EMP STRIKE: EMP APOCALYPSE SURVIVAL THRILLER - Book 1 of 4 in the EMP STRIKE SERIES

by Thunboe, Bo

  She downed one of the pills dry. Two pills left. She palmed them back into the bottle and set it on the counter

  “I’ll still have prayer.” If she ate right, slept a lot, and avoided stress, she could manage herself. She would have to.

  “Mom!”

  Adrenaline shot into her system at the high pitch of Sean’s voice. She ran for the stairs, grabbing the candle off her bedroom dresser as she went.

  “Mom! Where are you?”

  “I’m coming.” The candle puffed out as she ran but the skylight in the hallway provided enough light. She pounded down the stairs. She should have gone to the mini-mart instead of Sean. Or at least gone with him. Why hadn’t she thought of that? They should stick together.

  Sean stood by the front door, cheeks and ears red with cold, his bulging backpack leaning against the wall.

  “Didn’t you wear a hat? Or gloves?” Mary put a hand on his face. It was freezing. “Come in by the fire.” She snatched his hand and dragged him into the family room.

  “Mom!” He pulled his hand away. “Listen.”

  “What happened?” Sean’s eyes looked wild in the strobe effect of the flickering firelight. She set the candle plate on the mantel and stood close to the fire, coaxing him to stand near her. “Where’s your hat?”

  “A guy took it, but listen. That’s not—”

  “What guy? Are you oaky?”

  He sighed, then told her about three men who accosted him on the way back from the mini-mart. Mary trapped her hands under her armpits to keep them still. “I should have gone.”

  “I’m glad I ran into those guys and not you.” His voice held pride. “I got away from them when Carson showed up on his bike with flashing police lights.”

  Carson! He must have been headed to the municipal building to meet with his group. “Well, maybe he is good for something.”

  “He told me he’s the law here on the court. What he says goes. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I don’t think that’s how CERT works, but—”

  “I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “When he figured out my pack was full of food, he said he was confiscating it and ordered me to put it on his porch. Said he would distribute it to everyone on the court.”

  “How did he figure out what was in your pack?”

  “He stuck his hand in and grabbed a bunch of energy bars.”

  “He stole from you?”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  Carson was going to be a problem, but he wasn’t Sean’s problem. “I’ll handle Carson.”

  “Carson knew this was an EMP.” Sean’s voice dropped. “He didn’t think Dan would make it home.”

  His eyes met hers and seemed to beg her to tell him everything would be all right. She could do that, because she believed it. “Dan will get home. He’ll make his car run or find one that does or buy a horse or ride a bicycle or run the whole way.” She put her hand on Sean’s shoulder. “And when he gets here, I want him to find us prepared—as prepared as we can be— because he’s going to have to turn right around and go get Erin.”

  Sean gulped. “Okay.”

  “Now tell me about Carson again and this thing he said puts him in charge.” Sean didn’t know much more about it but he had saved a handout on CERT from when he did the Citizens Academy. He also had a government report on the EMP threat from his college class.

  Time to get educated.

  20

  Dan’s experience with the bearded man grabbing his handlebar left him shaken. He needed to avoid people as much as possible the rest of the way home. He turned off the motorcycle’s headlight so people couldn’t see him coming and slowed down. Within a few miles his eyes adjusted to the moonlight and he sped back up to forty.

  As he approached the Quad Cities, he passed more vehicles along the highway, until it became a slalom course as he skirted the north edge of the cities. The cars were all empty, but he spotted a few truckers sitting in their cabs, probably reluctant to abandon their loads. One hopped out onto his running board, waving an arm, but Dan swerved away and rode the shoulder until he passed the truck.

  As the road descended into the Mississippi River Valley, a thin streak of gray smeared the eastern horizon. A green sign announced the river and a minute later he was on the bridge, the engine’s rumble echoing off the low concrete walls girding the road, the smell of water so rich with decay he could taste the air swirling through the vents in his helmet. As he motored up the hill into Illinois, the gray light turned orange as dawn spread across the sky.

