Harper darted to the teenage girl with neon-pink hair and yanked her up. “It’s time to go!”
The girl trembled. Her eyeliner had become black tears that dried on her face. She gawked at the bodies until Harper gave her a slap in the face. The girl’s gawking ended as she rubbed her cheek. “W-Why--”
“Get up and get moving!” Harper shoved her and sent her sprinting across the way. Bullets cut the air around her, but she made it safely to her father’s arms on the other side. The businessman gave Harper a sharp look, took his daughter by the hand, and sprinted down the bridge and out of sight.
“Eli,” Harper screamed. She moved through the bodies, looking for any trace of her son. Similar outfits but different faces. A bullet had disfigured one beyond the point of recognition. Harper felt some hint of hope when the body didn’t have an arm cast. Then she saw it. Resting in a dead man’s hand was Eli’s sky-blue hoodie. She scurried over, but there was no body. Eli must’ve shed it to escape the man’s grasp. Her eyes moved to the bridge’s rail, and gloom twisted her gut.
Before she could act, shouting made her head turn. Insurgents on foot ran up the bridge. Harper fired a barrage of bullets. Their bodies thrashed, and their guns fired in all directions as she hit from their flank. Two more trucks bounced over the toppled barricade, hitting their fallen allies. Their gunners slung volleys of bullets at the opposing Humvees, cutting down one of the three ally turret gunners. The other two retaliated.
Harper rushed to the rail of the bridge and peered over. Fire from the city reflected in the rushing water. Dozens of miniscule bodies drifted on the surface. Pools of red swirled around them. Eli hung by the tips of fingers on the bridge’s edge.
“Mom.” With utter terror he looked up at her. “It really hurts.”
“Hold on!” Harper tossed the rifle to her side and sent her arm down to him. Not long enough.
“I… can’t.” A tear rolled down his cheek and plopped into the water 185 feet below. The fingers of his casted arm slipped.
Harper pressed her torso low. The railing bit against her bruised rib, but she kept pushing forward. Pain spiked through her body until she couldn’t see straight. Her bloody and swollen fingers rubbed against the one hand that kept Eli alive. His other arm was cast-covered and useless. It slipped within moments.
Shouting and gunfire sounded behind Harper.
Eli’s intense brown eyes met hers. His fingers started slipping. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.”
“No! No! No!”
Eli’s fingers slipped from the edge.
Letting out a cry, Harper leaned as far as she could. Both of her arms extended fully, she grabbed for her son’s warm hand. With a tight clasp, her fingers coiled around his. The watery death below beckoned them, but Harper held on. Cold wind battered her face. “I… got… you.” She forced the words through the pain and pulled. Her grip overtook Eli’s skinny wrist, but Harper’s bloody and slippery palms almost cost Eli his life. With all her might, Harper lifted him. She felt blood rushing to her head, and spots filled her vision. Pain paralyzed her, but she fought against it with a long-winded cry.
Suddenly, her weight became too much. The realization hit her. She’d reached too low. She had no balance. Eli’s eyes shot wide as Harper started toppling over the rail. Harper clenched her eyes. Her fight was finally over, but she didn’t feel victorious. All she felt was her son’s hand and the cold wind against her blood-soaked flesh.
The rushing air subsided. She didn’t feel the free fall. Her body rose. Is this what death is? Harper felt her ankles being pulled upward. She peeked her eyes open. Eli still had his clenched tight.
Harper heard a grunt and a heave, and then her body was pulled across the railing. She held on to Eli for dear life, and her feet landed on a solid surface. She was back on the bridge. James wobbled hastily beside her and reached down, grasping Eli’s arm. Together, they lifted him over the railing, and all three plopped into the pillows of dead bodies.
Eli blinked rapidly. “Mom? Dad? I’m sorry, someone pushed me and--”
“We’re here,” Harper said softly.
“Yeah, and we need to get moving.” James revealed to them the enemy trucks exchanging violent gunfire with the remaining soldiers.
