Our Survival: A Collection of Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thrillers

by Williams, Ron

  Butler never liked the artificial rules and conventions of boxing, so he stuck around long enough to learn how to throw punches harder and more efficiently, how to protect himself best if he needed to take a few punches on the way in to a target, then he left.

  If he wanted to, Butler could have killed Thomas, who was tied to a chair in front of him, with a single punch. It wouldn’t be an immediate death, but a slow one as internal organs would be damaged by cracked ribs and hemorrhaged bleeding would occur.

  The thing is, Lewis Butler did want to kill Thomas in revenge for the loss of his son. After all, this was the man that had fired the fatal shots.

  Killing Thomas right off, though, meant Butler would still have to hunt down the other man responsible for his son’s death.

  Butler wanted to get that information first. Once the wheels were in motion to take his revenge on the rest, he would settle the score with the beaten up man in front of him.

  “Let’s try this again,” Butler said, stepping up to the chair. “Who the hell are you?”

  Thomas, his face beaten to a bloody pulp, looked up at him with bleary eyes. His left eye was almost completely swollen over.

  Butler had rung his bell pretty good a couple of times already.

  “Who the hell are you?” Butler asked again, squatting down to look him straight in the eye. “It doesn’t have to be this way. You can tell me what I want to know, and we can make this a civil conversation.”

  Butler stood and up sent a wide, arcing punch across Thomas’ temple. It was a show punch, not one of the powerful jabs he’d learned in his boxing lessons. It was meant to intimidate as his fist wound up and flew in, more than it was meant to injure.

  Thomas had taken enough honest blows from Lewis that it still just about knocked him out.

  Also in the room watching were Gale and George. Seeing the man who had killed their brother helplessly getting the wind knocked out of him gave them both immense satisfaction.

  “Let’s give the face a rest, dad,” Gale stepped up.

  Gale walked up to Thomas on the chair, with a wet rag in his hand. He dabbed at a trickle of blood running down Thomas’ temple.

  “Not until he tells us what we need to know,” replied Butler, rubbing his bruised fists.

  “You knock his brain out of his ears, we’ll never know what’s inside it,” continued Gale.

  Leaning close to Thomas in the chair, Gale whispered, “You can’t hold out against this forever, you know. You can’t even hold out long enough for it to do anybody any good. You may as well just start speaking up. This isn’t going to get any easier.”

  “Good cop…bad cop…really?” Thomas slurred in between heavy breaths.

  Gale chuckled quietly. “No cops in this room, buddy. Just two very angry men, one that wants some information out of you, one that doesn’t actually care if he gets it or not. That one just might want to make this last longer just for the sake of dragging it out.”

  Gale stood up and turned as if he were going to walk away from the chair. Instead of stepping away, though, he swept the chair with his foot.

  Thomas crashed to the ground on his side. He grunted from the impact.

  He’d been tied to the chair in such a way that his right arm was being painfully trapped between the chair and the concrete floor.

  Gale sat down on the chair back, facing away from his prisoner. He heard Thomas start to groan as the extra weight hurt his trapped arm more.

  “You got a name?” Gale asked, starting to rock gently back and forth.

  Thomas gritted his teeth against the pain, but said nothing.

  “I know you’ve got a name, and I want to know what to call you,” Gale rocked back and forth a little more vigorously. “I mean, if you won’t give me your name I might as well give you one.”

  Thomas continued to moan and struggle, but still said nothing.

  “Listen here,” Gale said. “You’re going to swallow your pride and start cooperating. We are going to break you, and we’re going to find that other murderer you were with, and we’re going to find where you were going. It’s going to happen. The only thing you gain by holding out on us is a little bit of pride knowing you didn’t give them up, but in the end, they die, too. The total number of dead people doesn’t change. The only thing in this equation that’s going to change is how much you suffer before getting moved from the live column to the dead column.”

  “You’re not getting anywhere any faster than I did,” Butler told his son.

  “You think so? Watch this,” Gale said.

  Instead of tying Thomas’ hands together behind his back, they’d tied them to the chair legs.

  This put the Thomas’ right hand on the floor, just behind the back of the chair. Gale put the toe of his boot on Thomas’ fingers, and started leaning forward, shifting more weight to that foot.

  Thomas’ ability to stifle his groans failed as Butler rocked back and forth and George applied more pressure to his fingers.

  Thomas finally let out a scream of pain. His torturers kept slowly increasing the intensity until Thomas wasn’t able to yell anymore. The pain had reached the point where he was starting to hover at the edge of consciousness.

  “Let’s sit him back up,” Gale said, and his father helped him right Thomas’ chair.

