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

by A. K. Meek

  In fact, there was no other sound in the town except their own movements and mumbling. Nate hadn’t noticed it until now. There were no birds, no humming of machinery, no one screaming for help. The whole town had become silent. Disturbingly silent.

  Bruce appeared to be pondering the silence also. “Is everyone dead? Bombed, shot?” he said.

  “No,” Colton said, “there should be more bodies. Look,” he bent down and picked up a bullet shell, “there’s a ton of casings all over the ground.” He pointed with his rifle barrel. “Must’ve been a lot of gun battles, way too many casings for no bodies. What’s this?” He pushed debris aside and picked up a huge shiny shell and held it up to the dingy sky, examining the object. “What’s this?” he repeated, this time a question directed at the others.

  “A large bullet?” Nate said.

  Colton shook his head. Bruce grabbed it from his hand. “Here, I’ll tell you,” he said, squinting as he studied the shell, spinning it. “It’s a machine gun’s, probably from a tank or something.”

  Now Will took the shell. “No, there’s no markings, only strange symbols.”

  Colton nodded.

  “No manufacturer’s markings,” Will continued. “Every casing has manufacturer markings. It’s foreign.”

  “Or alien,” Bruce said.

  “Something scared off everyone, or captured them,” Will said. “We need to keep our eyes open. The world that we’ve entered isn’t the world that we left.”

  02.02

  HAVEN NO MORE

  Over the next two hours, a couple of the twenty-five that had physical difficulties in the shelter finally emerged, and being on the surface in the smoke-heavy air brought them new difficulties: breathing. Meredith and Yvonne tried to help by searching for dropped inhalers.

  Bruce kicked a pile of burned magazines, and a tiny, sooty cloud dissolved into the air. He slung his rifle across his shoulders. “Why’s it taking them so long? I knew this was going to happen. The baggage can’t even walk upstairs or breath air without having problems.” He spit a mouthful of snuff to the ground. A string of slobber swung from his beard.

  Nate caught himself nodding at the statement, then rebuked himself for agreeing with anything Bruce said, even more for letting his pet word—baggage, for certain people with limited ability—slip out. He walked to where three of the teenagers had gathered.

  They had pulled cell phones from pockets and purses, checking for a signal. Nate took his from his pocket but then hesitated, not sure of who to call. Father? He lived in Atlanta. If a nuke really had hit there, then... He swallowed and put it back in his pocket. Better not to know, for now.

  “I’m getting nothing,” Brandon said, mashing his phone buttons like that would make them work.

  Jordana, the old lady that had given away her grandchild’s teddy bear, sobbed and hugged her husband, Efrem. She kept repeating how this reminded her of home after the German bombings.

  The quiet little town in Middle Georgia was leveled, destroyed. Who knew why it had happened? What political intrigue between nations made one turn against the other? What governmental wheels ground in the background that led to this?

  This tiny, insignificant town had been obliterated. Whatever international game had been played, America blinked. America had blinked and lost, and Haven paid the price. Unless the whole nation had been razed as violently as this place.

  “Ooh, yuck,” Tala said. She had taken a defensive position near the remainder of a brick wall, leaning against it with her rifle pointed outward, toward nothing. She smacked her tongue against her teeth, like she was pushing something awful from her mouth.

  “What?” Nate said, wanting to focus on anything but the thought that America lay in waste.

  “Don’t you taste it?” She searched the air with her eyes. “Metallic, like I have a mouthful of pennies. Disgusting.”

  Nate stuck out his tongue. He pictured kids doing the same, waiting for snowflakes to land. But then he also tasted the metallic tang, more of an aftertaste. “Probably some chemical from the fires,” he said and shrugged.

  Tala wiped her mouth on her blouse sleeve. “It’s gross.”

  “—because you’ll get shot, that’s why.” Will’s excited voice carried over all the murmuring and rustling.

