Survival EMP (Book 3): Solar Dawn

by Lopez, Rob

  Chuck winced every time he stooped to lift an item of clothing. At one point, he stopped, breathing hard as he experienced a twinge of pain. Before she could stop herself, Dee said, “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

  “I’m okay,” said Chuck, exhaling through pursed lips.

  Dee stood up. “You go take a rest,” she said.

  “I think I will,” said Chuck gratefully.

  Dee started to hang the still-hot clothing on the line, checking to see that Jacob was okay. He was fine, but Dee still got a sense that the scene was artificial, like events had been staged to tempt her back into the fold.

  She shook the feeling off. What with the nightmares and her neurosis, she realized she probably couldn’t tell what was real and what was a delusion. Either way, it was better to be busy doing something instead of sitting around to let her emotions screw her up. Stooping, she plucked a shirt from the pile.

  She didn’t notice Lizzy wink at April behind her, nor April winking back.

  *

  “What do you think?” said Scott.

  Rick looked at the volunteers lining up to take a turn with the air rifles on the improvised range, and the archers attempting to shoot arrows into stuffed bundles that hung from tree branches. He’d spent his day digging holes and whittling wood, and he leaned on his shovel to straighten out the kinks in his back. The volunteers were all dressed in new clothes, having either washed or burned their lice-ridden attire. Packy had scoured every clothing store in the area, to the effect that the Bergen Mountain Militia, as they styled themselves, now wore the same uniform of plaid shirts and jeans. As a result, they looked like a band of undernourished lumberjacks. Whether it was Packy’s idea of a joke, or simply all he could find, was hard to tell.

  Most claimed to have shot a rifle before, but they didn’t all look comfortable with the air rifles, and the groupings on target weren’t impressive to Rick’s demanding eye. The archery, especially, was painful to watch, with most of the shafts disappearing into the woods. Periodically, they had to line everyone up and send them in to find the precious ammunition, and that took time away from training.

  “They’ll do,” grunted Rick.

  “Glad you think so,” said Scott. “Right now, I wouldn’t take these guys on an Easter egg hunt. I don’t know how many would make it back alive.”

  “We’re not exactly up against the Spetsnaz. All we’ve got to do is make sure we only put them into situations where their weaknesses aren’t apparent.”

  “Yeah? Well, make sure you mail the script to the bad guys so that they only do what we want them to do.”

  “I’ve been watching them. They’re not that smart.”

  “If they use their superior numbers against us, they won’t need to be.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping they’ll do. You’ll see. Show me these explosives you’ve made.”

  Scott led him to a small hollow. Around the edge of the hollow were buckets of yellow sulfur they’d taken from a stranded freight train. Sitting on a tree stump in the center was a molded dough-ball of sulfur and other ingredients. Two wires led from the ball to a box with a crank handle. Scott picked up the box.

  “Got this from the museum,” he said. “It’s what they used in olden times to demonstrate the wonders of electricity. Can you imagine how freaked out folks would have been by a light bulb in those days?”

  Scott positioned himself behind a tree and furiously cranked the handle. There was a short delay, then the dough ball exploded with a sharp crack, leaving scorch marks on the stump.

  “Certainly would have been if they’d done that,” observed Rick. “Good work. How soon can you produce a bigger version?”

  “Give me a couple of days and I can provide you with enough to demolish a building.”

  “How about a concrete culvert?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  19

  The Asheville coal-fired power plant stood on the shore of Lake Julian. According to Parson’s intelligence report, this was where a band of particularly troublesome marauders had taken refuge. In the pre-dawn light, the plant towers were silhouetted against the lightening sky. Connors had already surveyed the structure the day before on a recon mission. The plant was on a promontory that jutted into the lake, linked by an exposed railroad bridge to the east. The only avenues for attack were from the woods bordering the French Broad to the west, and the slag heaps to the south, all overlooked by tall gantries. It was a good defensive position against the kind of retaliation that a small local community might be able to muster.

