No Power: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Thriller Super Boxset

by J. S. Donvan Donvan

  “Gauze, cleaning pads, disinfectant, medical kits. Can you get any of that stuff? That’s what we need back at camp.”

  “Yes, storage room. Third floor. Hopefully that hasn’t been raided too.”

  “The only way to know is to check,” Rob said. “But we’re losing time. Let’s move.”

  “What’s taking so long back there?” Peter said nervously as he paced the lobby.

  “Keep your voice down,” Rob said.

  They emerged from the pharmacy to find Peter eager and waiting to move on. “I don’t like this place. It reeks of death.”

  They followed Mila to the next door, which led to another long hall full of wheelchairs, gurneys, bedsheets, and papers strewn about. They took the next set of stairs to the third floor.

  The administrative floor wasn’t in shambles like the others, but was just as devoid of activity. Its carpeted halls gave them quiet travel to an unmarked room bolted shut behind two doors.

  “This is the room,” Mila said.

  “Stand back,” Rob said, holding up his crowbar. He thrust the end into the door and pried it open.

  Once inside, they were greeted by a darkened room twice the size of a janitor’s closet, with steel mobile shelving units standing against the walls. Rob quickly snapped two additional ChemLights and handed them to Mila and Peter. “Time to load up and get out of here.”

  There were only a few supplies left, but it felt like a bonanza. The staff had apparently rummaged through the shelves in haste and had left plenty of valuable items behind. They grabbed latex gloves, medical gauze, disinfectant, IV bags, aspirin, ointment packs, bandages, medical tape, slings, tourniquets, and hand sanitizer. Enough for one haul. With their bags filled, they left the room and headed back downstairs.

  The satisfied group moved quickly to the first floor and past the lobby to the exit. Mila stopped and took one last look around, hoping for better days on the horizon.

  They slipped through the double doors again and made it outside, taking in the fresh air. Carlos and Brad were waiting, leaning against the tailgate of their truck.

  “You’re late,” Carlos said, looking at his bare wrist.

  Brad spit the taste of gasoline from his mouth. “Did you bring some breath mints?”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t find any,” Rob answered. “We good to go on fuel?”

  “Twenty gallons in the tank,” Carlos answered. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Mila said with gracious undertones. “We owe you one.”

  “You got that right,” Carlos said.

  With bags in hand, Peter and Rob went to both sides of the truck and opened the doors. Carlos asked Mila about what kind of supplies they’d found.

  “Lots of things. Just what we needed. We were very lucky.”

  Peter placed his bag inside and leaned on the door. “You wouldn’t believe what that place looks like inside.”

  Brad and Carlos seemed intrigued and looked at Mila to elaborate. She waved Peter off.

  “It was nothing. Some vandalism—broken windows. Holes in the wall. That kind of thing. The place is deserted in there.”

  “Don’t forget to mention the dead bodies,” Peter said.

  Their eyes widened. “Dead bodies?” Carlos said.

  “Let’s go,” Rob said and climbed into the driver’s seat. “We have more places to hit up.”

  Mila approached the passenger’s side with Peter as Carlos and Brad followed.

  “Hey, bro. How about you let me ride up front for a while?” Carlos said.

  Peter turned around slightly. “Sorry, Carlos. I have to ride up here. The wind isn’t good for my… uh, allergies.”

  Carlos and Brad looked at each other suspiciously.

  “How convenient,” Carlos said.

  “Let’s go!” Rob called out from the driver’s seat. “Time’s wasting.”

  He stuck his keys in the ignition when a shot suddenly echoed through the air, shattering the passenger-side window. An implosion of shards slashed through Peter’s right hand. He stood frozen in shock and stared at his bloody hand. But everyone else kicked into high gear.

  Mila fell to the pavement and rolled under the truck. Rob ducked down and looked into the rearview mirror. Two men with long hunting rifles were running through the parking lot straight toward them.

  “Take cover!” he shouted.

