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

by A. K. Meek

  “It’s the military, the Air Force.”

  “Who’s this?” Captain Jordan said.

  “Will, our leader,” Nate said.

  Captain Jordan stepped away from the rest so that he stood in the center of the hastily congregated group. “I’m Captain Joshua Jordan of the United States Air Force. Today you all have been saved. You are all safe.”

  The group, the rest of the twenty-five, as they came from their hiding positions along the dry creek, erupted in cheering, clapping, and whistling. Several ran to Captain Jordan and grabbed his hand and patted his back. Feleysa ran to Sergeant Phelps and gave him a big hug. Most everyone, including the military, were overcome with emotion.

  Immediately questions started: where were they, who attacked the country, did we win?

  Nate had to take a moment and catch his breath. He moved away from the fanfare and leaned against a tree, exhausted from the restless night and the anxiety of meeting the Air Force.

  The camouflage backpacks they carried were brimming with supplies. They were ready for anything. They handled their weapons with a surety that Nate only dreamed of, a surety brought about only through intensive training, from use.

  The group, his group, surrounded them, clamoring, a mob of families, businessmen, and laborers dressed in antiquated piecemeal Cold War chemical suits. He lifted his oversized chemjacket and fluttered the sleeves that covered his hands. They were a ragtag group. They needed Captain Jordan.

  Will, after watching the scene for a few moments, walked over to Nate.

  “What do you think?” Nate said to him.

  Will scratched his weeks-old beard. “Well, looks like the cavalry has arrived. We’re saved.”

  He turned and walked away.

  The hunting party found an unlucky slow pig a mile to the west, ignorantly engrossed in digging a burrow. It became the guest of honor that night.

  About a half mile along the dry creek, a bend in it had formed a sand bar. Now, the dry bed and tree-free banks made a perfect party location.

  Fallout Shelter 1710 refugees laughed and danced with the Air Force around a large bonfire. After much discussion and arguing, Will allowed a fire to be built. A big fire.

  With a little more convincing from Meredith, even he danced around the fire to a spur-of-the-moment a cappella group doing their best rendition of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration”.

  Nate enjoyed about thirty minutes of the party, enough to get some roasted pig, before volunteering for perimeter watch. After earlier attempts to keep others silent while traveling and no-fire-nights, the noise of the party throbbed in his head. He stood in the trees, just beyond the clearing, and paced in a small circle.

  A light cough alerted him and he saw Sergeant Phelps leaning against a tree, arms resting on the M-16 dangling from its sling. He stared away from the camp into the dark woods.

  Nate walked over to him. “Tech Sergeant Phelps, right?”

  “Yeah, Stan Phelps.” He continued staring into the night.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want some dessert?

  Sergeant Phelps gave him a quizzical stare. Nate reached into his chemjacket and pulled from it a Zero candy bar.

  “Wait, what’s that?” Sergeant Phelps said. “Candy? Where did you get that?” He looked left and right and behind him, like someone would tattle on them for having something so good.

  “I’ve had it in my backpack since we were in the shelter. Part of my reserve I carry when traveling. I’ve kept it hidden. Since everyone else is eating well, I don’t think anyone will mind.”

  He wiped his hands on his pants, more a psychological cleaning than anything practical, and unwrapped the bar and bent it in half. He handed half to Sergeant Phelps and took a bite of the other, the sweet almond nougat an intoxicating flavor. Nate finished his in one more bite.

  “Where were you all going?” he said as he licked his fingers.

  “Going?”

  “You were headed somewhere with Captain Jordan, right?”

  “Oh,” Sergeant Phelps said. He swallowed the last of his candy. “Captain never told us. As far as I know we were just wandering.”

  “So it has just been you four? How did you end up here? Don’t you normally have larger units or battalions, or something like that?”

  Sergeant Phelps licked his fingertips too. “A flight. We’re part of a flight.”

  “Four in a flight?”

  “No, there were twenty of us, until days ago.” Sergeant Phelps crumbled the wrapper and dropped it.