  But not against a hundred men backed by a heavy weapons squad.

  “Try not to damage the infrastructure,” said Connors, lowering his binoculars. “It might be useful in the future.”

  The militia, drilled hard at Biltmore, nervously filtered into position. Each one of them had been given a green scarf to tie to one arm as a way of identifying each other in the thick of the action. Not that Connors expected there to be much action. The marauders, whoever they were, did not even have a sentry on the gantries.

  “Begin your attack, Corporal.”

  Parson turned to Connors. “You don’t think we should give them a chance to surrender first?” he said.

  “Nope. Just begin.”

  Parson blew a whistle. Nothing much happened, so he blew it again. Tentatively, the militia started their advance, leaving the cover of the trees. Feeling exposed before the hulking silhouette of the power plant, they began bunching up, exactly as they’d been told not to do. A single shot rang out from the plant, and near on a hundred men threw themselves down to the dirt in unison.

  “Do you see him, Leon?” said Connors.

  “Yep,” said Leon, peering through his big light-gathering scope. The sniper rifle barked, and a shadow in a doorway flinched.

  “Go, go, go!” shouted Parson.

  Nobody felt inclined to move until they could see who’d shot at them. A figure appeared on a gantry, and Taft nailed him with the fifty caliber rifle, daylight appearing through the man’s chest.

  “Come on!” called Parson, running to where his men lay. A few of them got up, following his lead.

  Another figure ran between two buildings in the plant. Fick had the machine gun ready. He squeezed the trigger and released a fast clack-clack-clack-clack that caught the runner and jerked him with heavy caliber rounds, dropping him to the ground.

  Seeing comrades running ahead, militiamen picked themselves up and moved in staggered lines over the slag heaps in a scene that resembled the storming of Stalingrad. Parson reached the first building and kicked the door open, spraying bullets inside.

  As the militiamen swarmed through the plant, Connors caught sight of four people running away over the railroad bridge. Focusing his binoculars he saw it was three men and a woman, fleeing for their lives.

  “Fick. The bridge.”

  “On it.”

  The machine gun clattered, joined by the sniper rifles. The four figures fell, tumbling in a slack and uncontrolled fashion until they lay still.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Connors. “That appears to be it.”

  “Someone ought to tell our heroes,” said Fick dryly, observing crouching militiamen dashing from cover to cover, yelling out loud and pointing their rifles at anything that moved, including each other.

  “Nah,” said Connors. “Let them find out the hard way.”

  He knew from his previous reconnaissance that there were only seven of the so-called marauders, whatever Parson’s intel might have indicated. In fact, Connors and his cadre could have taken them out the day before, but he decided it would be a good objective to test the militia with.

  When Parson finally returned, Connors and his cadre lay with their feet up, enjoying the first rays of sun.

  “I thought there’d be more,” said Parson, his face pale and his cheek twitching from the adrenaline.

  “It appears not,” said Connors casually.

  “One of t
hem was a woman.”

  “Anyone with a gun is a legitimate target. You should know that, Corporal.”

  Parson scanned across the four men, who looked like they were relaxing at the park. “Is this just a game to you people?”

  “No, Corporal. It’s war. Have the men fall in now. We’ll resume the march to Hendersonville.”

  Parson gave him a pensive look, then about-turned and walked away.

  “Told you he’d be trouble,” said Fick, gazing at the clouds.

  “It’s not a biggie,” said Connors. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “And when it is?”

  “Every problem has a solution, my friend.”

  *

  The militia spent the rest of the day marching the ten miles to Hendersonville, stopping to check in on several tiny settlements on the way and supplied periodically by vehicles coming from Asheville. With the footsore militia moving so slowly, it was early evening before they reached the barricade at the edge of Hendersonville.

  The roadblock, created with cars taken from a nearby used car lot, spanned the four lane highway. A log bunker had been built on some elevated waste ground at the side of the road, and an American flag flew from a pole in the lot. Connors halted his column, sent a platoon into the woods either side of the road, then rode alone to the barricade.

