No Power: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Thriller Super Boxset

by J. S. Donvan Donvan

  “Careful,” he said into the kid’s pink ear. “You don’t want me to take your eye out.”

  The bowie knife’s point poked centimeters below the kid’s eyelid.

  “Fall again and I will,” Brandy promised, looking up at the stars. His grip tightened and the boy went still. “Understand?”

  The teenager nodded.

  “Say it.”

  After a moment of suppressed anger, the boy replied. “Yeah.”

  Brandy took the knife away from the boy’s warm skin. “That’s what I like to hear. Stand up and move. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  The boy rose to his feet and kept forward. Brandy followed a pace behind. He winced as he clenched his side. Red droplets followed him and splattered on the leafy fern underfoot.

  Brandy could manage the numbing pain pinging regularly across his torso, but it was the sour, copper-like taste of battle that sickened him. Easy pickings turned to hellfire the moment that auburn-haired vixen mounted her gunner turret and blitzed his friends and loved ones. Brandy couldn’t deny it; he had underestimated Brighton and their pesky defenses. Luckily, he was a smart man, and smart men learned from their mistakes.

  He marched up an incline, enticing a burst of pain and goose bumps across his pasty skin. He watched the boy, made sure he wasn’t turning back, and swiftly parted the stained flaps of his jean jacket and shirt.

  The wet gash twinkled in the moonlight. Brandy’s dirty fingers prodded the gouge on his right side. The bullet had chunked an inch above his hip, leaving behind a semi-circle of raw flesh that ran from his gut to his back. Macabre never bothered Brandy. On the contrary, body horror sparked a sensation akin to sharks and their scent for blood. The thrill of the kill, some might say. Nonetheless, damage on his own body made Brandy utterly disgusted. The day’s failure seemed to amplify the horrid feeling.

  Noticing the teenager’s slowing pace, Brandy removed his hand from the wound and shoved his captive. The boy staggered, looked back at him fiercely, and continued onward. Their tired feet led them away from the flaming walls of Brighton. The fire’s orange glow radiated through the windy woods but slowly dwindled behind them. Before long, Brandy, the boy, and whatever nocturnal creatures lurked in the deep dark woods were all that remained.

  The wind howled, tumbling waves of leaves and the boy’s brown hair. With each branch that broke under his muddy boots, Brandy thought about the boy’s mother. When he dredged through mud and deer droppings, Brandy imagined the woman’s spilled blood. The late hours fed his anger. He ducked a branch, realizing that his gelled blond hair had frizzed out. He grasped the bowie knife’s handle until his knuckles were bleached. The woman had tried to kill Mary, and that was an offense he would not tolerate. She’s pregnant, and they call me the monster, he thought spitefully. Where his lover was now, he hadn’t the slightest clue. All he knew was that if she didn’t return, he’d do to all of them at Brighton what he did to their fat and stubborn mayor.

  The rising red sun bled through the canopy of trees. Sleep deprivation tunneled Brandy’s vision. The pain in his leg muscles made him imagine jagged railroad spikes piercing through the soles of his feet. Catching his breath, Brandy landed at the base of a wide, slab-like rock jutting from the earth.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  The boy looked at the ebony revolver shoved in Brandy’s beltline and slowly placed his bottom on the dewy stone.

  Brandy planted himself next to him. The boy scooted a few inches away and refused to face him.

  “How old are you?” Brandy asked as he slipped his hand into his jean jacket pocket. The boy didn’t respond.

  Brandy removed the zip-lock bag of trail mix.

  The boy’s eyes went wide. He gawked at the dried fruit and nuts within. Brandy scooped a handful out and put it in his mouth, chewing as the boy watched in envy.

  “Sixteen,” the boy replied, forcing himself to tear his hungry gaze from the snack.

  “Good year.” Brandy took out more trail mix. “I spent most of it in a juvie rehabilitation program. They thought community work would make me a productive member of society. Two years later, I was in the big house. Gotta love the system.”

  He brought the palm full of goodies an inch from his mouth. The boy’s stomach grumbled.

  Brandy turned to him. “You want this?”

  After a moment, the boy nodded.