  Dan slowed for the big looping ramp onto I-88, the road that would take him within a mile of home. He shifted down to third gear and slid forward on the seat as he leaned into the curve, the pavement wind-blown and clear of snow. A semi sat on the right shoulder and he moved left to sweep around it at an easy twenty, then flicked the handlebar to swerve around a car jutting out behind the semi.

  A moving blur between the vehicles.

  A deer or a person or maybe a coyote.

  He grabbed the clutch and stabbed at the rear brake, remembering it was suicide to hit the front brake on a curve. But he hit the back brake too hard and the tire locked up and went out from under him as the blurred motion resolved into a man swinging a bat. Shit! Dan ducked and the bat glanced off his helmet, bouncing the face shield off the handlebar. He dropped his right foot from the peg to the road but it was too late. His right hip scraped along the pavement and the bike landed on his leg, the exhaust scalding his calf. He released the handlebars and pushed away from the bike, and the back of his helmet banged off the pavement.

  Then... nothing

  …

  Dan felt the burn along his hip, then his head rolled back and forth, grit crunching against the hard shell of the helmet. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but a black blur. He blinked, head foggy, but clearing fast. I must have been unconscious. His head rolled again and the black blur focused into the knobbed bottom of a boot against his face shield. He pushed it away, his arms heavy and slow to respond. He sat up, woozy.

  “Hold still, hot shot.”

  Two men stood over him. The one on the left wore rough brown overalls under an unbuttoned denim and shearling jacket. His big hands kneaded the grip of a black bat propped on his shoulder. He looked like a man about to step up to the plate and swing for the fence. A second blow to the head might end Dan’s day, but with his butt on the ground all he could do about it was duck. He needed to get to his feet. The other man was short and slight and wore a parka with the hood up but loose around his thin face. His eyes darted and his hands flitted. Speeding on something.

  A damp sweat broke out under Dan’s arm pits and across his forehead.

  Baseball pointed the bat over Dan’s shoulder. “How’d you get that little rice burner to run?”

  Dan twisted, pain searing along his hip, and saw the bike. It lay on its side but appeared okay, the engine ticking away heat. “I don’t know.” Dan turned back to face the men. “It was running when I traded my car for it back in Iowa.”

  “Shitty-ass car if’n all you got for it was that piece of junk,” Parka said.

  “At least he’s motoring,” Baseball said. “While here we sit with our bonus schedule blown to shit.”

  Dan got his knees under him, then pushed to his feet. He swayed, but recovered quickly. Baseball brought the bat off his shoulder and pointed it at Dan. “No ideas, biker-boy.”

  “What do you want?” Dan pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in his left pocket and then tilted the face shield back. He pulled in a lungful of the cold air. As it rushed through him the rest of the cobwebs dissolved and his limbs loosened. He bent to look at his right hip. Torn denim and flannel and some scraped flesh. Just a surface wound.

  “We want the God-damn bike, asshole.” Parka bounced from one foot to the other, then danced over to the bike and hauled it upright with a grunt.

  Baseball pointed the bat at Dan again, the end hovering a few inches from his face. “Yo
u just walk right back up the road the way you come.”

  Dan stuck his right hand into his pocket and worked the revolver’s grip into his palm. He pulled the gun out and held it against his thigh, heart rate accelerating. He could not let these men take the motorcycle. No matter what.

  Baseball was watching Parka who had straddled the bike and had his right foot on the kick starter. “Kick it,” Baseball yelled and took another step toward the bike.

  Sweat beaded along Dan’s upper lip and he tasted salt. He had a gun and they had a bat. As long as he stayed out of bat-swinging distance he should have the upper hand. He took a step away from Baseball and lifted the gun.

  Parka kicked and the bike started up, the engine sounding eager.

  “All right, all right.” Baseball pointed the bat at Parka. “But you’re riding bitch, little man. Not me.”