  “What happened?” Nate said.

  “They were killed, I think.”

  “You think? Killed. How?”

  Sergeant Phelps fumbled with one of the rifle strap clips, clicking it open and closed. “About ten miles from here, to the southwest. We were field training, practicing woodland survival skills. A week later we had to meet up with some Army for joint training.

  “But we were in the field when the bombs fell. We hid in bunkers, even though there were no infrastructure targets near us. None of the bombs came near us.” He appeared to become aware of Nate focusing on his clicking and moved his hand away from the strap.

  “There was no better place for us to be than where we were. Captain decided to wait a few days until the dust settled, to see what got taken out. A few nights later, a night much like this with no moon, we had a fire, like that one.” He pointed to the revelers carrying on. “There was something in the trees. We heard it crashing through. It sounded like a tank. Whatever it was, it didn’t attempt to hide from us.”

  His voice, once so full of bravado in the daytime, wavered and collapsed during the night. Now the large black man’s voice sounded small, scared. Nate coughed to fill in the embarrassing silence and waited for him to continue.

  “The tank, or whatever it was, had no need to sneak up on us. It didn’t need to. Captain had us split into three assault squads. A and B were to flank around, the rest of us went head-on to intercept. When we got within yards of the thing is when the Captain did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “That bugle. He blew that blasted bugle. I don’t know if that’s what gave away our position. I don’t know. All I know is once he blew it that’s when the night exploded with guns and rockets.”

  The clicking of the metal clip rang against the trees.

  “It seemed like a hundred guns fired on our positions from every direction. I tried to shoot back but couldn’t see, couldn’t tell which direction. I ran. I wasn’t the only one, but I ran.”

  Nate looked away from Sergeant Phelps to the party. Captain Jordan spun in circles, swinging his arms wildly. “But you, your captain, the rest, you all made it out alive. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “We ran. We left our brothers, our sisters. I was scared.”

  Nate bit his lower lip, not sure if he had the right words to say. He pictured himself in that situation and what he would’ve done. But he didn’t have to imagine too hard; he had been there, he had experienced it, and he did have the right words to say.

  “I would’ve run too,” Nate said. “Will and I ran from some birds in the dark. Since we’ve been wandering, I think I’ve run more than I’ve walked. This world has turned upside down. No one here is going to fault you for running. It’s amazing what you’ll do to be safe. It’s called survival. You survived.”

  “Yeah, survived.” Sergeant Phelps looked at his watch and started to head back to the party along the creek.

  “What happened last night? Was that rifle fire you?”

  “There’s something out there in the woods. It followed us. We put down suppressing fire.” His voice drifted off, like he was in the midst of the battle again. After a couple minutes he cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t be doing this, celebrating like this.”

  Nate saw Sergeant Phelps’ face and decided to change the subject. “What about the bugle?”

  “The bugle? After we waited for the dust to
settle we headed back to Moody, in Valdosta. When we got near we found the city bombed, the base a smoking crater. Everything wiped out. Once we realized there were hardly any survivors we set up camp outside of town and sent out patrols to see what was left. One patrol found the Army convoy we were supposed to train with. It was obliterated, but we found Colonel Breck alive, barely.” Sergeant Phelps paused, reliving that awful time.

  “Who is Breck?” Nate said.

  “Part of the Fifteenth Regiment, their CO. He didn’t have long but wanted to talk to Captain, alone. Captain said he told him logistics info: military in area, post-attack procedures, things like that. Colonel died shortly after. Captain was never the same after meeting the Colonel. Preoccupied.

  “He found that bugle in what was left of a music store on the outskirts of town. He carried it around, talking about cavalry, charging, things like that. He would blow it at odd times. We thought he was just being silly, trying to ease tensions. That’s how Josh—, Captain Jordan was, always a joker. A good commander. But then he blew that bugle before an enemy.”

  Sergeant Phelps shook his head and dropped to the ground.