  Brandy pulled the snack away from his jaw and outstretched his open palm. As the boy reached out, Brandy extended his fingers and the salty treats tumbled to the dirt.

  “Well, eat up,” said Brandy.

  The boy frowned and reached down to pluck up the dried fruit.

  Brandy shook his head. “Ah ah ah. No hands.”

  The boy’s face went so red that Brandy thought he’d pop a blood vessel.

  “I said, eat,” Brandy said while placing his hand on the knife’s hilt.

  The boy huffed but lowered to his hands and knees.

  “I don’t have all day,” Brandy stated as he drew out the crusted blade.

  Clenching his eyes shut, the boy licked up a dirty almond.

  “Good dog,” Brandy smiled.

  The boy mumbled a fowl name and spit dirt. Brandy’s boot slammed into his ribs. The boy crashed to his side.

  “What did you say, dog?”

  Brandy jumped to his feet and kicked him again.

  The boy curled up on the ground. Brandy’s boot smashed into the boy’s body once for every one of Brandy’s friends his mother took from him. By the time he was done, Brandy’s ankle throbbed and the boy whimpered in a fetal position.

  “Best learn quick, dog.” Brandy said, catching his breath. “You don’t want your mother finding bits and pieces of you scattered across these woods.”

  He fished out another fistful of trail mix and munched hastily, still feeling his much-needed adrenaline rush. Leaning his back on the soothing rock, Brandy soaked in the sun for a few moments as the boy whimpered at his feet. He remembered the purple presents his father gave him. The ones that taught him and his mother the fear of God. Look at me now, father. Spreading your legacy.

  He wondered if the old goat was still alive. Life must be hard with half a jaw. Brandy patted his ebony revolver. One day, he’d finish the job.

  “Alright,” Brandy sat up, wiping his hand down his jeans. “Time to move, dog. Come on.”

  The boy didn’t move.

  Brandy loomed over him. “Don’t make me hurt you again”

  With trembling arms, the boy pushed himself to his wobbly legs. He hugged his stomach as he shambled forward. Brandy pushed him along, watching his back for any unwanted company.

  As they journeyed through the woods, old stripped chimneys grew out of the distant tree canopy. Brandy ate a cashew nut and grinned.

  “Faster, dog,” Brandy ordered, placing a hand on his wound. “We’ll be home soon, and I’m dying to show you off to my friends.”

  Chapter Two

  Death in the Family

  “Eli!” Harper’s cry echoed through the forest of oaks and cypress. Jagged thorns raked across her toned forearms as she scraped against a Devil’s Walking Stick, a native shrub with as much bite as the name implied.

  Grimacing, Harper elevated the broken stool leg above her head. On top of the splintered wood, a flame flickered, danced, and dissolved the tightly wrapped washrag.

  “Mom!”

  Harper twisted. Her loose ponytail swiveled. The torch’s amber glow reflected on her glistening forehead. Around her, half a dozen torchlights bobbed through dense thicket.

  No Eli.

  She found her breath escaping her. The wind and the trees began closing in. Their branches reached out and twisted into serrated claws. They neared her skin, their spiked points intent on snaring and tearing. Harper clenched her eyes shut and let darkness overtake her vision. When she opened them, the woods returned to normalcy. Her heart pounded.

  “Eli!” James bellowed from beneath one of the disemb
odied lights. Deep within the woods, the torches’ incandescence frolicked across his silver-spotted beard and grimy, sleepless face.

  Another call sounded from a distant torch, followed by more and more muffled cried for Harper’s son. Only the hoots of an angry owl, the soft whistle of the wind, and the rustling of leaves replied.

  A gust of wind hit Harper and made the flame on her stick waver in the cool night. She didn’t believe it was possible to feel both hot and freezing at the same time, but there she was, moving deeper into the forest, trembling and sweating. The trees all looked the same to her now. The inferno that beamed from Brighton’s wooden wall became her launch point.

  As she journeyed, Harper could see her son in the hands of that monster. She imagined Brandy holding his long blade against Eli’s throat in the same manner that he’d done to Mayor Church before he removed his head. Harper straightened her posture and found sure footing, but her forced determination couldn’t fool the suffocating clutches of dread.

  More shouts. More silence.

