shop. Please try to work out why it is I might not want you to kill Mr. Standing right at this moment.”
Poppet was hugging onto Josh’s torso now. He could feel her trembling as he looked across the grass to the trees where Harve was standing. Harve was bare-chested, his suspenders hanging around the waist of his pants, and he stood in front of a white canvas field tent. A small cigar was bobbing in the corner of his mouth, and he held an Uzi outstretched in one hand while his other hand dug into his pocket and pulled out a fresh magazine.
Trace’s question was dumfounding Harve to the same degree it was baffling Josh.
Why exactly did Trace want to keep him alive? Not that he was complaining, but life seemed to be treated extremely cheaply here if the bodies on display in the avenue were anything to go by.
Harve’s face was nonplussed, and his mouth hung open on a slack chin.
There was a clink as the two pairs of handcuffs, the ones Josh assumed he’d picked up from the upstairs rooms, were thrown by Trace from the window to land on the grass.
“Harve, were both Mr. Standing and Ms. Langolini locked in their respective rooms, and were they both handcuffed?”
“Yes, Trace… of course, they were…”
“And you decided to shoot them before we found out how they got out of their handcuffs and rooms?”
“I… I…”
Trace scratched his head. “I can see the cogs whirring, Harve, but I can’t hear the ticking. Getting out of handcuffs and escaping from locked rooms draws us towards two considerations. Firstly, are there any implications for our security here in Parkopolis? And secondly, Mr. Standing and Ms. Langolini are smart and resourceful. What kinds of people do we need to assist us in our mission in Savannah, Harve? What types of people, specifically?”
Harve clopped his mouth closed. Josh could see the burning resentment and humiliation in his eyes, but Harve didn’t let it seep through the words coming out his mouth.
Supernova EMP Series (Book 2): Deep End Page 5