  Gale grabbed his rag again, dunking it in a bowl of cold water and wringing it out before going to dab more blood from the prisoner’s face.

  “I’m glad to see you learned to cooperate,” he said.

  Thomas wearily looked at him with a confused look on his face.

  “You don’t remember giving me your name just a minute ago? Thomas.”

  The look on Thomas’s face become even more perplexed.

  “Said it plain as day, you did,” Gale told him. “Why don’t you have a good think on that while we go off to get some dinner.”

  Their prisoner had been very fastidious about not carrying anything with any identifying information on him: no ID, no credit cards, no permits.

  However, tucked into one box of ammunition for the AR-15 had been a forgotten credit card receipt dated a couple of weeks before the EMP. At the top was the cardholder’s name. “Parker, Thomas G.”

  After a couple of hours, the Butlers came back to find that Thomas had gone unconscious. Gale dumped a pail of cold water over his head to wake him up.

  He laughed when he saw Thomas open his mouth to try and capture any of the water running down his face.

  “Thirsty, are you, Tommy boy?” Butler said sadistically.

  He nodded to Gale, who refilled the pail from a five-gallon bucket in the corner of the small room. Gale set the pail down on the floor a couple of feet from Thomas.

  “Let’s talk about a trade,” Gale said, setting the pail down a few feet from Thomas. “You can trade information for water, or silence for a few more rounds with my dad here. What will it be?”

  “How about you untie me so your pop and I can have a fair fight,” Thomas retorted.

  “I’ll give you one thing,” Butler said. “At least you’ve got some spirit to you. My son didn’t get killed by a coward.”

  Thomas looked up at Butler. “I wasn’t looking to kill anybody. We were just passing through.”

  “From where to where?” Butler asked.

  “If they had just let us go on our way, nobody would have been hurt.”

  “From where, to where?” Butler asked again, more insistently this time.

  “We didn’t even know we were trespassing,” Thomas said.

  Butler stormed up to him, kicking the pail of water across the room. He launched a short right jab that hit Thomas hard enough in the face to knock the chair over.

  Thomas’s head bounced off the hard floor, the impact enough to make an audible cracking sound. He went unconscious.

  Butler saw the lights switch off again and turned to George, who had been watching from the corner the whole time without a word.

  “George, help out for a
change and wake him up.”

  George stepped over to sit the chair back up, then doused Thomas with a fresh pail of water, slapping his cheeks until the bound man’s eyes opened and slowly focused.

  “You’re really going to want to start cooperating with us,” George said. “Now, the deal still stands. You can trade us information for water, or silence for pain.”

  * * *

  It was a little after 4 A.M. and still dark when the rescue party got to the Compound.

  They’d ditched their bikes a mile back and finished the trek cross country on foot, picking out a route that brought them over a small ridge that they hoped would give them a view over the walls.

  Robert led the way, having plenty of practice leading night patrols.

  He had to do the duty of both team leader and point man, navigating and also trying to detect any traps or warning devices the Compound had set up.

  Three times, Robert pointed out a trip wire, barely visible under the weak light of a crescent moon.

  From the top of the ridge, they were able to see some of the Compound over its wall. They spent some time scanning the area with their binoculars.

  There were a few lights on in some of the buildings, probably solar powered LEDs, that gave a hint of the layout inside.

  A couple of small fires burned here and there, but otherwise it was dark. The only people they could make out were most likely guards, hanging out around the fires.

  In the center of the compound was its largest building, a long two-story common building that Christine had told them to look for. That building held the Compound offices and meeting rooms and an arms vault. It seemed the most likely place that they’d keep a prisoner.

  Robert gathered the team around and they compared their observations. “Are we still confident that a small diversion to draw attention away from the main building is the way to go?”

  There were slow nods of agreement.

  “Small, something to get the patrols’ attention, but not enough to get them to wake up the entire camp,” Randall said.

  “OK, remember that Grandma said it looked like they keep most of their vehicles in a small motor pool, so it’s probably near this back gate here,” Robert said, pointing to an area of their hand-drawn map of the compound. “Dad, Uncle Marcus, Claire, you’re going to get us wheels and cause the diversion. Precisely five minutes, right?”

  Bruce, Marcus, and Claire agreed.

  “Jane, Randall. At T-plus four, we need to be in position on the building ready to move in and find Thomas. Quiet takedowns are the best option. Shoot only if necessary, but if it’s necessary don’t hesitate, right?” continued Robert.

  Jane and Randall nodded.