  Nate turned away from the sobbing man, and turned to the crowd, a group of survivors oblivious to Sergeant Phelps and what he’d gone through. Nate shivered in the night air, yet it wasn’t cold.

  Laughing, yelling, unfettered noise poured from the celebration. With every burst of laughter, every clank of metal on metal, he cringed. And now he knew he had good reason to, with the tank that Sergeant Phelps had encountered somewhere still out there.

  He checked the safety on his rifle, then rested his finger on the trigger guard. He stared into the night, waiting for the someone or something to notice the party and come to investigate.

  It would be a long night.

  03.04

  ROUTINES

  “Let’s load up and get ready to move out.” Will stood in the center of the camp and waved his arm in a circle.

  Martin stopped rolling his blue tarp and waved his lifted arm in a circle, mimicking Will. “Let’s load up and get ready to move out,” he said. Even though Martin was black and sturdy, his impression of tall and white Will would have won Martin an award.

  A different air carried through the camp. Nate hadn’t heard one complaint, until Captain Jordan walked over to Will, who was helping Efrem pack up his bedding. “What are you doing?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Will gave him a sideways glance. “We’re getting ready to move.”

  “Move where?”

  “We’re continuing to go south, to Florida.”

  “But you know what I told you last night,” Captain Jordan said. “We just came from the south. It’s a wasteland.”

  Nate moved toward the two. Meredith and Enoch had already started rubbernecking the conversation. He knew there would be more.

  “We’ve been going south since we started,” Will said. “I’m not about to change course.”

  “I’m telling you you’re wrong.”

  “Guys,” Nate said, putting on his best diplomatic voice. “Maybe we should go someplace else.”

  Will glared at Captain Jordan. “No, Nate. I’m the leader of this group, of my twenty-five. I make the decisions in the best interest of everyone. If you want, you can take your airmen and go north. We’re going south.”

  Captain Jordan shook his head. After several long seconds of deliberating and staring at his boot, he glared at Will and shook his head, but his countenance had changed. “Okay, we’ll go with you, try it your way for a while.”

  He turned and walked off to speak to his airmen.

  Everyone has routines.

  Some were big, such as Will’s waving his arm or the way Charles would sniff food before each bite.

  Nate’s office desk contained an imaginary grid. Every item on his desk, papers, stapler, coffee cup, were anchored to those imaginary lines. Every item in a straight line. He kept his desk neat, a reserved spot for every object, at least in his head.

  Sergeant Phelps clicking his rifle clip, a routine.

  Routine, ritual, habit, or tic. They were all the same; just varying levels of severity distinguished each.

  He knew everyone had a routine, to a lesser or greater degree. His management engineer work taught him that. He frequently monitored others working and performing tasks, measuring their work. They all had routines.

  The party from the night before had run full course. Since breaking camp at seven the following night, a late start, the group traveled for only two hours before complaining started. The merriment of salvation and roasted pig the night before could only last so long.

  First Amber stepped on a pointy rock and had to be carried. Next, Reginald had heart palpitations and swore his eyesight was fading, so he couldn’t continue walking. But he had done fine in the conga line last night.

  Two hours. Typically the complaining started after hour three.

  Reluctantly, Will had to cut the time short and set up camp. Everyone found dens in the forest, thick with plump, gnarled oaks and scrawny hickories.

  But now Nate needed answers to questions that had burned in him since talking to Sergeant Phelps.

  Ten-thirty and Nate waited for Captain Jordan to leave his tent, hoping he had found one of the Captain’s nightly routines.

  Eight minutes later, Captain Jordan emerged from his tent. He looked up at the cloudy sky and stretched. He scratched his backside, spit on the ground, then strode off in the direction of the designated bathroom, an isolated area beyond any encampments.

  Once Captain Jordan disappeared from sight, Nate moved to his tent.

  A tarp thirty feet from him rustled, stopping him in his tracks. Martin uncurled from his blue cocoon and stumbled to his feet.

