One Man's Vengeance

by Nick Randall

  One Man’s Vengeance

  The One Man’s Vengeance Series Part I (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller)

  Nick Randall

  Nick Randall Copyright © 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.

  Disclaimer

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  Chapter 1

  It began with a silent flash at the window, followed by absolute darkness that dropped over the house like a heavy blanket. Sam Porter looked up from his dark computer screen, blinking. A moment later, the gray PC tower at his knee erupted in a violent shower of sparks, sending Sam wheeling in alarm back across the floor on his office chair.

  He quickly stamped out a few smoldering embers on the carpet, trotted to the closet, and felt inside for the small red fire extinguisher he knew was on the top shelf.

  “Linda?” he shouted over his shoulder. He pulled the pin and doused the smoldering PC tower in a powdery cloud of CO2, hoping his aim was true in the darkness. The acrid smell of fried electronics filled the small office.

  “Linda, you okay?” he called again.

  “I'm fine,” a female voice drifted to him from downstairs. “What happened?”

  A boy's voice echoed Linda's question: “What happened, daddy?”

  Sam walked over to the pale silver rectangle of the window, working his way easily around the desk by memory, and lifted a curtain. The whole neighborhood was dark. Somewhere, a dog barked. A tiny, ugly voice drifted up inside Sam. This is it. Sam pushed the voice back down. He didn't know anything yet.

  “Don't try to walk around,” Sam shouted to his wife and son. “I'll be right down.” He opened his desk drawer and rattled through the contents until he found a small metal flashlight behind a box of staples. He clicked the rubber button on the back, then grimaced when the flashlight remained dark.

  This is it, repeated the voice in his head. It seemed to ride on the sharp, bitter smoke from the computer.

  Sam ignored the voice and walked down the upstairs hallway to his and Linda's bedroom, running a hand along the cool wall for guidance. In the bedroom, he crossed to the far wall. Seen in daylight, this wall looked as normal as any other. A low vanity with a slope-topped mirror and a wide bookshelf filled with dog-eared paperbacks and a few hardcovers were the only pieces of furniture against the wall. Beside the bookshelf, an overflowing laundry basket also pressed against the wall.

  Sam slid the laundry basket away and then reached into the gap behind the bookshelf, feeling for a small metal latch. He released it with a click, and the bookshelf swung away from the wall like a fat, heavy door. Sam smiled in spite of himself. The well-oiled hinges didn't so much as groan with the weight of the bookshelf. Sure, at least half of the books were hollow props, but the shelf itself still weighed over a hundred pounds.

  The wall behind where the bookshelf had stood was smooth and featureless, but again, in daylight, an astute observer would have noticed a hairline crack running straight up the wall. Sam pressed his palm to that crack, and a panel of the wall itself swung out, just like the bookshelf had done.

  Linda always called Sam a kid at heart, and he let himself believe it for a moment as the hidden compartment swung open. It really was a child's dream – a secret room hidden by a faux bookshelf. Linda would have said that Agatha Christie wanted her plot device back.

  It was a simple, yet effective setup. Originally, the space behind the wall had been a regular closet. With Linda protesting the whole way, he'd drywalled over the closet and installed a small hinged door that opened with a mechanical pressure release. It was the same thing used in some kitchen cabinets, and in fact that was where he'd gotten the idea – their own kitchen cabinets used the same mechanism.

  Stacked in darkness inside the closet was a large stash of bug-out supplies, acquired piece by piece over the past several years. Cans and boxes of food, glass carbouys filled with distilled water, candles, electric and propane lanterns, two handguns, and three black duffel bags packed with a week's worth of supplies each for him, Linda, and Jeremy.

  So he was a prepper – so what? Twelve years on the force had taught him that there was no such thing as “too prepared.” He'd had a partner get shot during a routine investigation at a sweet old lady's house. He'd let his guard down, that was all there was to it. They both had. Sam had sworn then that he'd never let that happen again.

  Sam walked into the living room downstairs a few minutes later with three lanterns and three small green propane cylinders. In the bedroom, he'd loaded a magazine into one of the nine-millimeter handguns, then hesitated and placed it back in the closet. No need to alarm Linda or Jeremy, he'd thought. Not yet.

  It turned out to be a good idea. Jeremy was frantic. He was hugging Linda's waist tightly. Linda looked worried as well. The sight of a gun would have probably sent the boy into hysterics.

  “Power's out on the whole block,” Linda said rapidly as Sam walked in. “And none of the flashlights are working. One of the breakers must have failed and sent a power surge through the kitchen. The microwave popped and smoked and made all kinds of racket.” She threaded a propane tank into one of the lanterns as she talked. Jeremy kept his death grip on her waist. Sam could tell by her rapid-fire patter that she was nervous. She didn't break down the way some people might when a crisis loomed – she went into overdrive.

