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

by A. K. Meek

  The following morning Will went about his work, making a concerted effort to ignore Captain Jordan’s repeated attempts to talk to him. Will wanted to make up for the time lost the day before, so he decided to get an early start.

  According to his regional map, the uncultivated parcel of land they currently inhabited stretched for at least another ten miles. They could spend a whole day walking and not have to worry about exposing themselves to crossing open farmland. He checked supplies, helped fold tarps, and generally carried on like the Air Force and Captain Jordan didn’t exist.

  But he did.

  Captain Jordan stepped in front of Will as he was about to wave his arm and tell everyone to move out.

  “Stop, Mr. Parsons. I’m not allowing you to leave,” he said.

  “Out of my way, Jordan,” Will said. He pushed Captain Jordan aside.

  Captain Jordan shook his head and casually pulled his pistol from his well-worn holster. “I said stop. I’m taking charge now.”

  Nate felt it, knew it was coming, but even when it did it surprised him. The night before, he knew it, saw it in his eyes when he talked to him, but didn’t want to believe it.

  It would’ve been easier to believe that Captain Jordan and the rest would join the group, no problem. But people like Captain Jordan, those that have tasted that control, that being in charge, are not so willing to give it away. Especially with whatever else was going on in the captain’s head.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Nate swung up his rifle and pointed it at Captain Jordan. His arms shook and his heart pounded. Could he actually pull the trigger?

  Airman Field, the female, and Sergeant Balinger, a young, powerful-looking male, lifted their rifles and trained them on Nate. Their arms didn’t shake. Sergeant Phelps didn’t lift his but held it at the ready. Captain Jordan didn’t flinch but kept his eyes focused on Will.

  Nate saw from the corner of his eye Martin running toward them. Someone behind him screamed. It sounded like Melanie.

  Someone slapped their bolt-release handle and rifles charged.

  He needed to stop shaking. One side started yelling at the other. The noise quickly became confusing.

  “What’s this? We’re going to shoot each other?” Efrem’s old, trembling voice broke through the cacophony. His wife Jordana grabbed his arm, trying to keep him out of the line of fire.

  “Will,” Captain Jordan said, “where’s this going to end? You, me, dead? Many others killed in the crossfire. What will happen to the rest without leadership?”

  Bruce approached from among the trees, Amber close behind him. “We need to listen to Captain Jordan, trust his judgment. He knows what’s best for the group.”

  Nate shook his head. If he’d imagined anyone would turn, it would be Bruce. That didn’t surprise him.

  He shifted his eyes back to see what Will was going to do. But before Will said anything, Nate saw that he had given up the fight. He saw it in his shoulders.

  Will did it for the group, for their safety. Nate could tell that clear as day. Captain Jordan didn’t care about them; he just wanted the control. That was what mattered to him. Those in authority rarely give it up without a fight. That was the way it worked in the corporate world. Why would it be any different here?

  “Okay,” Will said. “We’ll go north, but I’m still leading them.”

  Captain Jordan said, “Sure, we will go north to safety.” He holstered his pistol. “Stand down.” The airmen lowered their rifles.

  Nate lowered his rifle and the other soldiers did the same.

  “I’m going to give my rifle to Tala,” Nate said. “Then I’m going to help with mule duty.”

  He had been too quick to draw; the rifle had begun to feel too comfortable in his hands. It made him sick to his stomach.

  03.05

  THE MACHINE

  The hot wind did little to comfort.

  It was miserably hot, just like the day. But with the overcast day turning to dusk, then night, it remained hot and humid. Crickets chirped in agreement in the soft moonlight. When there were no crickets, when the world was silent, like when the group first exited the hole in the ground, they were missed. But now the chirping of thousands in the hot night made him wish it was silent again.

  Nate had fallen back several yards from the main mass of people, the weight of his overstuffed backpack slowing him down. He tugged at the left shoulder strap like he always did. With every step it dug a little deeper into his already raw armpit. Sweat poured from his forehead, stinging his eyes and tasting salty on his tongue.

  He hated mule duty.

  His rifle had to be taken away, if not by anyone else, then by himself. Without a thought he’d pointed it at Captain Jordan, so casually, so carelessly. Was that how Charles began in Afghanistan?

  Odd Eye Enoch had fallen back also, the victim of a nasty blister on his right toe. It had ruptured and become infected. Ed, also on mule duty, walked alongside him, spurring him along. But he could only do so much. The three of them fell behind the main group as it stretched long and thin, winding through densely packed trees.

  “How are you doing?” Nate said, little louder than a whisper.

  “Wishing I was dead, or drunk,” Enoch said, limping.

