EMP Aftermath Series (Book 1): The Journey Home

by John Winchester

  "We need to find some way to protect ourselves. Last night I grabbed a butcher knife from the counter, but it took me too long to get it. If that had been a real bad person, I wouldn't have had time to grab the knife."

  "What about a baseball bat? We've got hockey sticks too," Kenny said.

  "That's a great idea Kenny," she said. A bat was perfect, it could hurt someone, but wasn't likely to kill them. She couldn't bear the thought of killing someone who broke in, unaware that the house was occupied.

  It stung to admit it, but her views on guns had been naive. She would be able to keep the boys and herself safe if she had a gun. It would level the playing field against bigger, faster, and more violent intruders. Just the sight of a gun would scare them off. They might not be intimidated by her wielding a bat.

  Amy sighed, "I know I keep repeating this, but I wish I'd listened to your father. I wish we had a gun right now for protection."

  Kenny choked on his forkful of beans, coughing them up onto the table. He took a sip of water and looked guiltily down at the table, his cheeks and neck beet red.

  "Are you alright? What's the matter Kenny?" she asked.

  "Nothing mom."

  He squirmed in his seat as if it were a hotplate, his eyes darting left and right, unable to meet her gaze.

  "Kenny. If you're going to lie, you need to get a lot better at it," she said, arching an eyebrow at him.

  "Um. I... I... Do you promise not to get mad at me, or dad?" Kenny asked.

  Amy frowned, perplexed. What was this all about?

  "Spill the beans Kenny."

  "I'd better just show you." Kenny pushed away from the table and led her down the basement steps.

  She followed him down the stairwell, Danny on her heels, her curiosity growing by the second.

  In the center of the basement, Kenny looked around at the ceiling, then reached up and lifted a ceiling tile, retrieving a keychain from a hidden niche.

  Kenny made his way to the weight room, and used the keys to unlock the gray metal wall cabinets. After unlocking both of them, he stepped back and pointed at the shelves within.

  Shelves lined one half of the grey cabinets, stocked with green metal boxes, each one labeled with thick black letters drawn by a permanent marker.

  .22

  9mm

  12 gauge

  20 gauge

  The shelves in both cabinets were packed full of the green metal boxes. To the right of the partitioned shelves were tall green lockers with yellow pin striping.

  Heat grew in her neck and cheeks. She knew what those cabinets were, and knew exactly what she would find when she opened them. She snatched the keys out of Kenny's hands, and fumbled to get the key in the lock.

  If Jack ever did make it home, he was going to have some explaining to do. How long had these guns been here? Jack knew how much she hated guns. He knew she didn't want them in the house. He'd never mentioned any of this to her. How could he do this to her?

  She opened the gun cabinets, each one had several chrome and black barreled long guns standing vertically inside. A hard shell case sat on the bottom shelf, and she opened it, unsurprised to find a handgun inside. The two other hard shell cases held handguns as well. There were ten long guns in total, three handguns, and enough ammunition to start World War III.

  Amy tried not to let the anger she felt show in her voice or face. Kenny didn't deserve it. That she would save for Jack.

  "How long have you known about these Kenny?"

  "Dad showed them to me last year," Kenny answered sheepishly.

  Jack wasn't here, and the world had changed. She reminded herself that she had just wished she had a gun not ten minutes ago at the breakfast table. There was nothing to be done about it now. The guns were already here. Amy took a deep breath and blew out a sigh. She had to let it go.

  Were they more of a danger to her and the children though? She certainly didn't know how to use them. They might well end up shooting themselves on accident.

  "Well, it's a shame your father isn't here to show us how to use these. Since we don't how to use them, I'm not taking the risk that we could hurt ourselves. They guns are useless to us."

  Kenny cleared his throat, anxiously looking down at the concrete floor of the basement.

  "Well, out with it Kenny," she said.

  "I know how to use them. Dad took me to gun safety classes. We've been going to the shooting range since I turned thirteen," he said. "He was going to take me rabbit hunting this fall."

  "Lucky! That's not fair, I want to go hunting," Danny said.

  She had half a mind to close the cabinets up and hide the keys. What she said earlier at the table remained true though. There were bad people out there, and they were getting desperate. They had been lucky so far. Would they be lucky the next time? She had to take advantage of the guns.

  "Let's get a few things straight right now. First off, there will be no more secrets in this house. We all need to be on the same page here. Understood?"

  Kenny withered under her glare.

  "OK," he said.

  "Second, you are going to show me how to use the guns. Just enough so that if something happens, I know how to use one," she said.

  He looked up, surprised at her response. "Uh, ok mom. But it takes a lot of practice to get good at shooting."

  She knew he expected to be punished, and was nonplussed. He had kept the weapons a secret from her, and concealed his gun training. "I just want to know the basics Kenny, I have no desire to become an expert, I just need to know enough that if we get into the situation where I have to use one, I can load a gun and fire off a warning shot."

