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

by A. K. Meek

  “What happened?” Feleysa said.

  Under the death that covered the land in spurts, some of the trees in the distance still appeared healthy and green. Jordana was right, though, to be concerned. Nate remembered the map in the Ark’s office and the black drift patterns.

  “Radiation, fallout?” he said.

  “You think?” Jordana said, shaking her old head.

  “Don’t know, maybe.” He shouldered his pack and started walking again, wishing he had grabbed a gas mask. He passed several people as they lingered on the roadway, discussing the trees.

  A little farther ahead, Yvonne, the large black lady, leaned against a car. Her entire blouse was covered in sweat and her husband and two kids stood next to her, fanning her with their arms. Her teenage son looked at Nate with pleading eyes.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice thick with accent, “Momma needs help. Do you have any candy, or sugar? She needs her medicine.”

  “Medicine, what medicine?” Nate said.

  “Insulin. She doesn’t have her insulin. Her blood sugars are swinging.”

  “Why not? Isn’t that something she should carry?”

  “It was in her purse in the car. She forgot it.”

  Meredith, the mom with the ring and the wicked left hook, stopped to check on her. Yvonne frantically waved her arm to fan herself. Even though her skin was a dark brown, her face flushed red.

  “She’s dizzy and can’t walk,” Yvonne’s daughter, Desiree, the thin dancing black girl, said. A tear ran down her face, cutting a glistening path through her filthy cheeks.

  “Sorry,” Nate said, “I don’t have insulin on me. I’m not diabetic.” He shifted the weight on his shoulders and walked on.

  Ahead, Will and the lead soldiers had stopped in the road, once again giving time for the rest of the group to catch up with them. Nate pushed through so that he stood close to the front.

  The asphalt highway had been bombed, upheaved, shattered into gigantic, jagged slabs and cast about. Cars had been hit, smashed. Others were tossed, toys thrown in a fit of rage. Orchards were not spared. Trees were broken in half and uprooted. Huge piles of fresh, overturned earth indicated where bombs had cratered the land.

  “The highway’s destroyed,” Henry, moving his rifle from one shoulder to the other, said.

  “Why bomb here?” Nate said. “Why bomb Haven? What’s so important about Haven anyway?”

  “Dunno,” Will said. “But we can continue following the road to Bartel. Easy enough to follow the road.”

  “Hello,” a male voiced called out from the distance.

  The group that had gathered near the front startled. Several dropped to defensive positions.

  From fifty yards away, someone popped up from behind an overturned minivan, waving. He raised both arms and cautiously stepped from behind the vehicle. He walked toward the group.

  “What in the,—someone’s actually alive,” Bruce said.

  They all stared.

  The young man drew about twenty yards away and stopped, arms still held high.

  “Hello, I’m Jamie—well, Jamison Hillard.” He smiled.

  Will was the first to move, stepping forward, raising his hand and waving. “Hi, I’m William Parsons. Will. We’re from Haven.”

  Jamie looked no more than twenty or so. His clothes had the appearance of surviving the apocalypse, barely. The filthy button-up shirt hung from his thin, dirty, Caucasian body. His toothy smile stretched ear to ear. “So where you headed?” he said.

  “Up the road, to Bartel.”

  “Bartel?” Jamie pointed behind him. “Me too. I’m headed there myself. Mind if I join?”

  “Sure. We’re moving pretty slow, though. It could take a while.”

  “Well, the way I see it,” Jamie said, “I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing but time.” His smile grew wider.

  The worst of bombed Highway 127 fell behind as the group continued past the craters, and the two-lane formed again, continuing into the distance, with only a few minor breaks. Cars dotted the shoulder and road, and were checked for anything useful as the twenty-five plus one passed, but they all appeared to already have been cleaned out.

  Will, the soldiers, and their newest member, Jamie, walking in front, pulled away from the main group, leading the way. Their pace could have easily doubled if it weren’t for the main group. The rest—the old, out of shape, slower people—trudged on behind.

  The overcast sky hid the sun but not the humidity. Nate fought with his backpack and started to lag again, his chemjacket holding in the sweat and heat, the merciless straps digging into his meatless shoulders. He struggled to stay near the front of the group.