  “One blinker is banged up, otherwise it’s good.” Parka climbed off and propped the bike on its kickstand and turned to face them, his big grin drooping when he saw Dan. “Shit!”

  “Get away from the bike. Over there.” Dan gestured with the gun toward Baseball. “And you! Drop that bat.” His voice sounded loud in his own ears. Hysterical almost. He re-gripped the gun and licked his lips. Don’t make me shoot you!

  Parka scampered over and stood behind Baseball, ducking his head around the bigger man to look at Dan.

  “You ever held a gun before, biker-boy? Your hand’s shaking so damn bad you couldn’t hit my semi.” Baseball stepped forward, his hands working the bat’s grip.

  Dan backed up, edging toward the motorcycle. His hand was wavering and now that he saw it, he could feel the jiggle in his forearm. He switched hands and wiped his shooting hand on his coat and flexed it a few times, then switched back and raised the gun again. Baseball stopped, but the men were too close. It would take a few seconds to get the kickstand up and put the bike in gear and it wasn’t quick off the line. They would be on him before he got up to speed. “Drop the bat and back up.”

  Baseball kept coming.

  “I said drop the bat and step back. You really want to get shot?”

  “You ain’t going to shoot me, biker-boy. You don’t have it in you.”

  Dan stepped closer to the bike, but now both men moved forward. His chances were getting worse, not better.

  Dan stopped retreating and looked down the barrel, lining up the tiny iron sights on Baseball’s face. If he didn’t shoot, he would have to walk home. Mary and the kids would be on their own for days as the world unraveled. It was that simple.

  His focus shifted between the sights and the face… the face clear with the black blur of metal sights beneath it, then the sights in sharp definition with the flesh-colored blob beyond. But the sights were now steady, his hand still.

  “I need to get home to my family. I can’t let you have the bike.”

  “You ain’t letting us have it. We’re taking it from ya.” Baseball’s hands worked the grip of the bat again.

  “Yeah! We’re taking it,” Parka said from behind his friend.

  Dan stepped toward the men. The bat rose from Baseball’s shoulder. Dan shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger.

  Crack!

  Recoil kicked against his hand.

  “Fuck, man!”

  Parka scrambled back and crouched against the semi’s front tire. Baseball put his hands up, empty. The bat lay behind him with a chunk blown out of its sweet spot, the fresh white of the splintered wood clear against the black painted bat. The shot echoed around them and died away, but the smell of gunpowder lingered.

  “Walk away.” Dan pointed up the road with his free hand. “Go.”

  Baseball scowled, then grabbed Parka’s arm and they headed off, walking, then breaking into a jog. When they were gone, Dan put the gun away, then climbed into the truck’s cab and searched it for supplies. He found half a turkey sandwich, a full bottle of water, and a partial roll of duct tape. He wedged the stuff inside his coat, then lowered the face shield, hopped on the bike, and took off, sweeping the rest of the way down around the ramp and east toward home.

  The wind flapped the torn edges of his pants and chilled the heat of his road-burned leg, but he didn’t want to take the time to work on that with Baseball and Parka so close.

  He was glad he missed what he’d aimed at or Baseball would be dead right now.

  21

  Sean went to his room and found his EMP and CERT materials. He sat on the floor by the window to read through the CERT stuff in the pre-dawn light before taking it down to his mom.

  CERT stood for Community Emergency Response Team. It was part of WEMA, the Weston Emergency Management Agency. CERT team members were volunteers who completed seventeen hours of training that was not described in the materials. CERT members could be activated for larger-scale emergencies and could even self-activate when their own neighborhood was affected by an emergency. When activated, each CERT member was responsible for his neighborhood’s response to the emergency. If a catastrophe shut down communications, CERT members were supposed to rally at the Weston Municipal Center on South Eagle Street for instructions. That must have been where Carson was going on his bike.