  "Cool! Do I get to learn too?" asked Danny.

  Amy paused, considering it before answering, "No Danny, I'm not ready for that. You are too young."

  She pulled a copy of the key off the keychain, stuck one in her pocket, and handed the second key back to Kenny. "Here. I know you'll keep quiet about this. You've done a good job of that so far," she said, smirking. "You and I are the only ones to open these cabinets for the meantime, got it?"

  "Got it," Kenny said.

  Amy led the boys back upstairs. The thought of shooting one of the guns terrified her, and she was more than a little worried about Kenny, or God forbid, Danny getting ahold of one and hurting himself.

  Against that, she weighed the danger of the intrusion last night. Door locks wouldn't keep people out. They were meant to keep out casual thieves, not determined intruders. Now at least, if things became desperate, she had the means to keep herself and her sons safe. Provided she overcame her fear of guns.

  Chapter 21

  Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead onto his shirtsleeve, balancing the bike with the remaining two fingers and thumb of his left hand on the handlebars. He switched the bike to a higher gear, pumping his legs hard as he started to climb to the low rise of the hill. His face a mask of determination, he propelled the bike and the heavy trailer steadily up the hill.

  How far they had come since they left Marble Hill. Another small town he'd never heard of called Weaverly Kentucky. It had been a long bike ride, for sure. Missouri was just a feverish memory now, far behind them. Wyatt's jury-rigged cart was holding together well enough, though he had been skeptical at first. It didn't have to look pretty. It just had to do the job. That was all he asked of anything anymore, including himself. His left hand was a mess to look at, but he still had his thumb, middle, and index finger. It was enough for him to pick things up.

  The skin was mostly healed over, although it still pained him at times. At times he was almost able to forget that the fingers were missing, unless he was careless and bumped the wound, which sent a jolt of pain up his arm.

  Wyatt had removed the fingers and cauterized the stumps with a white-hot iron. He didn't remember any of it, which was for the best.

  He pedaled up another steep rise, head down and legs straining with effort. His wedding band dangled down from a silver chain around his ne
ck, and swung from side to side as he pedaled. The ring was a constant presence, a reminder of his goal, what he had lost, and why he had to keep going.

  Whenever he felt like his legs would give out, he would focus his attention on the ring, giving him all the incentive he needed to keep pedaling.

  It was grueling work, nothing like riding a bike for pleasure. Wyatt, the trailer, and the food were a heavy burden, though his were powerhouses compared to what he could do a few weeks ago. His heart drummed a steady beat, grown accustomed to the daily exercise.

  Wyatt was a good man, and for all his eccentricity, he genuinely liked his company. He genuinely cared for other people, and it showed in his interactions when they met people.

  It was something that bugged him often. What would have happened if he had met Wyatt before the EMP? Would he have even listened to the man talk for a minute before making his mind up that he was an ignorant hillbilly? Probably, if he was honest with himself.

  What else had he assumed? What other snap judgments had he made?

  Wyatt had a lot of character, and there was a lot to learn from him. Patience was something Jack had always struggled with, and it seemed to come naturally to Wyatt.

  After the amputation of his fingers, Jack was ready to get up and get on the road. He wanted to get back to Baltimore as soon as possible.

  Wyatt had urged patience and caution, reasoning that another week or two wasn't going to cost them anything in the long run. They might as well start the trip with Jack at one hundred percent, and not take the risk of the infection recurring. They ended up spending three weeks resting, making sure he was well enough to start the trip.

  His mind lost in thought, he pedaled onward down the highway.

  "That's far enough. Hold it right there for a minute," a voice said.

  Jack looked up, startled by the voice, and pulled the bike to a stop.

  Just in front of them, a line of vehicles stretched across the road, blocking the way forward. Two men with rifles stood behind the vehicles, eying Jack and Wyatt suspiciously. A man riding a tall grey horse and wearing a Sheriffs uniform challenged them. He held the reins in one hand, his free hand resting on the saddle's pommel.

  "Where are you two headed? What's your business here?" the man on the horse asked.

  "We're just passing through, heading east. I'm going to Baltimore, and he's going to West Virginia," Jack said, pointing over his shoulder at Wyatt.

  The man nudged the horse and the grey mare clopped slowly forward. He looked the bike and cart over, a hint of a smirk appearing in the corner of his mouth.

  "Where are you boys coming from? Where were you at when it happened?" he asked.

  "I was near Clinton Missouri when it happened, and I walked to Kansas City right after it hit. I started walking home then, until I met Wyatt, the man in the cart. We've been traveling along the back roads ever since Marble Hill Missouri, avoiding the big cities," Jack said.

  "Is that a fact? Do you have any ID?" he asked.

  Wyatt handed his driver's license to Jack, who took them over to the man on the horse.

  The man looked at the IDs and then at the men's faces, scrutinizing them. He handed the cards back to Jack, his expression loosening a bit.