  Jamie rattled on about where he was when the bombs fell, what he had seen since then, and how he had to raid pantries of abandoned houses for food. He talked and talked, not giving anyone else an opportunity to add anything beyond a “yes” or a head nod. He talked and rubbed his right pocket.

  After a long hour of trying to ignore Jamie, Nate wished that the young man had been rescued by some other group than theirs.

  02.04

  BARTEL

  The long day faded as the sun, still hidden, dropped below distant forests. Random complaints had built to a point that Will decided to stop for the day. The group moved off the road about one hundred yards to where an open field butted against a forest tree line, the land dipping for several yards across, as if a pond had once been there but dried up years ago. The few withered cedars draped over a portion of the dip, giving it a “homey” feel. At least that’s what Nate had thought. He was happy to be off the highway for now. For some unexplainable reason, he felt exposed on the road.

  Dinner was quiet and uneventful, almost everyone too tired or upset to talk about anything meaningful. Nate was both, so he just sat by himself.

  As the dark grew, the group curled up in clusters, families together, or newfound friends that decided to stick together. Others found a nest of roots or an isolated piece of ground. Nate had made a reasonably comfortable bed of chemjackets and pants, and had flipped onto his stomach and closed his tired eyes when he felt a boot nudge him on his butt. “You awake?” Will said in a loud whisper.

  “No, I’m asleep. It’s night.” Nate rolled over.

  “Hey, before you go to sleep I have something to tell you.” Will bent down and pulled the makeshift blanket off Nate’s head. “I want to head to Bartel in a few hours, while everyone’s resting. I want you to come along.”

  Nate sat up, his worn-out body suddenly shaky at the thought of leaving the safety of the group. “Tonight? Why? Why me?”

  “I want to make sure it’s safe for the group, plus I need someone smart to come along. We don’t know what has happened there. I think with you, me, and Henry, we can make it there and back in good time.”

  “Okay,” Nate agreed, maybe too quickly, but the thought of getting some sleep overrode his sensibilities and his shaky nerves. “But I need to get some sleep. I’m cross-eyed from tiredness.”

  “Be up in about three hours.” Will left.

  “Three hours,” Nate mumbled, fumbling to set his watch alarm. “Three hours.”

  Despite the thoughts that had flooded his mind a moment ago, he fell asleep in a minute.

  The alarm beeped well before three hours. Maybe an hour. At least it sure felt that way. Nate peeled himself from between his covers and looked up. The crescent moon lit the night, but wasn’t visible. Ashen clouds that glowed with ghostly moonlight were the only indication that it existed at all.

  Despite the devastation and the moonless night, at least he wasn’t underground. Being outside was intoxicating in a way he had never realized until now. That underlying claustrophobia that had haunted him for the past six weeks was over. He took in a deep breath of free air.

  Henry came up from behind. “Hey, Nate, is that you?”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “Will wanted me to find you. We’re leaving in a minute. Here.” H
enry handed Nate an M-16.

  “Thanks,” Nate said with no enthusiasm, holding the rifle like a broomstick, suddenly remembering why he had to wake up so early.

  The backlit clouds gave enough light to define trees and shrubs, but the details remained hidden. The three pushed through the forest, close to the town of Bartel. Henry had said the shortcut they now took through the woods would shave off a couple hours, much quicker than if they continued on the highway.

  “What kind of stuff is this?” Nate yanked on his rifle to free the barrel that had once again become twisted in heavy cables of vine.

  They curled and twisted from the ground in jumbles of shrubs. The thorny vines entwined trees, running up the trunks only to drape from limbs. Vines wrapped with each other, a twist of metal-like bands competing for space.

  “That’s smilax,” Henry said, shoving branches out of his way and stumbling forward. “Dad called it Devil’s Rope. The toughest stuff I’ve ever seen. It’s all over the southeast. You really don’t get out of the city much, do you?”

  “Never had a need to.” Nate finally pulled the rifle barrel free. The limbs that the vine wrapped around shook in protest and vines clung to his chemjacket sleeve.