  “It’s not that big of a building, probably no residents, so it should be mostly deserted except for Thomas and anybody with him. We’ll have wheels coming our way at T-plus ten, or at the first sign that we’re in a shootout. Let’s hope for the former, because the latter is going to make things a lot harder.”

  Everybody was silent as the weight of what was about to happen sank in. Robert was a seasoned combat veteran, having served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Randall had survived his first combat experience less than 48 hours earlier. None of the others had faced a gunfight before.

  Jane was just fifteen, Bruce had served as an MP during the Gulf War, but hadn’t seen action. Marcus had served in the Air Force twenty years ago and had also never seen combat.

  “Look. I don’t have a suicidal bone in my body,” Robert told them. “I wouldn’t be leading this mission if I thought it was going to fail. We’re family, and we’ve been preparing for this. We’re solid, and we’re tight. We’re going to get Thomas out of there, and we’re going to get him home. All of us. Right?”

  One by one, each member of the team said, “Right.”

  “It’s that pre-dawn time when the overnighters are most tired and least alert,” Robert said. “Best time to hit them, but we need to move. We’re burning darkness right now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Randall and Robert went over the wall about 200 yards from the back gate. They carried only their sidearms and bladed weapons, to minimize their noise signature.

  As Robert had predicted, the guards watching the gate were far from alert. One was sitting on a tree stump, dozing off.

  The other was pacing back and forth near the small fire they’d built to ward off a bit of the nighttime chill.

  On a signal from Robert, the two men went into action.

  With a good couple of thousand people in the Compound, nobody knew everybody else.

  The two cousins took advantage of this fact and the darkness to walk right up to the two guards before they drew on them.

  “Hands up,” Robert said.

  The two guards, taken by surprise, hesitated only briefly before complying.

  “Over here,” he said, gesturing with his Ruger .357 towards a part of the wall in deep shadow.

  Once they were all out of the firelight, Robert ordered the guards to carefully put their weapons on the ground and step back.

  Randall and Robert kept their handguns trained on the guards while they moved forward and picked up their weapons.

  “On your faces,” Robert said, having them follow him out of the firelight.

  “We’re looking to get in and out without any killing, and we’d appreciate your help,” Randall said. “One of you got the key to that gate?”

  “On a nail, just to the right,” one of the guards said.

  Robert kept his Ruger aimed at the guards while Randall quickly let the rest of the team into the Compound.

  Together, the rescue team searched the guards for any holdouts, bound them, and taped their mouths shut.

  “OK,” Robert said, watching the seconds count own on his watch.

  The rest of the team followed suit.

  As soon as the second hand hit zero, Robert said, “You all know your jobs!”

  He started making his way to the center of the Compound with Randall and Jane.

  Bruce, Marcus and Claire went off to do their part.

  The latter three each carried a spike awl. They went into the small motor pool and checked the first two Toyota Hi-Lux pickups they saw.

  As Robert had hoped, the keys for each vehicle were in the ignition. Claire took Marcus’ Glock .40 in lieu of her AR-15, as it would be much less conspicuous, and made her way to an open common area near the east side of the Compound.

  Under one of her father-in-law’s jackets, oversized for her, she carried three quart-sized milk jugs of gasoline.

  Meanwhile, Marcus and Bruce took their awls and started spiking the tires of every other vehicle they could find.

  * * *

  Closer to the center of the compound, Robert, Randall, and Jane were making good time.

  They hugged buildings whenever they could, and when they came to an intersection two could watch the street both ways while the third crossed.

  When the got to the main building, they gathered around one of the back doors.

  Robert took longer than he’d have liked to pick the lock, the pressure to keep to a strict timeline making him jumpy.

  Finally, he got the lock open, and his half of the rescue team stepped inside.

  * * *

  “Fire!” Claire shouted. “Fire! Fire!”

  She had waited until she’d removed any fire extinguishers she could find and lit up the three different sheds before sounding the alarm.

  As soon as she saw people moving towards the fires, she quieted down and slipped into the shadows to go back to the motor pool.

  Whatever guards were on duty started running towards the burning sheds.

  A low level of panic started building up as they discovered the fire extinguishers were no longer in their designated places.

  Claire heard somebody say, “Pull up a water buffalo!”

  Shortly afterwards, she was passed by two men heading for the motor pool at a dead run.

 
She had to think fast. It wasn’t going to take long for them to notice all of the flat tires.

  Bruce and Marcus couldn’t just stick around waiting to be discovered in the only two vehicles that could drive – they’d need to get out of there.

  Her chances of rendezvousing with them at the motor pool were not good at all, so she resorted to the contingency plan – meet the trucks at the main office.