  Carlos grabbed Peter and yanked him to the back bumper, where Brad had rolled. A trail of blood followed them as Peter clutched his ravaged hand, shaking. Another shot fired, blasting out the front windshield.

  Rob dropped down and buried his face in the vinyl seat as bits of glass rained on his head. He pulled his pistol and waited while listening to the sound of the men’s footsteps running across the pavement.

  “Everyone just stay down,” he said as quietly as he could.

  “What’s going on?” Carlos seethed. “Who’s shooting at us?”

  “Ah! My hand. Oh my God!” Peter cried out. His tote bag of medical supplies lay on the ground with its contents spilled all over the pavement.

  “It’s OK, man,” Brad said, trying to console Peter. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Mila stayed flat on the ground and pulled her pistol out. She could see the men as they moved carefully between parked cars while getting closer with each advancement. From her position she couldn’t get a good shot at them unless they got closer.

  She could see their faces; they were void of emotion. The two men both had thick, bushy beards, hats, and green-and-black camouflage gear. If they were hunters, there was no question who their prey was.

  Rob rose just enough to peek over the dashboard. The men had high-powered scopes affixed to their rifles. He ducked back down as sweat dripped from his forehead.

  The two men remained in their positions—across from each other and crouched behind cars. One had his rifle resting on the hood of a car and his eye at the end of the scope.

  Rob cupped his hands over his mouth and called to Mila. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said from under the truck.

  “Listen,” he said, “we can’t stall much longer. When I fire, everyone get in the truck. Tell Carlos and Brad to lie down, flat as they can.”

  Mila pushed herself backwards and scraped against the pavement. Another shot rang out and hit the driver’s-side mirror. It split into two chunks that flew to the ground in pieces. The men were getting more brazen and advancing closer by the minute.

  “Why are they shooting at us?” Brad said.

  Peter moaned in agony while wrapping his hand with the bottom of his shirt.

  “I can see them,” Carlos said as he glanced around the rear of the truck. “There’s two of them. They got rifles.”

  From the ground, Mila reached out and grabbed Peter’s tote bag. She pulled it under the truck and continued her awkward low crawl to the tailgate, where she met the others—all crouched down and waiting. “Here,” she said, handing Brad the bag. She then looked at Peter. “Let me take a look at your hand.”

  He exposed it with hesitation and winced when she touched it. Glass bits were embedded all over his hand. Blood flowed from all the tiny wounds into a thick pool on the ground. “I can’t treat this here. We’ve got to get you back to camp.”

  Peter’s face was pale. He nodded deliriously.

  “Listen,” Mila said to the group. “Rob’s going to lay down some cover fire, and when he does, that’s our signal to get into the truck. Carlos and Brad, you guys need to stay down.”

  They nodded in agreement. Rob put his head just inches above the dashboard to look out. The men had advanced two cars closer with their rifles poised and ready.

  “Howdy, strangers!” the man on the left bellowed. “How about you step away from the truck with your hands up. We promise we won’t hurt ya.”

  Both men looked at each other and exchanged a laugh. Rob saw his chance. He raised his pistol above the dashboard and fired several shots in rapid succ
ession, hitting tires, windows, and anything in range.

  The men flew to the ground, surprised. Rob turned the ignition switch, and the engine roared back to life. He heard two thuds as the truck shook from the back of the pickup. Carlos and Brad were in, flat on their stomachs. Mila came running to the passenger side with her arm around Peter. She pushed him inside, jumped next to him, and slammed the door shut. “Go!”

  The hunters jumped up once they heard the engine. Rob shifted the steering wheel lever to Drive and gave it some gas. Their tires squealed, and smoke rose from the tarmac-black skid marks left in their wake.

  “Oh no,” Rob said as the hunters emerged with their rifles pointed. They were mere feet away and ready to unload. Mila rose and saw the men take aim. She held her pistol out and fired at the man on her side. The shots tore through his shoulder and knocked him to the ground.

  Shocked and livid, his partner jumped out in front of their path and fired a series of shots through the hood, dashboard, and windshield. As more glass fell, Rob plowed through the man and threw him to the side in a contorted heap.