  “Who goes there?” came the challenge from the bunker.

  Connors addressed the shadowy face within the bunker embrasure. “I’m Major Connors, U.S. Army and commander of the 1st Carolina Militia. I’m here on the authority of the government of the Carolinas, and I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge of this city.”

  There was a moment of confusion in the bunker. “There ain’t no government of the Carolinas.”

  “There is now. You can escort me to your leader, or I can deploy my men to clear this unlawful obstruction. I warn you that any attempt to prevent the passage of a state representative will be met with force. If you honor that flag there, you will let me pass. Who’s currently in charge of this city?”

  “Mayor Ryland.”

  “Then take me to see him.”

  Connors was taken to City Hall on the back of an old Triumph motorcycle, the loud exhaust echoing through the historic but dull streets. It was just another city with a small-town feel, whatever its pretensions, and like Asheville, the downtown district was all but deserted, the restaurants and stores having nothing to offer.

  Mayor Ryland turned out to be a she.

  “How can I help you?” said the mayor as the motorcycle exhaust receded outside her office.

  Connors noted the crude circuit board on her desk, with a microphone and speaker, powered by a car battery. He guessed she’d already received news about who he was.

  “Nice setup you’ve got here,” he said, nodding toward the home-made radio. “Governor Jeffries has relocated the state government to Asheville. Under emergency laws, I’m authorized to inspect and assess the security of this city.”

  Ryland read the documents that Connors passed to her. “You want to confiscate our weapons?” she exclaimed.

  “Not if they’re legally held. It’s simply a matter of registering the weapons. Anyone in possession of what we will class as Category A firearms will be given the option of enlisting in the state militia or handing in the firearm for someone to use in their stead.”

  “This is draconian.”

  “It’s a little heavy-handed, I agree, but you know what these career politicians are like. They want to make a name for themselves, but as a serving officer, I am duty-bound to administer these orders. I don’t like it any more than you do, but if we cooperate with each other, we can find a way to make it work.”

  “You’re going to leave us defenseless.”

  “I assure you, that’s the opposite of my intention. My troops will man the barricades, freeing up your people for more productive duties, and I’ll leave a small garrison commanded by one of my more able officers. Your security will be guaranteed.”

  “That won’t be enough. We’re facing weekly raids by outlaws and thieves hiding out in the forests around Jump Off Rock. We’re at full stretch trying to protect our people as it is.”

  Connors gave her a reassuring smile. “Ah well, you see, that’s where I can help you. Outside your city right now, I have over a hundred men and heavy weapons waiting for my command. They’re a little tired from marching, so we’ll make camp in the area for the night, but tomorrow morning, guided by your people, we can go find those outlaws. They won’t be a problem to you no more. What do you think?”

  The mayor continued to peruse the documents. “It appears I’m not being given a choice.”

  Connors’ smile broadened. “Oh, there’s always choices. It’s just that one of them’s usually smarter than the others. You simply have to make the right choice.”

  20

  The Round Knob raiders had grown complacent, settling into a routine. They sent small groups out in cars every day, driving without advance guards. They didn’t patrol their access roads. In fact, Rick had never seen them send out foot patrols anywhere. If they had, they might have noticed some changes to a small section of road between Round Knob and Old Fort.

  Rick had selected the spot carefully. It was positioned in a tight bend between two steep slopes. Trenches had been dug and camouflaged overlooking the road. A tree had been felled and left lying close to the road. Explosives stinking of sulfur had been packed into a culvert that ran under the road, with wires leading up the stream to a firing position. Foliage had been cut down to provide clear fields of fire.

  A spotter on the hill whistled and held up two fingers: two vehicles were approaching from the camp.

  “Okay, move that log,” called Rick from the roadside.