“Together,” Harper said.
James and Eli supported each other. Harper fetched her assault rifle. They kept their eyes on the Humvee as they stormed across the street. Another truck pulled in, but its occupants were too preoccupied with the soldiers to gun Harper and her family down. On the opposing end of the bridge, a handful of civilians charged back up.
“What are they doing?” James asked hoarsely. “Safety is the other way!”
More and more bullets ripped past the Murphys. They stayed low. A couple of soldiers fired off their guns at the trucks, taking out two of the gunners before being riddled with bullets themselves. Harper smashed into the Humvee and yanked open the door. “Inside. Now!”
As James and Eli huddled inside, Harper opened fire at an insurgent climbing onto a truck’s turret. Bullets pelted him, and he sunk to the truck’s bed. More gunmen come into view. Harper mowed them down. She turned about, realizing that she was the only one on her side still shooting. She was the only one still left. She unloaded on the enemy until her magazine went dry and hopped into the driver seat.
The door slammed in time to get pinged by bullets. Harper flipped the car into reverse, turned 180 degrees, and sent it back into drive. Her wheels screeched against the blood and concrete and then shot forward.
James sat in the front seat. Eli rested in the back. Harper kept her eyes ahead. Pedestrians ran past them to where the barricade was. Harper didn’t have to ask what they were running from. She could see the horizontal line of insurgents’ trucks blocking the bridge’s end.
“What’s our play?” James grasped the armrests.
Harper gave him and Eli a final look. Her boot stomped the gas. The truck gunners ahead opened fire. Bullets bashed against Harper’s Humvee, cracking the windshield. She could feel her escape. Feel her freedom. The flames of DC burned brightly into the starry sky.
The attackers kept shooting. Harper would not relent. The accelerator hit the floor. Her bloody hands stained the steering wheel red. The trucks got closer, closer, closer until she could hear shouts in an unknown tongue. Bullets penetrated the Hummer’s glass and through seat cushions. Metal crushed metal as the Hummer’s nose rammed through the blockage.
Gunfire, shouting, and the great city blaze all vanished behind Harper as the bullet-riddled Humvee roared into the black of night.
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EMP No Power Book 1
Night of Fire
Congressman Henry Goodwin loomed above the smooth mahogany windowsill. A chilly breeze and orange firelight lapped against his aged cheeks and tired eyes. He watched with firm silence as the hooded man lifted a tire iron and struck the navy-blue Bentley below. The window shattered easily and gave the robber ample time to unlock the door and scour the dash. Yards away, a police officer hobbled down the sidewalk. He was a hardened man with a wide jaw and buzz cut, the unforgiving type you didn’t want collecting your traffic ticket. The officer put one foot in front of the other with brash determination. Clenching his stomach, he paid no mind to the criminal before him and kept moving
forward. A nearby flame caused the trail of blood behind him to shimmer like crimson coins.
Goodwin’s gaze bounced to another vile act down the street. A gang of masked individuals swarmed around a suited man like hounds on prey and beat him viciously. His woman screamed in horror until one of the masked men yanked the pearl necklace from her throat and sent her running in the opposite direction. They stripped the man of his possessions and suit, leaving his swollen and broken body to rest on the street.
All up and down Independence Avenue, vandals had set vehicles ablaze. Goodwin knew the culprits because he had watched them douse the government vehicles with bourbon and toss the match an hour ago.
The robber pulled his head out of the ravaged Bentley with a victorious grin. He shoved the fistful of items into his hoodie pocket and twisted around. Facing the officer, the thug swore loudly and pulled a gun from the back of his pants. Pop! The congressman jumped at the harsh sound. The robber took off down an alley. The officer lay facedown on the hard sidewalk, a pool of blood blooming beneath his tarnished uniform.
A rattling.
Goodwin turned back in time to see his office door smack against the inner wall. Shrouded in darkness, Anton Craton panted in the doorway. His veiny forehead glistened with sweat at the slightest contact with light. His open black blazer revealed a pressed white button-down, shiny red tie, and holstered Beretta pistol tucked against his rib.