  Behind a felled tree, something moved. Harper dashed forward. She planted her palm on a carpet of bark mushrooms and vaulted to the other side of the rotting oak. Brushes of fire trailed behind Harper’s torch as she swung the stool leg to and fro. Trees, trees, and more trees. Fatigue, momentarily masked by adrenaline, returned.

  A sharp squeal.

  Harper jumped back, her torch high and ready to strike. A possum scurried to the thicket. Its fleshy, rat-like tail wiggled under a bush and out of sight. Harper exhaled. The barstool crackled.

  “Eli!” she shouted with one hand cupped beside her mouth. She let her hand fall and mumbled, “Please, come out…”

  Leaves crunched. An orange glow appeared behind her.

  “Harper,” James said, breathless. “We found something.”

  The crimson splatter grabbed the firelight. Harper let her knee fall to the dirt as she keenly observed the underbrush. James stayed back, chewing on his thumbnail with unblinking eyes on Harper and what she held. The droplet-splattered leaf rested on Harper’s fingertips as she gently lifted the head of the fern, almost afraid to disturb it. With bloodshot emerald eyes and parted lips, she turned back to her husband.

  “I don’t whose it is,” James said, taking a break from nibbling on his nails, “but none of us passed this way but me.”

  “Y’all find something?” Dustin asked as he joined them. The shadow of his cap’s bent bill masked the country boy’s eyes, but not his worry.

  “Blood,” Harper said, feeling queasy.

  James put on a hard face. “We need to track it.”

  Dustin nodded, keeping his stare on the fern. “It won’t be easy when it’s this dark, but I know these woods.” He looked at her. “We’ll make do.”

  “Thank you,” replied Harper. James took her outstretched hand and helped her to her feet. Damp dirt and grass soaked through her jeans’ knees, but she could care less.

  Dustin peered into the labyrinthine trees. He pulled his cap from his head and rubbed his hand down his greasy hair. “Let’s find Eli.”

  The search party fanned out. Dustin and Harper took the lead. Their torches marched through the greenery in a line, making those at the far ends appear to be light-wielding specters.

  Cuts and bruises stung their flesh and reminded them of the day’s battle and lost loved ones. Anxiety caffeinated Harper as she slipped farther into the engulfing woodland. The inhuman noises of nature echoed in all direction. They followed the blood droplets down game trails, through twin oaks, and over mounds of dirt and dying trees. Two set of footprints faded in and out of Harper’s path, appearing exclusively on soft dirt and mud. There was no body. No sign of struggle. Not yet, at least.

  The battle of Brighton felt like a million years ago, but fatigue from the day’s event pulled her back into the fight. Her family and community violently engaged with Brandy’s starving and relentless army in a battle for their very lives. The attackers scaled the walls and butchered men and women that Harper shared her life with after the EMP. She put an end to the battle with her Humvee’s high caliber turret but couldn’t help wishing for a peaceful solution. Is this what mankind has become, or were we always this brutal? Harper feared the answer to that question as she followed her son’s ever-fading tracks.

  They reached the center of the woods, and her miniscule amount of hope vanished with the trail. The party spread out farther and shouted much louder. Harper felt her legs become weak as a bout of vertigo twisted her vision. She pushed her hand from the tree supporting her and kept on, looking for Brandy, her son, or perhaps a corpse.

  James softly said her name.

  Harper stopped, realizing that the other torches were far behind and the last seen bloodstained fern had been minutes ago. Am I losing my mind? she wondered as she slid down the coarse bark of a tree. Do crazy people know when their mind breaks or does it just happen? Thoughts of Washington DC strangled her. She was crawling through the smoky aftermath of the National Mall’s bomb. The dreadful feelings of losing Eli the first time got an instant revival, bringing with it a tsunami of trauma and worry.

  Her husband stopped next to her. His large, calloused hand pinched her shoulder lightly. He sniffled, eyes aimed into the darkness. The wind filled the void of silence. What words could possibly help? What false encouragement would raise their spirits? None, Harper knew. The quiet was far louder than anything else. After a moment, James helped Harper to her feet. Her grass-stained knees buckled. James caught her before she went down. He held her close, entangling her in his arms. Their warmth became one. Their breathing became audible. Harper didn’t reciprocate the hug. Her arms dangled hopelessly in their sockets, her mind lost in a far away galaxy. James kissed her on her forehead and reality returned. He pulled them apart without releasing her hand.

