25 Bombs Fell: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Series, 25BF Season 1

by A. K. Meek

  The sweet smell of hot food replaced the normal stench of sweat and stagnant air, and his stomach growled. People sat on folding chairs at the long collapsible tables, eating from drab green and brown plastic packages.

  Various-sized packets, plastic spoons and forks, small bottles of Tabasco, and other shrink-wrapped items littered the table.

  People dug into pouches with spoons and spread peanut butter on crackers. A couple upturned their food packages to their gaping mouths, tapping out every last morsel of food.

  Nate picked up and examined an empty pouch. It looked like something the Army would force soldiers to eat. Across the top of the package it read: Beef Stew. He picked up an unopened package and read it. Meal, Ready-to-Eat.

  Definitely an Army thing.

  He went to the doorway that led to the kitchen.

  Stainless steel stoves were mounted against one wall. They appeared to have never been used. Several pallets were stacked on the opposite wall. One had been broken apart, and boxes were scattered around the room. Several of those had been ripped open and pouches, like the ones on the table, had been strewn across the floor.

  He slid one with the tip of his dress shoe. Ham and eggs. He was hungry, but not that hungry, yet. Nate left the kitchen.

  Next to the kitchen, another doorway led to a supply room filled with olive-drab military bags and helmets on metal-frame shelves. Nate slid one of the bags off the shelf and it slumped to the floor. He unzipped it and dumped the contents onto the concrete floor.

  Packages of shrink-wrapped clothing, belts, canteens, and military-looking straps were inside. He scanned one of the labels. Army Chemical Protective Gear. The bag appeared to be the type of gear the military would use in a nuclear war, but it was old, old as any other thing that he had seen in the shelter. Another time, another era.

  Charles came into the room, and after looking around, picked up a dingy brown pouch and pulled a mask from it and eyed it with deep interest.

  “Gas mask?” Nate said.

  Charles bent the flexible mask and then cupped it to his head. He pulled it away and continued to examine it. “From the fifties. These are chemical suits, made to protect in contaminated environments, including nuclear. I remember when they built this shelter. I was young. When it was built, this shelter was on the cutting edge of nuclear preparedness. It was meant to be a central command for Georgia. You’d think it would be Atlanta, but I think they figured the enemy would suspect that. They chose something near the center of the state. This was during a day when control was centralized. Centralized control and execution. Cold War thinking.” He threw the mask back into the bag. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some food.”

  The two sat at a table and ate. Charles did more eating, Nate did more watching. If it wasn’t for the concrete walls and thick dust covering everything, Nate believed Charles would’ve thought they were at a Sunday afternoon picnic.

  Once Nate figured out how to unwrap the meals in boxes, he ate a few bites of beef stew from one.

  A young, thin, black girl stood next to him, watching his every move. He took another bite of something labeled a biscuit.

  She bobbed and swayed, as if standing still was quite a chore for her to accomplish. She held one long braid of hair in the corner of her mouth, absently chewing on it.

  He stopped chewing and turned to her. “Can I help you?”

  “They’re waiting for you,” she said in a small voice.

  “Who’s waiting for me?”

  Shyly, she pointed to the office. “Them.”

  Nate looked to Charles, and he only shrugged. This was the perfect excuse to step away from the stew in the box. Nate crammed the remnants of his meal back into the pouch and headed for the office with Charles in tow.

  “What’s your name?” the girl said, but Nate conveniently didn’t hear her and kept walking.

  The nice Sunday afternoon lunch feeling ended when he entered the office.

  A low hiss weaved from the radio throughout the room.

  Tension wore on everyone as several voices fought to be heard, one rising over another. Quite a different atmosphere than the near-festive mood in the main hall.

  Six or seven men stood in the room, and Bruce still sat in the chair behind the desk.

  With bleary eyes and through intermittent yawns, they argued about the armory and the yet-to-be-seen guns behind the door, who would get what, and who deserved what.