  Yards away, he had put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder, but the guy shrugged it off. “You did fine when we elected you in the shelter,” he said, clearly agitated, “but this is different now. Can’t you see, this is the end of it all, the end of the world!” He took a moment to catch his breath, like he was about to start crying. “You’re not our president. The President’s dead. The nation is dead. I want to find my family.”

  “Let ‘em go. Let ‘em all go,” Bruce said, throwing his hands up. “We’re not anyone’s babysitters.”

  Many turned to Will, waiting for his response. This was more than a simple argument of personality or desire. Now, at this pivotal moment, he appeared at a loss for words.

  “Well, I say we stay together,” Yvonne, the large black woman who always looked tired, said. “I have my family here. I know we have nothing left.”

  Jacob started off down the street.

  “Wait,” Will said, brushing his sweaty, dust-covered hair away from his eyes. He followed after Jacob and put himself in his path. “Here’s what I propose. We check everyone’s houses, those who want to check. If we find nothing, we meet back here, together. I would also like to see if Sharon is home. Maybe that’s where everyone is, in their homes. If we find family, friends, or others, we bring them back. If not, then we stick together. The only way we’re going to survive is if we stick together.”

  Jacob had stopped, staring at the ground. He gave Will a quick glance, then looked back to the ground. He bit his lip for a moment. “I imagine I can do that,” he said in a much calmer voice.

  Several that had surrounded the two nodded, like they accepted the compromise.

  “Should just let ‘em go,” Bruce said. He walked away, kicking an abandoned briefcase that was covered with dust.

  Will walked away from the group, scanning the rubble as if he searched for something he had lost. He rounded a corner of crumbled brick wall. Nate followed him around the corner.

  He had knelt down and leaned against the remnants of a wall, poking his fingers in an ashen pile.

  “You okay?” Nate said.

  “What am I doing?” Will said, wiping his dusty fingertips on his chempants. “This is beyond me. I got voted into office by a scared group of people because of my lock-picking skills.”

  “You’ve done more than that.”

  “Sure, I know. I’m just... I don’t know. It’s kind of overwhelming is all. I’m fine.” He stood up and walked away, kicking through the dust.

  Over the next three days, small groups left the safety of the twenty-five that hunkered down in a corner office building of a wrecked strip mall. They went to their homes, looking for loved ones.

  None were found.

  Most of the houses that hadn’t burned to the ground had already been ransacked. A few bodies were found. Some appeared to have been killed by blunt trauma, like from falling material or bombs. But more disturbingly, others had been shot. But no survivors, loved ones or otherwise, were found.

  That all changed when Tala and a couple of others went to the east side of Haven to see if her parents were home.

  The three encountered a group of about six or seven, rummaging through a neighborhood. When they tried to hail the group, they were immediately fired upon, and had to run and hide for an hour in an abandoned house until the scroungers moved on. They had returned startled and scared.

  That fourth night, no one explored Haven. The twenty-five remained closed off from the world inside the building. Soldiers maintained watch, keeping their eyes open for the scroungers or anyone else. Colton and Martin had found a way to the roof and acted as snipers, keeping watch in shifts throughout the night.

  That was how the twen
ty-five would function from then on, a core group circled by the soldiers. After all, protecting the weak with the strong made the most sense. Nate fit somewhere in between; he just hadn’t figured out where yet.

  Many didn’t sleep that night. Those that did tossed and turned on rocks and hard floor. Some even wished they were back in the shelter. Their rationale was that at least they were safe underground.

  Nate couldn’t fathom crawling back into that shelter, so he tried to make the best of sleeping on rubble.

  Early the next morning Will had risen with renewed focus.

  “After Henry’s report yesterday,” Will said to the sleepy group, “I think we need to consider if going to any more houses in Haven is worth it. It’s getting risky and we need to start thinking better. There’s no police, no military, nothing. I don’t know what’s happened out here, but there’s a reason no one is around.”

