Unexpected World: The EMP Survivor Series Book 1

by Chris Pike

  “Ryan?” Cassie yelled. “Have you found anything?”

  “I found a couple of flashlights. You?”

  “Some water and food, and a change of clothes. I’ll keep looking. I’m trying to find the galley,” Cassie said.

  “Hey, I found some blankets. We’ll need those tonight.”

  “Great.”

  Cassie continued searching for anything useful among the wreckage. There were several laptops, a camera, briefcases, a present wrapped in kid’s wrapping paper. So many useless items. What they needed was food and water, and anything that might be used as a weapon.

  This was the wilderness, and soon it would be dark.

  Soon the scavengers would come out.

  Chapter 8

  “Come on,” Dillon said. “We need to go. Now.” It was a terse order instead of a polite command. He was standing on the fourth floor of the Harris County Courthouse. He could have kicked himself for telling Holly she could come with him. Having to be responsible for someone else hadn’t been in his plans. Especially a woman. Once he got home, he’d make her comfortable, check her arm, give her something to eat, then he’d be on his way. After that, she’d be on her own.

  He had to find his daughter, and that was foremost on his mind.

  Holly answered in an equally terse way. “Okay, I’m coming.”

  They navigated their way down the stairwell to the third floor, second floor, and finally the ground floor. They were awestruck at the scene they walked into.

  The plane that had clipped the country courthouse had nosedived into an office building several blocks away, obliterating it, reducing it to a smoldering heap of rebar and chunks of concrete. Angry flames shot out of the rubble.

  Blue-gray smoke billowed skyward forming a thundercloud of organic ashes of lost lives and unfilled dreams incinerated in the ugly din.

  On the street, a few office workers wandered around in a daze, covered in a layer of dust.

  Someone on a bicycle whizzed by, leaving a trail of dust. A homeless person stood on a street corner, begging for money from anyone walking by.

  It was eerily quiet. The steady hum of downtown life had fallen silent. Buses had coasted to a halt, the beep-beep of car horns nonexistent, no sound of tires upon concrete.

  “What is that smell?” Holly asked, wrinkling her nose. She couldn’t quite place the putrid odor. “It smells like some sort of meat that has fallen through the grill onto coals.”

  “I think that about sums it up,” Dillon said.

  It took a moment for that realization to sink in. “Oh,” was all Holly said. She put her hand to her cheek. “Those poor people. Do you think anyone survived that?” Holly asked, pointing to the rubble.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “Kinda harsh aren’t you?”

  “I can only hope that the people died instantly without suffering. If they are trapped they’ll die slowly, because no help is coming.”

  “Of course help will come,” Holly countered. “How can you be so mean?”

  Dillon ignored her question. “See any fire trucks or ambulances? Hear any sirens?”

  Holly scanned the streets in all directions. “Not yet.”

  “Like I told you,” Dillon said, “society as we know it has changed. Have you tried your phone lately?”

  Holly gave him a blank stare.

  “Go ahead. Try it.”

  Holly pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed the home button. When nothing happened, she pressed the on/off button and waited. Still nothing. “Maybe it’s broken.” She shook it, as if rattling the insides would make it work.

  “It’s not broken and shaking it won’t help. It won’t work regardless of how many times you try. Anything with a circuit board will not work, and probably won’t for the foreseeable future.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Holly protested. “This is the 21st century. There are safeguards.”

  “You’re wrong this time, counselor,” Dillon said. “Our fancy law degrees are worthless. You can object all you want to, but as of now, it’s the law of the jungle. The strong will survive. Those that prepared and have stocked up on food and weapons will survive. That homeless guy you see over there,” Dillon said, pointing to the street corner, “he’ll probably live because he knows how to scavenge. He knows how to make a fire, how to make a shelter out of plastic and cardboard. He can boil water to drink. That man over there, the one with the three piece suit and shiny loafers? He will probably starve to death in a matter of months. It’ll be the sick that will die first. Medicines will run out. Antibiotics won’t be manufactured anymore and anyone with a serious infection or illness will die.”

  “So what you’re telling me is that the end of the world starts at the corner of Franklin and San Jacinto in downtown Houston?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  Holly’s thoughts went to her bleeding arm and what Dillon had said earlier. “What about me? I mean my arm. Are people like me going to die?”

  “When we get to my house, I’ll take a look at it.” He made direct eye contact with Holly. “As of now, we’re on our own. We’ll need to live by our wits and help ourselves because no help is coming for anyone.” He squeezed her good arm. “Listen to me. The police will be useless because they’ll be helping their families first.”

  “That’s not right,” Holly protested.

  “Maybe not.” Dillon shrugged nonchalantly. He took her by the elbow and shuffled her along. “It’s what happens during catastrophes. Look what happened during Hurricane Katrina and all those people stranded at the Superdome in New Orleans. Something like 15,000 people. You saw the pictures on TV, right? The dead were left where they fell. People slept in urine. Water was rationed to two bottles a day per adult. Toilets stopped working for thousands of people. Can you imagine what a city of a million people will be like after a week without power or infrastructure?

  Holly didn’t answer.