  Will cursed as one that he had moved snapped back against him. “These thorns. This stuff is demonic, alright. It’s snagging my sleeves, too.” He paused and peered through the trees, searching. “I’ve driven this road a hundred times on jobs, but can’t tell where the town is on foot. I’m lost.”

  A fizz and then a pop stopped them in place.

  Henry looked up. “What the—”

  A bright red flare shot high into the air above the tall pines. It slowly drifted downward, illuminating the night with an eerie, flickering red across the treetops.

  “Drop,” Will said, falling to the ground and pulling his 9mm from his hip. Henry went to one knee, lifting his M-16 like a pro. Nate dropped to his stomach and remembered enough of Colton’s weapon class to charge his M-16. He hit the side of the rifle and the charging handle snapped forward. Nate swung his rifle, left to right to left.

  The darkness fought with the descending light. Shadows of red danced before him and he squeezed his eyes tight, then opened them again in the hopes of clearing the confusing distraction. Every shadow looked like a monster.

  Several yards away, a click resonated from the trees, not unlike the metallic snapping of an M-16 as it loads a shell.

  Another click. Then another.

  A bead of sweat ran down the back of Nate’s neck. It rolled down and tickled him, yet he didn’t dare move one trembling hand off his rifle. His body ached to scratch, but he gripped the rifle stock harder. More sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes. He blinked to wash away the irritation.

  “Who are you?” a squeaky male voice said. Nate jolted at the sudden break in the quiet. He wiggled to move the tree root that was digging into his ribs.

  “You gonna answer?” Henry said in a low voice, looking to Will.

  Will waved his hand to Henry, a nonverbal command for him to shut up.

  The flare continued to drift, swinging by its tiny parachute. It reached the treetops and hung on a branch far above. It fizzed and spit, the light unsteady in intensity.

  Leaves rustled yards away. A figure emerged from the shadows just enough for his outline to be seen. He pointed something at them. Probably a rifle. Everybody in Georgia seemed to have rifles.

  “Are you zombies or moles?” the squeaky voice said.

  “Zombies?” Will shouted out, “Who’s a zombie?”

  “Were you outside when the bombs fell? Are you contaminated?”

  “How about lowering your weapon or whatever you’re pointing at us?” Will positioned himself so that he was now on one knee, pistol gripped in both hands, held close to his head.

  Squeaky gave a nasal laugh and lowered his firearm. “Okay, I’ll lower mine, but you’d be amazed at how many weapons you still have pointed at you right now.”

  Rifles were charged through the trees to their front and sides, indicating Squeaky didn’t lie.

  “We’re not contaminated,” Will said, still keeping his rigid fighting position.

  “So you’re moles then?” Squeaky said.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You were underground, so you’re clean.”

  “We’re not contaminated,” Will said. “What do you want?”

  “What do we want? I was going to ask you. You intruded into our town.”

  Will glanced at the trees that surrounded them. “We’re looking for Bartel and decided to go by forest to make better time. Plus the roads might be dangerous.”

  “We know the roads are dangerous. So are the woods. In fact, the world has become a very dangerous place. That’s why we have patrols.”

  Will said, “You’re from Bartel? This is Bartel?”

  “Yes. The outskirts, anyway.”

  Henry stood from his kneeling position. “I’m Henry Allen. Steve, Steven Allen is my uncle. You know him?”

  “You mean Stu Allen,” Squeaky said, “who lives on Sparrow Lane?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Henry laughed. “Old Stu. How is he?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead.”

  “Dead? What?” Henry moved forward, then stopped.

  “Two weeks ago,” Squeaky said, his voice taking on a somber tone. “Marauders attacked us shortly after everything went crazy. Mostly zombies, from the looks of them. We lost fifteen good people before we drove them away. They came on bicycles, carrying pistols and rifles, and other weapons. Since then we blocked the road and patrol the woods, as you’ve found out.” He pointed to the flare caught in the branches as it dimmed with each passing moment. “You found one of our alarms.”