  The lantern Sam was working on flared to life with a hiss of gas, followed by Linda's. Her brown hair took on a fiery bronze hue in the yellow gaslight, her sharp features outlined beautifully.

  “Did anything catch fire?” Sam asked. Linda shook her head. He set his lantern down on the living room table and b
ent down and pulled Jeremy into his arms. “You alright, buddy?” he asked. The boy nodded into his chest. “It's just a power outage, nothing to be afraid of,” Sam reassured him.

  “I know,” Jeremy said, his voice muffled in Sam's shirt. “That's what mommy said. But I'm still scared. I don't like the dark.”

  “I know, bud. I don't like it either. Here, tell you what” Sam held his son at arm's length and looked at him importantly. “Now that you're four years old...”

  “Five!” Jeremy protested, letting a small smile work at the corner of his mouth.

  “Five? Already?” Sam acted shocked. “Well then, now that you're five years old, I'm putting you in charge of this lantern. Now everywhere you go, you can carry the light with you. You can keep that bad darkness away.”

  “Will you stay with me, too?” Jeremy asked hopefully.

  “Forever, buddy.” Sam stood and exchanged a glance with Linda. She knew there was more to the power outage, and she'd been smart not to say it in front of the boy. Sam put his hands on her shoulders.

  “You doin’ okay?” he asked softly. Her eyes betrayed her worry, but she set her lips firmly.

  “I'm fine,” she nodded.

  It took them twenty minutes to check the locks on all the doors and windows and make sure none of the other appliances had thrown out sparks or started any fires, and by the end of it they were laughing and joking. As long as everybody stayed calm, Sam thought, they'd be fine.

  Satisfied that the house was safe, Linda announced that it was bedtime. Jeremy protested as usual, and Linda pacified him by letting him keep the lantern burning low in his room all night, on the condition that it stayed across the room and he promised not to touch it.

  “Can you tell me a bedtime story?” Jeremy asked as Sam pulled the covers up over him.

  Sam ruffled the boy's sandy hair. “Only if you promise not to interrupt.”

  “I won't! I promise, daddy.”

  “Well...” Sam looked up at the doorway and saw Linda standing there, framed in gold by the flickering lantern in her hand. She gave him a smile, and Sam turned back to Jeremy. “...okay, I guess there's time for a short story. Once upon a time, there were three bears who lived in a house...”

  “Oh, I know this one!” Jeremy shot up in excitement. “It's the one where Giddylocks breaks in and eats all their food, and sleeps in their beds, and—”

  “What did I say about interrupting?” Sam said.

  The boy's eyes went wide. He plopped down on his pillow and pursed his lips, then mimed turning a key to lock them tight.

  “I'll hold onto that,” Sam took the imaginary key from Jeremy's hand and pretended to put it in his pocket. “Okay, where was I?”

  “Nnce mpon a tmmm,” Jeremy said without opening his lips.

  Sam smiled. “Once upon a time, there were three bears who lived in a house in the woods...”

  By the time Goldilocks found baby bear's tiny bed juuuust right, Jeremy was fast asleep and snorning softly. Sam got up and eased the bedroom door shut, and stepped into the living room to find Linda reading a paperback on the sofa. She heard him approach and looked up. Her blue eyes twinkled.

  “Aww, was that the end? I was waiting for big papa bear to kick Goldilocks out of the house and suggest that mama bear share his bed that night.”

  “You know, I never understood that. Two different beds for mama and papa bear? What kind of marriage is that?” Sam slid onto the couch beside Linda, lifting her outstretched legs and laying them back down on his lap.

  “It's bearly a marriage at all,” said Linda seriously, eyeing him over the top of her book

  “Sounds pawful to me.” Sam's lip twitched, but he kept a straight face.

  “It would make me furry-ous,” Linda replied with an even voice. A silly grin broke out over Sam's face. Linda saw it and giggled triumphantly. “Ha! I win!”

  “You're making me furry-ous!” Sam exclaimed, reaching over and tickling her under her ribcage. Linda sqirmed and squealed.

  “No fair! Cheater! Cheater!” Linda's book thumped to the floor and Sam tickled her harder. Linda spasmed with laughter.

  “No! Stop! Truce!”

  “Papa bear wants his porridge,” Sam growled, sending Linda into another fit of laughter. She snagged a throw pillow and smacked it against Sam's head. Sam bravely weathered the onslaught and managed to get close enough to plant a kiss on Linda's lips. She returned it eagerly, pressing her body against his, then pulled away slightly and stroked Sam's cheek with a finger. Her blue eyes locked with his.

  “I love you, Sam Porter.”

  “I love you, Linda Porter.”