“It’s ready, Congressman, but we need to leave. Right now,” the bodyguard commanded.
Goodwin had always liked Craton. Hardworking, skilled, and selfless, all one can ever ask for in a bodyguard. He’d stayed by Sherry’s side when she was fighting her battle. The congressman had invited him to the townhouse monthly so the three could share a meal. But after cancer stole Sherry, Goodwin’s table became barren. He had been meaning to invite Craton for dinner, even made plans. That was six months ago.
“Are you sure there is no other solution?” asked Goodwin.
A familiar sobering look overtook Craton’s long face. “None, Congressman. Right now, your security is paramount.”
Goodwin held his tongue for a moment while he looked at the picture on his mahogany desk. God, he missed Sherry. The way she smiled. The way she kissed him. The forty-four years they spent together.
“Congressman?”
“I understand,” Goodwin replied stoically.
He stole a final glance out the window and at the Capitol. Flaming trees obscured the marvelous but now vacant structure. Without another wasted moment, he was out the door.
The second-story hall of the Rayburn House Office Building was dark and littered with important documents discarded and abandoned over the course of the last hour. In every office, amber flames bounced off the honorary-plaque-covered walls, cast from mini-trash-cans-turned-pyres. Highly classified documents were stuffed haphazardly into the tiny cans. Years of work condemned to fire, with its only crime being the thickness of the file. Henry’s heart ached as he sped past. The mere idea of what vital information had been incinerated threatened an ulcer.
Craton led on with hasty steps, and the congressman felt his true age through his tender legs. He lagged behind a few paces, too old and too stubborn to tell Craton to let up. Appearing out of an adjacent office, Duncan Grey joined their parade with a dense pile of files hugged to his chest.
“How’s it looking?” Goodwin asked his bookish assistant.
The mouselike man adjusted his circular glasses with a finger and matched Goodwin’s pace. “Well, law enforcement has either disbanded or retreated, causing crime to run rampant throughout the District of Columbia. A few local militias have risen up, but it appears their mob justice is only adding to the body count.”
“Far from pleasant, then?” replied Goodwin. “The insurgents. Any word?”
Grey nodded. Sweat glued his few stringy gray hairs to his scalp. “They have infiltrated a number of key locales throughout the city, and their bombings have grown progressively worse. The National Guard and local Army Reserves have merged to combat the threat and are currently maintaining a multitude of barricades around the city’s perimeter. However, they lack the assets needed to properly extinguish the threat.”
Craton shoved open the emergency-stairwell door, and they started down the twisting flight of stairs.
“What about the president?” Goodwin let the handrail and bulky bodyguard be his eyes.
Grey caught a file slipping from his grasp. A paper dropped from it. No time to stop. “MIA. The White House went black forty-five minutes ago, or so says my contact.”
The congressman continued down the steps with urgency. “Honestly, Grey. Do you think we have a chance?”
The sound of their footsteps filled the void of silence. Grey spoke. “Only if… only if we can get out of the EMP blast zone, take inventory of the remaining leaders, and figure out who's left and who’s in charge.”
Goodwin’s heart felt like a hard brick in his chest. “Who is in charge?”
“Maybe the VP. Secretary of State.” Grey chuckled hopelessly. “You.”
Meditating on the discouraging thought, Goodwin pushed through the exit door. The night sky was brilliant with thousands of stars no longer snuffed out by artificial light. Sherry would’ve loved this. Goodwin remembered that passionate night on his North Carolina vacation ranch. The memory swiftly vanished as he neared his escort.
In the horseshoe-shaped parking area, a soldier stood sentry beside the military Humvee, a massive metal beast amidst the disabled cars. The soldier’s keen eyes surveyed the surroundings. His fingers drummed on his assault rifle’s tactical grip. Ammo clips and other gizmos were attached tightly to his belt.