  "Sorry if we seem less than hospitable. I needed to be sure you were who you said you were. My name's Alder Jacobs, Sheriff Alder Jacobs. I don't know if you boys have run into any trouble on the road, but we've had a few less than desirable types come through from the larger cities. We've had break-ins and robberies, hence, all of this," he said, gesturing toward the roadblock.

  "Sorry to hear that. We haven't had any problems so far, but we don't have much to steal either, just what you see here," Jack said.

  "Don't underestimate people. Desperate people, especially ones that were bad to begin with, will take anything, even your life, if it means they get to stay in their miserable hide's for one minute longer."

  "I hear you loud and clear on that one," Jack said.

  "Well, I won't keep you two any longer, I'm sure you want to be on your way." He turned and motioned to the men at the barricade. "Open the gate and let 'em through Tom. I'll walk them through town."

  The men opened the fence and Jack rode through, the Sheriff leading the horse through the barricade just behind him. He pulled the horse up alongside the bike and trailer, walking along at a trot.

  "This is some beautiful country you've got here Sheriff. It reminds me a bit of where I'm from, if a little less hilly maybe," Wyatt said.

  "Is that right? I've never been to West Virginia myself, but in my mind I picture mountains, what with the coal mining and all. I'm a Missouri boy by birth, down around the Ozark Mountains. It always seemed a little flat around here for my liking. You'll feel more at home in eastern Kentucky, it's a little hillier there," the Sheriff said.

  Wyatt smiled, "The Ozark Mountains are a beautiful place, I feel right at home there." He chuckled and nodded at Jack, "He doesn't want to know about the Appalachian Mountains, since he'll be the one doing all the pedaling."

  The Sheriff shook his head, eyebrows raised. "You boys have got some brass making a trip like that, I'll give you that."

  They rode through town slowly with their escort, curious townspeople peering at them as they walked by. It was a hot day, and the residents sat on their porches under the shade of awnings, praying for a cool breeze and sipping iced tea. Air conditioning was nothing but a pleasant memory.

  Jack was glad they weren't any further south. The people in the Sun Belt were in for a rough transition after the EMP, if they stuck around at all in places like Las Vegas or Phoenix. He couldn't fathom living in heat like that.

  They were through the small town in the span of a few miles, at which point they encountered another barricade manned by locals. The sheriff called out to them and they opened the gate, allowing him to bike through.

  "Best of luck to you boys. Be careful out there, I think you'd be well advised to stick to your plan and avoid large cities and use the back roads," he said.

  Jack waved at the sheriff, picking up speed as he coasted down a long straight downhill section, savoring the cooling breeze.

  "You know Jack, I've been thinking a lot--"

  "I'm glad you're doing something back there. I thought you'd been asleep the whole way," Jack said.

  "Very funny Jack, very funny. Anyway, I've been thinking about my granddaddy's old homestead farm. The land has set idle for a great number of years now. The farmhouse used to be a grand ole lady, but we boarded her up twenty years ago, it was too much upkeep. My mother used to live up there until she got to be too frail, and needed someone around to look after her. I haven't been up there in oh, ten years at least.

  I've been a long haul trucker all my life, but considering things as they are, I may need to change my profession," he said.

  "Yeah, I've had the same thought Wyatt. If you know of someone hiring computer software engineers let me know. Although I imagine there are more computer people left than computers at this point," Jack said.

  "Farming might be the way to go. I can't image the country will recover from this any time soon. Running a farm is hard work, and most farmers I know are dirt poor, but they don't usually go hungry," Wyatt said.

  "What kind of farm was it? Did you raise crops or did you have animals?" Jack asked.

  "A little bit of both. You've got to remember he ran this farm way back when. I'm not talking about a few thousand acres of a single crop like the big soybean or corn operations nowadays. It was more along the lines of a couple of hundred acres and a variety of crops and animals. This was a self-sufficient small country farm, carved out of the Appalachian woodlands by my granddaddy's folks. The farm has around a hundred and twenty rolling acres of West Virginia hillside that is suitable for grazing animals. We've got some bottomland too. There's a river running through the valley. Now it's a narrow valley, but the soil is rich, black, and tillable. It hasn't been planted with in a long time, but if you
cleared the young trees out, all the stones are already gone, it wouldn't take too much work to turn the soil over again," Wyatt said.

  Wyatt went on for some time, describing his youth spent picking fruit from the trees during fall. His grandmother would send him out with a pail to fetch pie cherries fresh off the tree, and cut rhubarb stalks for pie making. He described the smell of the cherry-rhubarb pie as it sat cooling in the windowsill, which seemed to drift for miles on the wind, enticing a hungry belly. The property also had a large number of domestic and wild nut trees. Hickory nuts, hazelnuts, and black walnuts. His favorite fruit was the wild persimmon trees that grew in the hedgerows.