  “Hey,” Nate said.

  Martin looked left and right, rubbing his eyes. “Latrine,” he said, and continued on in the same direction as Captain Jordan.

  After glancing around one last time to make sure no one saw, Nate slipped into Captain Jordan’s tent.

  Inside, a small lamp flickered at his disturbing the air. On the vinyl flooring the contents of Captain Jordan’s backpack had spilled out. Canteens, socks, and an old razor rested among other bits and pieces of military gear. With care to not touch anything, he opened the backpack zipper. He felt a folded object and pulled it from the backpack. A map.

  He inched close to the lamp and unfolded the map with the reverence that his risk bestowed. Grids and contour lines covered the plastic-coated military map. A red grease pencil fell from the folds.

  On the map, Valdosta, the location of Moody Air Force Base, had a large red X over it. To the west an inch or two, Captain Jordan had scrawled the word machine. Another inch or so to the southwest of that, the town of Miriamville had heavy red circles around it, the words STAY AWAY in large letters. Red lines had been drawn over the map, spreading outward from Miriamville. Toward the top of the map, Atlanta had a large check mark over it. Captain Jordan had designated that as safety.

  Part of it made sense, the machine—the tank—and the devastated base in the city of Valdosta. But Miriamville and the lines. That didn’t make sense.

  Unfortunately, the map didn’t do much to explain Captain Jordan’s behavior.

  Nate folded the map and put it in the backpack as close to the position that he remembered pulling it out from. He zippered it closed and stepped out of the tent in a rush.

  Just then Captain Jordan rounded a tarp stretched between two trees that formed a temporary wall for the Lewis family. The Captain and Nate startled each other.

  “May I help you?” Captain Jordan said.

  “Me? No. I was looking for you, but you weren’t in your tent.” Nate mentally told himself to slow down. “‘Cause you’re standing here. That’s why you weren’t in your tent.” He gave a weak smile.

  “Clearly. What did you need?” Captain Jordan’s right hand rested on the stock of his holstered 9mm, his left hand rubbed the brass bugle.


  “Will wanted me to check to make sure you were comfortable.”

  “He’s concerned that I’m comfortable?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I would sleep comfortably if he would listen to reason. He’s going to kill all of you if he takes you to Florida. I know it. We need to go north. The orders I was given is that safety is north.”

  “Where north? Tennessee, Kentucky? Or maybe as close north as Atlanta?”

  Captain Jordan cocked his head to the side, mouth slightly open, much like the vultures on the mound. “Atlanta. Why did you say Atlanta?”

  “Because Atlanta is the capital of the state.” Nate realized the Captain might be onto him. He wished he hadn’t said Atlanta, but it was fresh on his mind from the map. “We saw others headed there but I think it was nuked. I saw a light, saw fallout. It had to be nuked.”

  “You don’t know,” Captain Jordan said. His voice raised an octave, echoing in the sleeping camp. Nate winced. “I’ve tried it your way, gone your path, even though you’re wrong. You civilians don’t understand how the military works. We were bombed, attacked, by Chinese, Russians, the Arab League, everyone. I’ve sworn an oath to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Right now I consider Will and his attempt to lead you all to harm as a threat.”

  “What—Will?” Nate said. “You haven’t been there as we struggled to survive. In the shelter, through the back roads of this backwards state. I’ve seen what he has done. He has taken on a big responsibility.”

  “Of course you defend him. I’ve heard about you. Both of you are cut from the same cloth. Remember, you’re still in the United States, and we still have a system in place to protect our land from enemies. I hope you’re not one.”

  “An enemy?”

  “I hope you’re not one.” Captain Jordan pushed through the small opening of his tent and velcroed the flap closed.

  Nate stared after him, thinking of several other things he should’ve said instead of the things he did say. His hands trembled and then he realized his trembling finger rested on his rifle trigger. He moved his shaking hand and checked the safety. It had been too long since he’d slept. If he was going to be any good, he would have to get some sleep.