  “Upstairs?” Linda breathed.

  “Before the porridge gets cold,” Sam whispered back, then whisked her, laughing, off the couch.

  Later, Sam waited until he heard Linda's breathing steady as she drifted off to sleep, then slipped out of bed and pulled his jeans back on. That ugly, creeping voice was right, Sam knew. This was it. A power outage didn't push through a surge protector and blow a computer. It didn't make flashlights fail. And it didn't turn an entire neighborhood into the utterly silent tomb it had become in just a few short hours.

  It had to have been an electromagnetic pulse. Something big enough to shut down the grid. Was it local? Nationwide? Sam didn't know. What he knew was that it was here, affecting them. Affecting his family.

  And nothing put his family at risk.

  Sam got to work. He worked through the rest of the night.

  Chapter 2

  By the second day of the power outage, Sam knew his fears had been confirmed. None of the electronics in their house worked. The EMP had passed through their house like an unseen, vengeful ghost, touching every wire and microchip with fingers of death. Linda's new iPhone was a brick; it had been plugged into the wall charger when the EMP hit, and the plastic sheath over the connector had melted and fused to the bottom of the phone. Sam's phone had fared slightly better, and even lasted long enough for Sam to see a small white X over the service bars before it too had given up the ghost.

  On the third day, an old army Jeep had rumbled down their suburban street with a man in a sergeant's uniform standing up in the back, hollering for people to stay in their homes.

  “Do not attempt to leave. Do not attempt to reach your loved ones. The president has declared martial law. For your own safety, stay in your homes. Do not attempt to leave. Do not...”

  On and on, until the Jeep turned the corner at the end of the street and faded into the distance. It was an older model Jeep, and Sam knew at least a few of those must have survived. Their own SUV was a shiny, well-cared-for hunk of useless metal sleeping in the garage. Too many electronic circuits, Sam figured.

  When the army Jeep passed by, Linda's face had gone white, and Sam held her until they couldn't hear the sergeant's brisk warnings anymore. They didn't need a government impetus to know to stay inside, but hearing it confirmed like that somehow drove the spike of fear deeper into their hearts. Sam now carried a nine-millimeter in a holster on his waist at all times. He kept a second on top of the refrigerator out of Jeremy's reach, and he'd hung a loaded shotgun on the wall beside the front door.

  Beginning with Sam's feverish work on the first night, they'd set about fortifying the house as best they could. For Jeremy's sake, they made it into a game, but both Sam and Linda were on edge. Twice they found themselves shouting about some silly, unconsequential matter before noticing Jeremy watching them silently, face screwed up and close to tears.

  It was on the second night that Sam had woken up in a sweat to the sound of a breaking window and muffled shouts. His hand shot to the pistol on the bedside table and he was on his feet before he realized that the sounds were coming from farther down the street. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering his chest. Nobody was in their house. They were safe. Still, he couldn't get back to sleep that night. He watched through the window as looters ransacked the Ledford house up the street in the pale moonlight.


  By the sixth day, Sam had seen four more instances of looting, the fourth one happening in broad daylight, the looters growing more brazen by the day. No more army Jeeps had driven by. No police had shown up to investigate the ransacked homes. The neighborhood, as far as Sam could tell from the windows, seemed to have been swallowed up by time. Trash littered the streets and green lawns – even their own.

  That had been Linda's idea. On the third night after Jeremy was asleep, they'd taken bags of trash into their own yard and dumped them over the lawn, along with a kitchen chair that Sam had smashed with a sledgehammer in the garage. The effect was almost perfect. To anyone walking down the street, their house appeared to have already been looted.

  But Sam wasn't content to simply disguise the house – he wanted to give it teeth.

  The first thing they did was board the windows. Their two-story home was covered in them, fantastic at filling the house with natural light on a normal day, but nothing less than an open invitation to anybody with a crowbar or a rock who felt like coming inside. First, Sam took a roll of chicken wire from the garage, cut it into large squares, and knocked bent nails around the edges to hold the squares over the windows. On top of those he and Linda nailed sheets of plywood scavenged from the attic. Into each one, Sam used a hand saw to cut two small holes. One to look out, and one to accommodate the business end of a firearm.

  In front of the front and back doors, they hammered small chunks of 2x4s into the floorboards, then used longer lengths to brace the doors against the stops. The rolling garage door was the weakest point, Sam knew, but he piled furniture in front of it, then installed a 2x4 brace against the door that led from the garage into the house.

  There was plenty of food, which they cooked on propane camping stoves. In addition to the cache in the hidden closet, there was a large stockpile of nonperishables on shelves in the garage. They were in no danger of starving, and yet by nightfall on the sixth day, they were beginning to feel the effects of cabin fever.