  The man’s shoes flew into the air. Mila screamed. Peter clutched his hand in pain. Rob then took a sharp right out of the parking lot and drove off just as he saw the other man crawl out with his camouflage jacket drenched in blood. He went to his unconscious partner, raised a fist in the air, and screamed out in vengeance. For now, they had escaped.

  Supply and Demand

  It was ration day at Tartarus. A day that all residents—servers and prisoners alike—looked forward to with heightened anticipation. Arthur Jenkins’s control over the town wasn’t by force alone. He and his men had set up a distribution racket of prescription drugs throughout the town. Supplies, food and water were one thing, but nothing was more important than drug treatment and the artificial comfort it provided.

  He explained as much to his men following their prison break. “First we get as many weapons as we can. We raid the hunting stores. Then we go house by house and gather up guns, ammo, knives, baseball bats—anything that can be used as a weapon.”

  His men listened, ready to launch their full-fledged assault on the town following the blackout.

  “Then we hit up the pharmacies. This is crucial. Control a person’s medicine, and you control the person.”

  Having acquired a hefty arsenal, they first held up the local Walgreens, confiscating every bottle on the shelves. Then came the raid at CVC: over thirty armed men—storming the aisles and clearing out the store. The police department was already overwhelmed and too over-stretched to intervene. Next came their most ambitious spree yet: Nyack Hospital.

  Resistance from staff and security quickly led to a violent standoff and evacuation of the hospital. Arthur’s plan had worked. They had accumulated one hundred thousand doses of opiates and other prescription drugs to last for months, if not years.

  Their haul consisted of oxycodone, Suboxone, Demerol, codeine, morphine, amphetamines, fentanyl, Xanax, Adderall, and Ritalin. They had everything to ensure that the residents were dependent, broken, and subservient.

  “Why are we doing this?” Larry, his right-hand man, asked one day.

  “Because we can,” Arthur said, rocking back in his chair on the front porch. Teresa stepped out with a pitcher in hand. It was late afternoon, but there was still much work to be done.

  “You boys want some sweet tea?”

  Arthur tilted his head back and looked up through his sunglasses, scratching his chest.

  “That’d be lovely, though Larry and I have to get into town soon.”

  Teresa smiled and set the pitcher on a small table next to Arthur. “I’ll go get two cups. Don’t want you running off all dehydrated.”

  She went back inside. The screen door’s hydraulic hinge hissed with air as it closed, and Arthur looked at Larry with a smile. “Ain’t she great?”

  “Sure is,” Larry said. “You ready to do this?”

  “Yep. It’s time,” Arthur said, rising.

  Teresa came out with two glasses and wished the men well. They each gulped down two glasses of tea, set their glasses down, and stood up, straightening their shoulders, as they prepared for their journey to the town square, where the weekly rationing was to take place. And so it began…

  The town square was roped off into sections that led residents toward a pavilion distribution center. More than fifty people waited through the queuing, like customers at a bank. Their currency, however, wasn’t money, it was medicine. Desperate men and women filled the ranks—their faces stricken with anxiety. Some were already in the stages of withdrawal.

  Arthur’s men rationed the drugs carefully: five to six pills weekly and about two hundred milligrams of morphine per week to those who needed it. Though not all were addicts. There were some with need of aspirin and antibiotics. These items were rationed as well, though no one knew the plan for when everything ran out.

  The wall project added to the uneasiness. The residents all lived like prisoners, but many were too broken, too desperate, and too doped-up to do anything about it. Saturdays were for normal ration distribution; Sundays, however, were what most people looked forward to.

  “Anderson!” Nathan, one of the freemen, shouted from behind a table.

  He was one of the few men entrusted with allocating the proper dosage of prescription drugs. Behind him were boxes with enough drugs and medicine to stock three working hospitals. The last remaining physician, Dr. Gary Layish, was a heart surgeon from the recently defunct Nyack Hospital.