  “So what’re you saying?” Amber, Bruce’s wife, said. She leaned to her side as she struggled to hold onto her flailing daughter, Paige. The child had been whining since the early morning, making Nate’s horrible night of rest even worse.

  “I’m saying we need to leave the city.”

  “And go where?” Martin chimed in.

  “As I was saying,” Will continued, “we need to leave the city. Get away from the buildings, to the surrounding woods, a farm, maybe.”

  Murmurs and sighs rolled through the group.

  “What about Bartel?” Henry said.

  “Bartel, what’s Bartel?” Nate said.

  Henry the Hick stepped forward. Nate had labeled him that because of the thick, dripping drawl that almost warped his words into another language.

  “To the southwest of here,” Henry said. “No more than a few miles. It’s the closest town to Haven. I was born there. My family, my uncle, lives there. He has a huge farm. We can all go there.”

  The Lewis family, Yvonne and her two children, clapped and voiced agreement.

  “Maybe they have food and water,” Meredith said. “I’m done with these Army meals.”

  Will cast a sideways glance and gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “It’s worth a shot. This town is bombed out. But we should vote on this.” He scanned the group. “Do we all agree to leave now as a group and head to Bartel? If so, raise your hands.”

  Almost everyone raised their hands. Some raised two. Only one or two continued to complain about still wanting to search for family. Will said they were free to look, but he wouldn’t give them a soldier escort. Those that had complained continued to complain, but never left.

  Through the rest of the day they prepared to depart Haven. Will reiterated the soldier and mule assignments and oversaw general preparations. Everyone gathered what they thought they needed while a few finished searching surrounding buildings for anything valuable to carry along.

  On the sixth day after the twenty-five came up from Fallout Shelter 1710, they made their way to Highway 127, which led to Bartel, Georgia. A shabby group of survivors in a country devastated by an unprecedented attack.

  02.03

  HIGHWAY 127

  Highway 127 led from the southwest of Haven to the northeast of Bartel, six miles total. The road was scattered with cars that now looked like toys, scattered about by an angry God.

  Henry led the twenty-five on the highway, chest stuck out in pride, talking up his family in Bartel. Like he was leading the group to the Promised Land. His family owned several acres on the edge of town. His uncle, a prepper, had built shelters for occasions such as this. He would be able to accommodate them with warehouses of food and necessities, if they could get there. The more he talked, the more excited everyone became to reach Bartel.

  Along 127, pecan orchards ran into the distance, centuries old, guarding the pathway to the town. Large oaks lined the roadway, hugging the shoulder. Gnarled branches stretched over the narrow two-lane highway, giving the impression one was traveling through a tunnel. Overgrown weeds and shrubs, untended for weeks, hid the edges of the road.

  Will walked to the right of the center lane. Bruce walked a little behind, M-16 across his shoulder. Nine men and one woman, the soldiers, circled the rest with their rifles in hand.

  Nate the mule had already had to stop twice and adjust the overstuffed backpack that yanked at his shoulders. Twice he had told the soldiers at the rear to keep moving, he would catch up. By the time he adjusted himself, he had to sprint to catch up. That sapped any last ounce of energy that he had.

  He figured they had probably only gone a mile or two since leaving Haven, and he didn’t know if he could carry the heavy weight four more miles. Luckily, he thought, he wasn’t the only mule to fall behind.

  His foot caught on a pothole and he stumbled, almost tipping over. He fought to keep his feet. Those long days of sitting behind a computer and having donuts for lunch were catching up to him.

  As he struggled to keep his footing, that was when he noticed a man in the weeds.

  “Hey,” Nate yelled, “there’s someone over here,” pointing at a scraggly pile of shrubs.

  Martin, Meredith, and a couple others ran to where he pointed. Nate slid off his pack and inched forward.

  There, twisted in the weeds, lay a white man in his thirties, or thereabouts, as near as he could tell. His shirt and jeans had been ripped, exposing many wounds, and blood covered his body and was caked on his face. An old, frayed noose clung to his neck.