Goodwin did some surveying himself, half-expecting bullets to rain down on him from the rooftops. All around, the everyday world felt and sounded foreign. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Smoke curled into the sky. The power of the city was completely defeated. He took a breath and approached the soldier.
“Congressman Goodwin?” the young soldier asked, keeping his gun low but ready. “I’m Corporal Bennett. I’ve been tasked with your extraction. Please get inside.”
“Is it functional?” Goodwin asked while he climbed into the spacious backseat.
“Yes, sir. These Hummers are built to withstand an electromagnetic pulse. You can thank the army for that,” the soldier said proudly.
Grey joined Goodwin in the backseat while Craton took the front beside the soldier.
The soldier twisted back to him. “We’ve cracked a barricade up in Woodridge. I’ll be frank with you, sir. It won’t be an easy drive.”
“Is that where the others went?”
Goodwin had sacrificed his seat in the previous, much larger convoy. Bickering in a cramped car all night wouldn’t do anyone good. However, when he waved his political allies and enemies good-bye, their party affiliations didn’t seem to matter anymore. Those who were once subject to slander were now the focus of prayers.
“The others were ambushed along the way, sir,” Bennett said, unblinking. “Their current status is unknown. Regardless, my commander has ordered that I focus on you at the moment.”
Goodwin gave Craton a look that didn’t downplay his dread.
“It’s our best shot,” his bodyguard stated.
“All right,” Goodwin finally said, looking out the window.
The dark and secure Rayburn House Office Building loomed over him. With a hungry roar, the Humvee rumbled to life. Grey thumbed through the files with trembling hands, mouthing his count. They bumped against a curb and sped down South Capitol Street. Goodwin’s lifework vanished in the distance.
Just this morning, the buildings around him had been busy with people talking on their cell phones, checking their electronic watches, laughing, and making small talk. Now, deathly silence lingered, and the occasional trampled body plagued the curb and street. There’s still hope, Goodwin forcefully reminded himself as they swerved onto Independence Avenue. With his face buried
in the concrete, the dead cop continued leaking across the sidewalk.
As the Hummer screamed up the street, more horrors crippled Goodwin. Window glass and unhinged doors were scattered on the sidewalk, revealing the stripped inners of the roadside office buildings and stores. A pair of sweaty and swearing police officers ran from a violent mob that wore soot- and blood-covered clothes. A family of three appeared from a gas station and chased the Humvee for a time. Their cries were drowned out by the powerful engine, and soon they disappeared in the rearview. Up ahead, a mass of mad-eyed people hoisted up a dead insurgent to the burning stars and moon. They carried the foreign man’s stripped corpse through the trash-littered street, with crimson-stained knives raised high, shouting a unified chant. “This is our city, and you can’t have it!”
Brutal slashes on the terrorist’s bare chest spilled blood down the bystanders’ hands, and they seemed to care little. The congressman couldn’t pull his eyes away. Barbarians, he thought, wanting to confine them all to a cell.
Avoiding the crowd, the Hummer turned onto Second Street. Down the straight road, a hunched squadron of shadowy figures darted from the back of the Supreme Court Building and into an opposing, shadow-shrouded alley.
Goodwin’s boney fingers coiled around his door’s handle as he stared out the windshield. Anxiety bubbled inside him. His mind raced. Tomorrow he’d change things, he promised. He’d get to work on gluing together the fragments of a fallen civilization. Not enough, an inner voice contested. We’re losing the battle now.
“After the extraction, what’s next?” Goodwin finally asked.
“You help us rebuild,” replied the corporal.
“Grey,” Goodwin said, sick of being useless. “Grab a pen. We should get started.”
A smile appeared on Grey’s bulbous face, and he retrieved a pen clipped to a folder.
Outside the side window, something caught Goodwin’s eye. It took him a moment to realize what the black box strategically placed on the Supreme Court Building was. He reared his head, spotting the culprits ducked in darkness. His mouth went dry, and his heart burst.
No Power: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Thriller Super Boxset Page 9