  He stood by, monitoring the distribution. He and his family hadn’t escaped in time, and he soon found his services in high demand. The deal was simple: he provided medical care to the residents in exchange for immunity for him and his family. Arthur’s men didn’t bother him and he was afforded all the privileges of a freeman, so long as he kept to the deal.

  Anderson, a shaggy-haired blond man in his thirties, stepped forward to Nathan’s table and stopped at a marked yellow line. He wore a stained T-shirt, cut-up jeans, and flip-flops. He stood tired and wobbly.

  Nathan looked up at him with his glasses resting on the top of his nose, just above his mustache. “Present your ration card, please.”

  The zigzag-shaped line behind Anderson stretched past City Hall and out into the road. More would come that evening. Anderson dug into his pocket and presented a crumpled piece of paper the size of a small flier.

  “Let’s see what you have here,” Nathan said, taking it. Next to him, Dwayne, another dedicated freeman, was setting up his own station. They would need two or three more stations to get all the people through in a timely manner.

  Nathan read the paper carefully. “It appears everything checks out. Your labor hours match up, and the signatures look in place. For your work this week, we’ll be giving you”—he paused, scratching his chin—“four tablets. How’s that work for you?”

  Anderson nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah. That’s fine.” He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

  Nathan turned his head to yell. “Dwayne, can I get four oxys!”

  Dwayne knelt down and pulled out a bottle of pills with his gloved hand. “Four oxys comin’ up.” He walked to Nathan’s table and poured the tablets into a small plastic cup, which he gave to Anderson.

  “Atwood!” Nathan shouted as he looked down the list.

  Arthur and Larry soon showed up and observed the proceedings, which were well underway. The sun was fading, lighting the puffy cumulus clouds on the horizon. A cool breeze was starting to kick up.

  “Big turnout today,” Larry said in Arthur’s ear.

  “I didn’t expect anything less.”

  They took notice of the balding Dr. Layish standing under the pavilion, with his hospital ID badge dangling around his neck.

  Arthur walked under the pavilion to closely monitor the operation. It wasn’t unheard of for his men to snag a couple of pills here and there, but he discouraged such behavior. No drug addicts were allowed amon
g the freemen.

  “Looks like Doc is taking things in stride,” Larry said.

  “Yeah, I’m concerned,” Arthur said.

  Larry cocked his head, confused.

  Arthur elaborated. “He’s acting a little too normal. If we were to crack open that skull of his and take a look at that big brain, we’d probably discover a swarm of conflicting thoughts and emotions.”

  Larry paused, not sure what to make of Arthur’s words. “You—you’re saying that we should kill him?”

  Arthur whipped his head around in disbelief. “Of course not! I’m saying that he’s burnt out. We need more medical professionals here. These pills aren’t going to last forever. Nothing will.”

  Larry tugged on his braided ponytail. “And just how do you propose we get more doctors?”

  “We go out there and find them.”

  “Bernard!” Nathan shouted in the background. A frizzy-haired woman stepped forward over the yellow line.

  “Take a step back, please, ma’am,” he said.

  She twitched nervously. The bags under her eyes were multilayered, and a ring of mascara had run down her cheeks. She handed him her labor card and then did as asked.

  The line behind her had only grown longer. Two armed guards by the table kept careful watch.

  Larry leaned in closer to Arthur in confidence. “It’s been two months, Mr. Mayor, and some of the boys are getting a little … well. You know, antsy.”

  “About what?” Arthur asked, playing oblivious.

  “What do you think? They want some action. They’ve shown about the most restraint they can, and you can’t expect them to hold out for much longer.”

  Arthur turned to him dismissively. “If I let that happen, we’ll never hear the end of it. These people will fight back. That’s all they would need.”

  “Easy for you to say. You got a wife,” Larry said.

  Arthur glared at Larry with contempt. “You leave her out of this.”

  Larry brazenly stepped forward. They almost touched noses. A few of the freemen under the pavilion caught a glimpse of what looked like trouble brewing.