  The felled tree was dragged into position across the road, then the shooters scrambled up the slope to the trenches. Rick checked that everything was in place, waved to the spotter and made his way up the slope. The six shooters he’d selected stared grim-faced over their sights. Scott had trained them as best he could, and Rick had prepped them with a speech:

  “If you don’t kill them, they’re going to kill you. They’ll come after you and your families, and they’ll spare no one. I don’t want anyone hesitating. You are going to kill men today. You are going to see them in your sights. They may be shooting at you, panicking or trying to run away. They may be wounded and begging for mercy. It doesn’t matter. You aim for center mass and pull the trigger. If they’re still moving, you fire again. You won’t have time to second guess. This ambush has to be done quickly and then we need to be gone. Any raider who gets away is one more to have to deal with later, and the odds are against us. Put aside any qualms you might have about killing a man. If you’re not prepared to do it, quit now and I’ll replace you.”

  Nobody quit, but Rick still wasn’t sure about the caliber of the men he had. It was impossible to tell how they’d react to being under fire, and it was certain that the raiders, once trapped, would fight for their lives.

  Rick settled into his trench. He had just two magazines: the one in his rifle and the other in his pouch. This was not a day to spray bullets on full auto. Beside him he had three Molotov Cocktails prepared. The rest of his militia were armed with bolt-action or semi-auto rifles. He didn’t want shotguns on this trip. Every round had to count, every hit had to kill or fatally wound. He had Scott on the other side of the road, ready to detonate the explosives, and Packy backing him up with the Mac-10: that was his one concession to spraying and praying, if only to cause confusion among the raiders.

  The rest would be down to cold, calculated murder. In a way, Rick wanted these men to feel that sense of what they were doing. He wanted to harden them. If the ambush failed and they were forced into a long guerrilla campaign, they’d need that. Whether they were ready for it or not.

  Another whistle sounded, indicating that the vehicles were close, but Rick could already hear the engines echoing in the valley. They were moving f
ast with their usual lack of caution. Rick checked his timepiece, an old wind-up stopwatch. Once the firing started, his group had ten minutes, plus a few minutes for reaction time, before the raiders sent a rescue force. That was how long Rick had to annihilate the two vehicles and escape. With trained troops, that was more than enough time. With these guys? Rick wasn’t so sure.

  From his vantage point he caught a glimpse of the vehicles snaking along the valley side, close to Mill Creek, flashing in and out of sight. The lead vehicle was the Suburban the raiders had captured earlier. The other vehicle was the sedan. The raiders were packed in tight, four or five to each vehicle by Rick’s estimate. They would have difficulties getting out in a hurry – not that Rick was going to give them that opportunity.

  “Nobody fire until you hear the signal,” said Rick.

  Militia members fidgeted nervously, wiping sweaty palms on their pants. The tone of the engines rose as the raiders changed gear to climb the slope to the bend.

  Rick slipped off the safety catch, aiming at the bend. The two vehicles raced into view, bumper to tail, when the lead driver caught sight of the log obstruction. He slammed on the brakes, and the Suburban ground slowly to a squealing halt just short of the log. The sedan, its brakes even worse, nosed into the back of the Suburban with a gentle crunch.

  There was a pause. Rick had the lead driver in his sights, but he was waiting for Scott. A door popped open, and it didn’t look like the explosives would be triggered. The sedan backed up, pulling its dented bumper from the SUV, and Rick was about to fire. It was possible that at least one vehicle would get away if he did.

  Then the culvert packed with explosives blew behind the sedan, sending concrete, rocks and asphalt into the air.

  That was the signal. Rick opened fire, shattering a side window. Then everyone fired.

  The raiders flinched inside the vehicles, first trying to get low, then trying to open the doors. Glass fractured and holes appeared in the bodywork. From the opposite slope, Packy let rip with the Mac-10, perforating the Suburban and splashing blood on the inside of what was left of the windows. The back doors of the sedan were kicked open and two raiders tumbled out from either side of the car. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement as the militia tried to hit them. Rick lit the fuse of a Molotov and threw it at the Suburban, which still had its doors shut. The bottle shattered on the door pillar and doused the side of the vehicle with blazing fuel. Rick prepared a second bottle.