  “It’s going to be a hellhole,” Dillon said. “The aftermath of Katrina happened because the government was too slow. They had to assess the situation and make a plan, have meetings, talk about it, and have conferences calls and other bullshit, and that was all using high tech communication. There’s no communication now, so don’t plan on the police or government helping us. We’re going to have to help ourselves. We’ve talked enough, so let’s get going now. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do. I’m leaving tomorrow to go find my daughter. I’ve got to get her back home.”

  “You said she was on a plane to New Orleans. If everything with a computer has stopped working…” Holly stopped in mid-sentence and glanced down.

  Dillon stared hard at her. His words were careful when he said, “She should be okay. She has to be. Tomorrow, I’m going to go find her.”

  Dillon wasn’t able to admit that his daughter’s plane would be dead in the air when the EMP hit. Call it self-preservation, or having his head in the sand, he couldn’t yet go to that place thinking his daughter was dead. He wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  It would kill him.

  Chapter 9

  Cassie shivered in the damp swamp air. With her knees bent and her arms wrapped around them, she huddled under a piece of the airplane that she was unable to identify in the low light.

  “Here,” Ryan said, “take another blanket.”

  “Thanks.” Cassie took the thin gray blanket, shook it open, and wrapped it around her shoulders then tucked it up to her chin. “Have you seen any suitcases? Maybe we could find a jacket in one of them.”

  “I’ve already looked. Can’t find any. I’m guessing the cargo hold was ripped open some ways back and all the luggage fell out.”

  “So much for my plan of dressing for the night out,” Cassie said.

  Ryan laughed. The humor seemed to alleviate their dire situation.

  “How much daylight do you think we have left?” Cassie asked.


  Ryan peered at the sun sliding beneath the horizon. “Maybe half an hour.”

  “I haven’t seen any search planes. Don’t you think they’ve started searching for us?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it will take them time to coordinate a rescue effort. Right now, they should be mapping the flight path and calculating the probable crash site. The plane is a thousand more times visible from the sky than a single person is. Don’t worry,” Ryan said, “I’m sure we’ll be rescued by noon tomorrow.”

  Ryan didn’t say his statement with resolve. He had also noticed the lack of activity in the air, not even a prop plane, helicopter, or a jet trail high in the atmosphere. There wasn’t any boat activity either, and he knew from his days as a biology major at Louisiana State University this area was prime real estate for alligator hunting. He’d keep that little bit of knowledge to himself while he kept an eye out for the apex predators, the telltale sign of rippling water, a splash, or if he had a flashlight, glowing beady eyes bobbing above the waterline. He’d seen that in Florida and the thought they were being watched sent shivers up his spine.

  “You’re cold too?” Cassie asked. She had noticed him shiver.

  “Not too much.”

  Arms tucked close to her body, Cassie briskly rubbed them, trying to get circulation going. She wiggled her cold toes. “It’s so cold.”

  “It’s the dampness that makes it that way,” Ryan said. He stood up and stamped his feet. “Ever been to Colorado?”

  “Once, when I was a kid. Why?”

  “It can be freezing with snow on the ground, and it doesn’t feel as cold as it is now because it’s so dry there. Here when it’s cold the humidity sucks all the warmth out of you. I’m guessing the temperature is around 65 degrees, but the humidity makes it feel like 50.”

  “Where exactly do you think we are?” Cassie asked.

  Ryan paused, thinking. “Probably in the southern part of the Atchafalaya Basin.”

  “A nice word for a swamp,” Cassie said. She put a hand to her face. “Shit.”

  “What?” Ryan asked.

  “You know how big the Atchafalaya Basin is?”

  “Yeah. About half the size of Rhode Island.”

  “We’re fucked,” Cassie said.

  “No we’re not,” Ryan said. “Look, all domestic flights are tracked on radar, so once our plane disappeared that would have been noted. The last known location will give a good idea on where the search can start. It’ll be better in the morning.”

  “Well, maybe so. What I wouldn’t do for a cup of hot chocolate and a fire.”

  “I don’t think a fire would be a good idea with all the spilled fuel,” Ryan said. “But I could make you a cold hot chocolate. I spotted what’s left of the galley about a hundred yards from here. And I’ve got an extra bottle of water.”

  Ryan’s nurturing gesture took Cassie by surprise. “Sure, that would be nice.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. It’s getting dark. I’ll be in hollering distance, so if anything happens, just yell.”

  Cassie tracked Ryan until he became a small dot. It was eerily quiet sans the low whisperings of the wind and the creaking of shifting metal. Sitting alone, it was frankly quite unnerving. Growing up in the city, Cassie was accustomed to the steady hum of activity and the comforting sounds of life. In her apartment near the French Quarter, she’d listen to the street life, people walking and talking, the sounds of traffic, the hustle of street vendors, music. Cassie sought out quiet places, and even though solitude invigorated her, right now she was scared out of her wits.

  Her senses were attuned to the night, and sounds were magnified. The wind might as well have been a tornado.

  With so many dead bodies around, it was like the essence of the deceased was still here, the night air thick with lost lives. The thought of being in a cemetery was terrifying, not that the dead could hurt anyone, but in the silence Cassie’s mind played tricks on her.