  Will stood and lowered his pistol. He brushed twigs from his chemjacket. “We’re not here to pillage. We’re from Haven looking for safety. Can I bring the rest of us here?”

  “Sorry, my friend,” Squeaky said. “Your buddy may be Stu’s nephew, but I wouldn’t let you all in even if you said you were my long lost Siamese twin, separated at birth. No one’s allowed in Bartel. Me and my boys will make sure of that.”

  Will’s sigh could be heard somewhere in the darkness. “We’ve left a burned-out town and we’re tired and need a place to sleep. Have some pity on us.”

  Squeaky gave a huff. “I have plenty of pity for you, that’s why you don’t have thirty bullet holes in your chest. I have pity for the people, the women and children, that I protect. I put my life on the line every night. Sixteen hours each day for the past two weeks I have pity. Don’t lecture me on pity.”

  “Then do you have some food, medicine?” Will said.

  “We have some, but not to give. We need it ourselves and I don’t think things are going to be improving any time soon.”

  “Insulin,” Will said. “Please, do you have some insulin and aspirin? Some of my people need it.”

  Someone in the shadows behind Squeaky moved close to him and whispered in his ear. They had a muffled, heated exchange for a few seconds. The someone faded back into the shadows, leaving Squeaky alone.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ll tell you what we decided to do since you came here with no bad intentions. We can get you some insulin.”

  “Thank you,” Will said.

  The flare caught in the tree finally faded away. And with that a lantern behind Squeaky lit up and two men emerged from behind shrubs. They carried rifles mounted with large scopes.

  “By the way, my name’s Kurt,” Squeaky said. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “This here’s Earl and Clive.” They both nodded. “Get up off the ground, you look ridiculous.”

  Will and Henry had already stood. Nate was the only one still sprawled on the ground, rifle pointed forward. Embarrassed, he used his M-16 as a crutch to lift himself.

  “Kurt,” Henry said, his voice soft with emotion, “what happened to Stu, to Bartel?”

  “A few days ago,�
� Kurt said, “a group of marauders came to Bartel, much like you. Marauders, murderers, whatever you wanna call them. A group of men. They came along the road and said they needed food for their wives and children.” Kurt paused and took a quick breath, like he needed a second to compose himself. The small group stood in respectful silence as he struggled to get the words out. “We let them into Bartel,” he said, his voice quavering. “Before we knew what was going on they pulled out pistols and started firing. They started firing.” He shook his head and paused for a minute.

  “Everyone scattered, the ones that could still move, that weren’t shot. Finally, several of my men came with rifles. I think we shot two of them, but I’m not sure. We scared them away. But there were already many dead, many wounded… They shot children.” His voice finally broke as he repeated, “They shot my boy.”

  One of the men behind him, Clive, stepped forward and put a comforting hand on Kurt’s shoulder as his body shook trying to contain his sobs. With his other hand Clive rubbed the trigger of the rifle that rested on his shoulder, like he was eager to use it if the three of them got out of line.

  Nate shifted, fanning his overheating body in the chemjacket, not sure if it was the weather or Kurt’s terrible loss. He unzipped the front, hoping to get some cool breeze, hoping to not let the moment overwhelm him.

  After several awkward minutes, Kurt’s fit of crying settled enough for him to clear his throat.

  “Days later another group came by,” he said through intermittent sniffles. “Men with women and children. They said they were on their way to Florida, something about how safety from the Avenger could only be found near the ocean. I’m not sure what that means, and they didn’t want to tell any more once they knew we weren’t letting them stop. Their children were sick, dying, but I couldn’t risk losing any more of my people.”

  “The Avenger?” Nate said. “You didn’t find out anything else about it?”

  “No. Sounds mysterious, right? We thought it was a ploy of some kind. Oh yeah, the insulin should be here in about twenty minutes or so. Earl’s little brother went to get some. Why don’t we sit for a bit until then? Maybe you can tell us what you know and we can do the same.” Kurt found a rotten stump nearby and sat down after testing its integrity. Earl and Clive leaned against trees, rifles still held at the ready to start shooting at any moment. Will and Henry found an uprooted trunk. Nate sat back on the ground.