  Nate dug his hand in the pocket of his dress pants and grasped the key to make sure it was still there.

  In the tight office, sweat and humanity, tinged with an underlying damp, musky odor, replaced the smell of afternoon lunch.

  Nate coughed into his shirt sleeve, then breathed deeply. Even if breathing through his shirt was a placebo, it helped the illusion that he took in a clean lungful of air.

  “And we get a leader?” Colton said, one tattooed arm gesturing with passion in the air. “What does a leader do, lead? What does that mean?”

  “A leader unifies a group,” Efrem responded, slapping his hand against the metal door. “They’ll be able to work together and accomplish the little things, such as opening an armory door.”

  Will cleaned under his fingernail with his Leatherman multi-tool. Nate had hoped to see him speak up, but he was quiet, indifferent, or so it would seem.

  Charles nodded at Efrem’s statement. “I think a leader is a good idea.”

  Bruce jolted up from the chair. It tipped and clattered against the floor. “Sounds like you want the job.”

  Charles shook his head and held up his arms. “Hold on. I’m not saying that, son, I simply meant—”

  “I ain’t your kin, old man. And I ain’t gonna have your kind leading me anywhere.”

  Will stopped cleaning his nails and put his tool away. He watched the scene with a sudden intensity.

  Charles stepped close to Bruce and pointed at himself. “My kind? What do you mean by that?”

  Bruce smiled a wicked smile. “Your postman kind. I’m not gonna follow someone that sells stamps.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What else could I mean?”

  “We should have the group vote,” Efrem said. “Everyone needs to be part of a democratic vote.”

  “I agree.” Charles said, stepping away from Bruce, giving him a look of death.

  Despite his age, Efrem had a disposition about him, something that could make anyone pause and say, “This man is saying something I need to hear.” He was used to speaking and used to being listened to.

  He stood, once again, on the table in the main hall. The rest of the shelter circled around him, anxiousness sifting through the crowd as they waited for him to speak.

  One girl, the small black girl that chewed on her hair, danced to a silent song at the other end of the hall. Obviously she was immune to Efrem’s charisma.

  “If we’re going to survive in here,” he began, “if we’re going to face anything out there, we need to work together. If we can work together we can achieve our goals. But in order to work together, we need someone to help define those goals. In this we need leadership.”

  A man in the crowd whistled and raised his arm. “What about you, Efrem? You’ve convinced me. I say we choose Efrem.”

  Several in the crowd nodded, even more clapped. Efrem shook his head. “No, no. I’m not him. Ask Jordana.” He pointed to his wife. “She’ll tell you I’m not a leader.”

  The man in the audience laughed and clapped.

  “Do you think this is a riot?” Bruce said. He handed the young girl he held to a woman that was obviously his wife by the way she hung off his shoulder. The little girl, the youngest person in the shelter, clung to the teddy bear that Efrem’s wife had given her.

  Bruce slammed his hands onto the table and it shook, causing Efrem to extend his arms like he was riding a surfboard.

  “Amber and Paige are here with me.” Bruce pointed behind him to the woman he’d handed the girl to. “I have to think about them.”

  �
�At least your family is with you—what about the rest of us?” a woman said. Several in the crowd yelled in agreement. Efrem shifted uncomfortably on the table. Bruce shot an angry look at the direction of the voice.

  “They need protection,” he said, “and not from some old man. I kept the door closed when everyone else said to open it. If I had opened it we would’ve been killed. Me, my wife, my daughter, all of us. If anyone deserves to lead, it’s me.”

  “You can certainly nominate yourself,” Efrem said, his voice taking an appeasing tone. “Is there anyone else?”

  “We don’t need a leader,” Colton said. “We take care of ourselves. Bruce, you got your wife and girl to worry about and that’s fine. But I ain’t married to her and I ain’t married to no one in here. I’m gonna take care of myself.”

  A stocky man behind Colton crossed his arms and nodded to punctuate each of his points, as if Colton spoke for him. Two others in the crowd clapped.