  A movement and a loud splash in the marsh caught her eye and she turned that way. Squinting, she tried to understand the hazy images.

  Moonlight shimmered on the water, and Cassie stared sightlessly out over the dark land and swamp. The Atchafalaya Basin wasn’t a swamp in the true sense of the word, more like a mixture of swamp and bottomland. It contained hardwoods, bayous, and backwater lakes. The significant part was forest habitat, while the smaller part was populated by marsh and open water. The plane had crash landed on the fringe of the forest habitat, the home to the Louisiana black bear, a fact unknown to Cassie and Ryan.

  The wind had picked up and Cassie thought she saw movement in the marsh.

  Some night animal scurried nearby, rustling the grass and leaves. Spooked by the unknown sounds, she jerked her head to the side, her eyes wide with fear. There was more movement, then another noise she couldn’t discern. It sounded like someone moaning. Cassie couldn’t be sure, chalking up the sounds to an overactive imagination. That and the fact she had recently watched the latest slasher movie didn’t do her any good. She really hated those movies, but Vicky loved them and had talked her into it.

  Vicky, she thought.

  Cassie dropped her chin and rubbed her forehead, wondering whether or not to tell Vicky’s parents the truth about how their daughter died. That if Vicky hadn’t insisted on the window seat, their daughter would still be alive. She’d wrestle with that decision at a later date. She swallowed hard.

  A flight of a night heron broke the spooky silence and Cassie looked skyward trying to find the large bird. A frog croaked, then more joined in on the amphibian orchestra until the air was filled with different levels of bellowing baritones.

  Listening intently, she filtered out the swamp sounds. Then she heard that sound again.

  Considering it was dark and the noises of the Atchafalaya Basin swamp were surprisingly loud, Cassie chalked up the noise to her overzealous imagination. The screech owl sounded more like a woman screaming, and the croaking frogs more like a jackhammer on the water. The sounds were magnified only by the imaginings of what could be making them.

  She really wished Ryan would come back.

  Chapter 10

  When Dillon and Holly came to the entrance of the parking lot, he said, “I need to stop by my car.”

  She gave him a questioning look. “What for? You said cars don’t work.”

  “They don’t,” Dillon answered curtly. “I need to get my…”

  “Get what?”

  “Equipment. Look, my car is on the tenth floor. Are you up to climbing ten flights?”

  “I think so.”

  Dillon’s eyes dropped to Holly’s feet. “Are you okay to walk? You only have one shoe.”

  “I’ll make myself okay.”

  “Good. How’s your arm holding up?”

  “Good enough. It still hurts, though.”

  “If you need any stitches, I’ll put them in when we get home.”

  “Stitches?” Holly’s tone was one of surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “Using what?”

  “Needle and thread.”

  She gave him a strange look.

  “Pretend you’re a pioneer woman.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m not kidding. I can stitch it up. Done it before under much worse conditions. Come on, let’s get going.”

  Dillon took the stairs two at a time, barely breaking a sweat, an easy feat considering he was in shape. Holly followed behind, mirroring his steps, although she climbed one stair at a time instead of two. The higher she went, the dizzier she became. At the landing of the fifth floor, Holly’s thigh muscles burned and started cramping.

  “Wait,” Holly said. She leaned against the concrete side and sucked in a big breath of air, her heart thumping hard against her chest. “Go on without me.”

  “I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here by yourself. I’ll wait until you catch your breath.”

  “No really, go on. I’ll s
it here. I’m feeling a little dizzy that’s all.” Holly rubbed her arm. “I think it’s bleeding again.”

  “Let me look at it,” Dillon said. He untied the scarf he had used as a tourniquet, trying not to get his hands bloody. He peeled back the blood-soaked scarf, now stuck to her arm. He grimaced at the sight and swore under his breath. The wound squirted a little blood each time Holly’s heart beat. “Yeah, this will definitely need some stitches,” he said, tying the scarf back around her arm tightly. “Try to stay still and concentrate on lowering your heart rate. The slower your heart beats, the less you’ll bleed. And don’t talk to anybody. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment because I am a father.”

  Leaving Holly alone, Dillon breezed the next five floors, although by the tenth floor, he was feeling the effects of climbing ten flights of stairs, not to mention the near death experience he just had. The adrenaline that had kept him jacked up had finally waned, and now his own injuries were starting to hurt.

  His shoulder, which still had shrapnel in it from his time in Iraq, was tingling and throbbing like someone had whacked him with a piece of rebar. It brought back unwanted flashes of bloody battles. Dillon’s mind wandered to the horrific wounds he’d treated and the men he couldn’t save. As a medic, he saw the worst of war. He thought he had put those mental wounds to bed, but when his body hurt, those memories came flooding back.

  Sprinting to his car, he weaved in and around the parked vehicles, cursing that he had chosen a parking space on the opposite side of the stairwell. A couple of people milled around near their cars, dumbfounded as to what to do.

  As Dillon ran, his thoughts went to Amy, his late wife. She had helped him come to terms with his time in Iraq, and had saved him from being a broken man. Amy was gone now, and Dillon had been forced to become both mother and father to Cassie during the two years since his wife had died.