  His chest heaved as his eyes focused on the group busting through the grass. His chapped lips gasped, reminding Nate of a fish out of water.

  “Bring a canteen,” Martin yelled, dropping to his knees next to the man. Meredith pulled the canteen from her military web belt and spun off the top. Martin slid one of his thick arms behind the man’s back and lifted him so he could take a drink.

  His eyes remained fixed on Martin as he drank, half swallowing, half coughing. He turned his head to the side, throwing up the water, now mixed with blood.

  “What’s your name? What happened?” Will said, kneeling on the other side of him.

  “Donovan,” he whispered. “Donovan Brown.”

  “What happened?”

  More of the twenty-five circled Donovan. Some intentionally turned their backs to him, their shoulders shaking.

  “Panthers. Panthers got me.” His eyes stared intently at Martin until coughing consumed him again, racking his body.

  “Panthers?” Nate said. “Does he mean panthers, like African panthers?”

  Will ignored him. “How many? Why would they do this?”

  Donovan started to speak, but no sound came from his mouth. He squirmed like he wanted to lift himself, but couldn’t. His body shuddered and he dropped to the ground, eyes focused on nothing. His mouth stopped moving.

  Martin slid his arm out from underneath Donovan and stood.

  “Are there panthers in Georgia?” Nate said, searching for anyone to answer.

  Also standing, Will shot Martin a quick glance then walked away, slapping the top of the roadside weeds with his hand. Nate looked at Martin.

  The large black man pulled up one of the sleeves of his chemjacket and held out his large black arm toward Nate. “He meant Panthers.” Martin’s voice had no life to it. “Like me.”

  They continued on, no one speaking of Donovan or what he said or why he said it. They acted like the whole episode didn’t exist. Nate wanted to ask what was going on, but decided to wait until they would stop for the night, or for a more convenient time.

  As the group came across cars, they would attempt to start each. Most of them had no keys, abandoned by their owners at some point, keys probably taken out of habit. The few with keys remaining in the ignition didn’t turn over, didn’t click. Dead, just like all the rest.

  Many other cars had crashed into each other, fender benders after the bombs, or before, trying to outrun the attack. The rush to flee the bombing probably created more havoc than the bombs themselves.

  And with the cars came more bod
ies.

  One family appeared to have been trapped in their car as it burned, another participant in a crash. Two more were just off the shoulder of the highway, their bloated bodies barely visible in the tall grass, much like Donovan. They didn’t appear to have died in any type of car wreck. Nate’s pulse raced and he didn’t linger long on the grisly sight.

  “EMP attack,” Bruce said, nodding at his own words as he inspected a blue BMW that appeared in immaculate condition, except it had no power. “The reason nothing works. I’ve seen this in many movies.” He turned back to those around him, speaking to no one in particular. “It was an EMP.” They continued moving forward.

  As the humid and sunless day wore on, the line of twenty-five stretched out, faster in the front, slower in the back. Will had to stop frequently so that the stragglers could catch up. Unfortunately, more people straggled than walked, and this jittery, halting pace became the norm as they continued on the highway.

  They all shuffled along under the cloudy sky. Ash covered the cars, houses, everything they passed, and the smell told them of fires that burned in the distance. The air still held the flavor of burnt.

  “Oh my, look, Efrem,” Jordana, his wife, said. She had her arm hooked through his and they both stopped their slow, shuffling walk.

  Nate also stopped to look, as it gave him another opportunity to take a break and adjust his backpack. He followed her hand pointing up. “What, what is it?”

  “The trees,” she said. “Look at the tops of the trees.”

  The top fourth of the oaks and pecans had turned black and gray, while the rest remained green, untouched. Leaves had crumbled and once-healthy limbs had shriveled, like a great plague from the heavens had reached down to brush only the tops.

  Others stopped and stared, talking in hushed conversations.