  A lady on the other side of the room yelled something about being defenseless.

  Murmuring spread through the group, some voices rising. A restlessness ran through the crowd as people shuffled in place.

  “Will!”

  The crowd turned to Nate. “I nominate Will,” he said. “He got the engine and the generator running. He opened the door to the office when it was locked. Others had given up on opening it. He has already done more for the Ark than anyone else, in my opinion.”

  “The Ark?” Efrem said.

  Nate pointed to the graffiti on the wall. “Yeah, the Ark.”

  “I never noticed that before,” Efrem said, rubbing his head.

  Nate’s eyes found Will to the side of the crowd. He gave Nate a half-smile, or maybe it was a smirk. It was difficult to tell from across the room.

  Red Hair erupted from the office. “A message. Another message is on the radio. Something bad has happened.”

  The crowd rushed to the office door and several fought to get through the doorway. Charles and Will found themselves between the door and the crush. They pushed back against the crowd.

  “Let’s calm down,” Charles said. “Stop pushing.”

  Nate wound through the crowd to help them, but more to hear what played over the radio. The crowd slowly hushed and the radio was moved closer to the doorway, so everyone could hear.

  The steady, dreadful tone of the Civil Defense ended. A voice spoke slowly and steadily. A mechanical voice, either through broadcast or through a day spent in emotional turmoil.

  “President Walter Jeffries has been assassinated. Several key members of Congress have also been assassinated. Under Article II of the United States Constitution, I, Anthony Patten, Vice President of the United States, assume the Presidency of the United States.

  “Our country, founded on principles so long ago, based on freedom from oppression, has once again been overrun by those who wish to oppress us. I will not allow the deaths of millions to go unavenged. Our country will fight and resist like our forefathers. If we cannot expel the foreign invaders, we will ravage the land so they cannot possess it.”

  Static overpowered the broadcast and Red Hair wiggled the antenna. In a few seconds the hissing and crackling faded, and the voice of the new President continued.

  “I ask that every man, woman, and child that is capable of defending themselves—”

  The tone cut in, ending the message abruptly, incomplete. Everyone waited to see if President Patten would come back on to say anything else. The wait, listening to the unthinking tone, became painful with each passing minute.

  Eventually a sob broke the quiet, breaking the hush that had fallen on the group. Someone sniffed, trying to stifle crying. A man standing near the door turned and whispered to his neighbor, to those too far away to have heard the President’s message.

  Efrem, old, tired, lifted his glasses and wiped his eyes. He perched them on his hawkish nose, then scanned the room. “If no one has any other nominations, let’s vote.” He continued looking at the people, those who had just heard President Patten say that America was no more. Several more burst into tears, but no one spoke. Efrem nodded and continued. “All those for Bruce, raise your hands.”

  Bruce, his wife standing next to him, and two others in the crowd raised their hands. Efrem waited a minute, scanning the crowd.

  No one else lifted their hands.

  “All those who vote for Will, raise your hands.”

  More than half the people in the shelter raised their hands, including Efrem. He quickly lowered his arm. “It looks like an overwhelming majority,” he said, looking at his watch. He took a deep breath.

  “On April 13 at 11:25 a.m. the people of the Ark democratically elected William Parson as our leader, our President.”

  01.04

  COMPOSITION IN #2

  The democratic election had ended.

  There was no fanfare or celebration. After a few handshakes, people went back to what they did before the meeting. Life in the shelter had resumed to what it was before—waiting. But no one knew what they were waiting for.

  Will walked into his office followed by five others, four men and a woman. Nate was one. After seeing the armory door, he remembered and dug for the key in his pocket and pulled the lint off and held it out to Will. “Here, I think this is yours.”

  “Oh yeah.” He took it and flipped it over in his hand. “Thanks. I guess it’s time to see what’s behind the door,” he said, looking at the rest like he was waiting for their agreement.