  “Come,” James said as he led her away from the woods.

  Her legs didn’t feel like her own. They were jelly. Her body had turned to putty and her head became light as they moved in the opposite direction of Eli and his captor. Ahead, the survivors of Brighton combatted monstrous orange infernos eating away at Brighton's mighty Fence with buckets of water.

  James swept Harper off her feet with an ooof. He cradled her through the smoking threshold that was once their town’s gateway. They trekked down Brighton’s only street, four lanes desecrated with corpses of friend and foe. James stepped over the bullet-riddled cadavers and discarded weaponry littering the asphalt. Across the Fence’s wall-walk, men shouted commands. Children sprinted across the street, clenching buckets of well water. One, no older than seven, stopped and stared at a man’s corpse. “Dad?”

  A sandy-haired little girl a year younger reared back and pinched the boy’s arm. “He’s dead, Ethan. They’re all dead. Hurry up.”

  Water sloshed from the buckets as the boy slowly turned away from his resting father and followed the girl.

  Harper’s journey through the underworld ended at a cheap two-story motel. James hiked up the stairs, unlocked the door, and placed Harper on the hard bed. With a grunt, he yanked off her boots and let them fall to the wayside. He gave her another kiss and headed for the door.

  Harper sat up. “Wait.”

  James smiled sadly. “Sleep, babe. They need me on the Fence. I’ll be in soon.”

  The door closed behind him and scared Harper’s sleep away. Her son’s empty bed was only a few feet from her. She rolled over, clenching her pillow and mumbling a prayer. The room felt one hundred degrees, but Harper kept shaking. Her soft cushion could’ve been a cloud from heaven and it wouldn’t help her sleep. She tossed and turned, keeping her eyes off her son’s bed. Images of Brandy bringing his crude knife across Eli’s neck projected on the backs of her eyelids.

  Wide-eyed and panting, Harper jolted from the bed. The picture-less wall in her pitch-black room stared back at her. She studied it for some time before swiveling her legs over the mattress’ edge. Her feet hit the wood floor. Steadying herself, H
arper put on her dirty Army boots and headed out the door. Headed for any sort of escape.

  The next morning, towers of black and grey smoke curled into blue skies. The squawks of buzzards bested the rooster's crow and filled the town with ghastly songs. Large charred portions of the Fence and other homes crumbled to the ground in heaps of smoldering burnt wood.

  With her auburn hair tumbled on her shoulders, Harper cut across the streets and past the dozens of tarp-covered bodies tacked to the sidewalk with rocks. Upon seeing her, crows flew from the blue tarp and perched themselves on the electronic lines Farris once climbed. The black birds cocked their heads as she walked through red puddles soaking into the concrete.

  The sun had dried the spilt blood and morsels of meat overlooked by last night’s novice morticians, one of which was Harper. She’d hoisted the body from under the shoulders and dragged it to the curb, leaving behind long stretches of crimson lines that evolved into maroon stripes by first light. If she had the water to spare, Harper would have flooded the streets. Alas, the well was needed for the fires, not the blood.

  Harper passed by the chrome diner and bookstore that had broken windows and smashed doors. Soon, the old chapel was behind her, too. Its exterior had suffered minor bullet damage, but its interior was completely molested. Pews were flipped and the loose pages of hymnals scattered across the oaken floor.

  She hiked up the stairs of the quaint town hall and pushed open the glass-paneled door. The painted portraits of Brighton’s past mayors watched her as she passed through the second set of doors. All of them were dead now. Even the ever-stern Jonathan Church, backbone of Brighton.

  The grand hall seemed a lot bigger than before. A third of the two rows of seats were occupied. Hushed whimpers replaced the gossiping murmurs from before the battle. Muddy boot stains tarnished the red carpet that ran the center of the room. The once-flowing and vibrant window curtains were stagnant and had collected dust in the weeks while they waited for Brandy’s assault. In the far back, the door of the room where Trudy hid the children from last night was ajar.