  Sean took the materials downstairs but found his mom asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace with the afghan pulled up and bunched in her hands under chin, tears dried on her cheeks. She was worried about Erin he was sure, but Dan would go get her as soon as he got home.

  The fire had died down to glowing coals that were losing the battle against the creeping cold. He knelt in front of the fireplace and opened the screen. He grabbed a piece of firewood from the brick alcove and set it on the coals. He closed the screen, the rusty metal screeching in its track. He flinched at the sound and checked his mom. She rolled toward him, a low murmur through parted lips, but then rolled back and settled.

  The coals ignited the bark on the split log, the new flame bursting bright and hot against his face. Sean blinked against the dryness in his eyes, then stepped away from the fire and looked out the patio door. Once the pinpoint afterimages of the fire faded away, he saw the winter-bared trees at the bottom of the yard and beyond them a thread of ice along the riverbank and the slow flowing waters of the Paget River. On the opposite shore the dense woods of Radar Grove Forest Preserve rose up, the morning sun streaming over the treetops.

  Dan would find a way home. Mom was absolutely right about that. When Erin woke up in her hotel room—as late as she possibly could was her normal rising time—she would find the power out and her phone dead. She would wonder what had happened but wouldn’t panic. She was pretty level headed for a kid. He hoped she would stay put and wait for Dan to get there.

  He spotted his backpack where he’d leaned it against the wall and decided to take care of the food in it. He snatched up the flashlight his mom had left on the kitchen table and took the backpack down to the basement, the soft glow of the new day coming in the window well lighting his way down the stairs and across the cluttered game room. He flicked the flashlight on when he got to the windowless back room and propped it on the workbench near the pantry shelving, its light pooling on the ceiling. He set the backpack next to it and was about to unpack it when he saw a note pad covered in his mom’s handwriting. It was an inventory of all their food: canned veggies and fruit, soup and dry pasta, and bags of rice, black beans, and potatoes. He wondered if it was enough to get them through the winter. If it wasn’t, what would they do?

  He left the backpack where it was. He’d let his mom decide where to put the food and when to eat it.

  He tore off a blank sheet of the paper and wrote his mom a note explaining that he ran out for more supplies. He left the note on the coffee table then put on his coat and snuck out the back door. The stuff he’d been carrying in those plastic bags wasn’t food, but it would all help.

  He found the plastic bags he’d hurled at Lanky still on the sidewalk, both weighted down by the items that had stayed in them. He refilled the bags with the
goods scattered around them and stood up, his hands protected from the plastic bag handles by his heavy winter gloves.

  He headed home, thinking about Carson. He shouldn’t have let that asshole manhandle him like that. Dan wouldn’t have let that happen. And neither would his mom. Sean had read enough about her illness to know it was at least partly responsible for why she didn’t talk much and didn’t seem to enjoy much of anything. But those things also made her stronger. She told it like it was, without any bullshit, and she didn’t back down from anyone. Ever. She hadn’t turned her cheek in Sean’s memory. Starting right now he needed to be more like that. More like her.

  At least until Dan got home.

  What if Dan didn’t get home? Then it would be up to him to get the family through this winter. A sour slug of bile lurched into Sean’s mouth. He spit it out onto the trail.

  Dan needed to make it home.

  And soon.

  22

  Erin woke slowly, stretching and groaning. The unfamiliar surroundings confused her for a moment before she remembered where she was, and why. She kicked off the covers and the cool air brought her fully awake. She stretched some more, working each muscle and cataloging which were sore from yesterday’s matches. Not many, and none bad enough to stop her from competing today. By the end of the day she just might be tournament champion.

  “You will be champion.” No need to be humble when talking to herself. “You got this, Champ.”

  It would be really cool if Cammie won her division, too. A sudden tingle along her chest and arms as she remembered the kiss. Last night she tried to convince herself the kiss wasn’t a big deal. Just an experiment. But it was a big deal. Trying to convince herself otherwise violated one of Dan’s biggest rules: Don’t lie to yourself.