  He fit the key in the doorknob and turned. The door swung open and Will felt along inside the wall for a light switch. An overhead light blinked and flickered, then lit.

  The room connected to the office was about fifteen feet square. Two cages against the far wall held rifles on a rack. Ten rifles. To one side of the rifle cage, metal olive-drab boxes with yellow stenciling were stacked about four foot high. A table on the opposite side held various military-looking plastic cases and straps. The room appeared untouched for ages.

  “There are guns in here,” Nate said.

  “Guns?” Charles said. “You’ve been living in Atlanta too long. You need to get out to the Georgia countryside more. Those are M-16s. Military-issue rifles.”

  Colton and Bruce zipped past Will into the room. Colton clapped his hands. “Now that’s what I call weapons.” The black woman with sparkly fingernails and big mouth also went to the weapons, running her hands along the metal cage.

  “Hold on, guys,” Will said. “Before we start shooting up the place I think we need to set up some kind of order, like Efrem mentioned earlier.” He went back into the office and hopped up on the desk, and sat hunched over with his feet on the chair.

  “Are you going to use your chair?” Nate said, following him.

  “Huh, no,” Will said, absently. He slid the chair with his foot to Nate, who grabbed the arm and plopped onto it. “I’m thinking,” Will continued, “everyone’s on edge. I’m not saying it’s unwarranted, but I feel that at any moment one thing, one spark, can sink this ark. Like the riot that almost broke out when everyone found out about the armory. We need roles, we need security.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of me,” Nate said. “According to Charles, I don’t know a gun from a rifle.”

  Will smiled just a bit and shook his head. “We need roles and responsibilities. This way we can work toward a goal. What good is my position? I can walk around saying, ‘Hello, I’m the president of the Ark. Did you vote for me?’ We need to set up a government, or something. I need your help. After all, you got me into this mess.”

  Nate snickered until he realized that Will wasn’t. He cleared his throat. “You need to know what you’re dealing with. Maybe a catalog of everyone in here.”

  Now Will laughed. “A catalog? A census?”

  “Kind of, but of skills. A census of skills at your disposal. Most everyone had a job before all this happened. See what they know.”

  “You sound like a true analyst. And I hav
e the perfect person for the job.” He slapped Nate on the shoulder. It stung. “Congratulations, Nathaniel, you’re the first appointee under my administration. The official—uhm—scribe.”

  Nate didn’t mind volunteering others, but that was usually a clever way to steer clear of the spotlight. And from any problems. “Charles should do this,” Nate said, shaking his head. “He knows more people.”

  “You can’t refuse your king,” Will said, puffing his chest out in an exaggerated manner. “Plus, like I said, you got me into this; I think you should share in it.”

  Nate shrugged. In this shelter, he couldn’t run from the inevitable. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “I better get started.”

  Will had a natural charisma, much like Efrem. If Will had told him to climb a wall, Nate probably would’ve tried.

  “By the way,” Will said, “for now I need some people to help keep order. Colton, Bruce, come here,” he called to the two men in the armory. “You two are going to be security.”

  An hour had passed.

  At least ten people had already stopped by the office and demanded to know what Will planned to do now that he was the president. He tried his best to give them an answer without answering anything. He sounded like some of the best politicians on television: speak without any commitment. Maybe there was more to his charisma than Nate first thought.

  Colton and Bruce, with the unwanted assistance of Feleysa, the loud-mouth black lady with sparkly fingernails, were in the armory, cataloging weapons and ammunition.

  Will had thought it would be a good gesture to include her, just to keep her from causing more problems, even though she clearly didn’t know which way to point a gun. Colton had said they needed to keep track of ammunition because it would quickly disappear if they got in any gun battles.

  Bruce went along with his ideas, offering nothing constructive on his own.

  Nate couldn’t understand, though, why Will chose Bruce for security. Did the two have some history? If Nate was running the show, he wouldn’t have chosen him. He was sure there were better qualified. Charles, perhaps. But Bruce, there was something about him…