  “Everyone already thinks you’re drunk half the time anyway. The crazy old guy. You mean you’re not?”

  Ed laughed.

  Enoch said, “The only way to endure this ship of fools is to be drunk. The complaining.” He huffed.

  “You and me both, Enoch,” Nate said.

  If anyone had a right to complain, it should’ve been Enoch. Older than Efrem by ten years, Enoch’s body often failed but his mind was sharper than anyone there.

  “I’ll tell you two,” Enoch said, “you’d do well to watch out for those military. There’s something about ‘em.”

  “Wait,” Nate said as he stopped walking. “Listen.”

  The other two stopped.

  Ahead, beyond their shuffling steps, shouting could be heard. No one should’ve been making that much noise. The group ground to a halt as people started chattering among themselves, asking what was going on.

  “That’s Will,” Nate said. He unlatched his backpack and it collapsed to the ground, then ran for the front, sidestepping people and hopping over fallen branches.

  “What’s going on?” Charles said, somewhere in the middle of the group, but Nate kept moving.

  Shouting between Will and Captain Jordan became clearer and louder. Yards in front of the group, the two argued.

  “You will not do this!” Will said.

  “You have no choice, I’m taking charge here. As of now I’m in control of this group. Sergeant Phelps, go secure the weapons.”

  Sergeant Phelps, standing next to his commander, hesitated. Airman Field watched him, waiting. Once she realized he wasn’t moving she turned back to the main group, her rifle in hand.

  “Go now,” Captain Jordan said.

  “Stop this,” Will said.

  Nate intercepted Airman Field and grabbed her rifle, and they grappled. He glanced toward Will for a brief second, time enough to see Captain Jordan taking a swing at him.

  Gunfire ripped through the air.

  A tree not far away, maybe fifteen yards, splintered, stopping any scuffling and fighting.

  Somewhere close by another tree toppled, branches crashing to the ground.

  “What the?” Nate said.

  “The tank, it’s the tank.” Captain Jordan said, pushing away from Will and pulling his 9mm. He fired several wild shots into the dark. Each muzzle flash lit the trees like a strobe.

  “What are you doing?” Will yelled.

  A long, piercing bugle call rang against the forest. Nate cringed at the wavering, discordant screech signaling their location to the machine.

  Will grabbed the bugle Captain Jordan held and they wrestled. Another flash and bang of Captain Jordan’s 9mm and the short scuffle ended.

  Tree branches explod
ed overhead as a devastating machine-gun rattle replaced the fading bugle call.

  People screamed and scattered.

  Nate let go of the rifle and dropped to the ground, as did Airman Field. The smell of burnt bark filled his nose. Strips of fresh pulp and branches rained down like a twisted rainstorm.

  “Martin, come help Josh,” Will said. He had his arm around Captain Jordan, lowering him to the ground. The Captain clutched his side. “Juan, Tala, go take the group to safety, away from here. Nate, follow me.” Will yanked on the bugle, snapping the cord that circled Captain Jordan’s torso.

  He took off through the trees into the night, amidst the sounds of war and exploding trees. The bugle sounded again.

  Nate jumped to his feet as Bruce and Sergeant Phelps ran past, following after Will, following the direction of the bugle call, drawing the machine-gun fire.

  From tree to tree Nate moved, pausing long enough to catch his breath and to see which tree to move to next. The bugle call drew further and further away.

  M-16 fire rang through the forest from in front. Even if he’d had a rifle, he couldn’t see anything to shoot. He could tell Will’s plan had worked; the machine-gun sounds slowly moved away from the group.

  Bruce and Sergeant Phelps had disappeared into the dark forest but he still bolted forward, continuing on an unseen path, following the sound of battle.

  A large crack, and a tree trunk twice as thick as Nate caught his shoulder as it dropped. It knocked him off his feet and he crashed into a pile of shrubs and limber saplings. His head spun as shockwaves coursed through his left side. He closed his head to stop the spinning.

  The tree above him swayed and danced, shifting from its left trunk to its right. Nate closed his eyes. His head beat with a heavy pulse. He opened his eyes; they focused and the dancing tree with two trunks became one still tree.

  Gunfire drummed right above him and the flash of expanding gas filled the night with an unreal daytime. The tank had come too close to him, right on top of him. He had to move.

  He tried to use his arm to push himself up from the bed of foliage, but his left side didn’t cooperate. Mustering any last bit of strength he had, he lifted his head to see the tank.

  Only it wasn’t a tank.

  The machine, Captain Jordan’s machine, stood at least twenty feet high, a black and gray-paneled beast. Its large metal legs shuffled forward, snapping vines and thin trees in its path. At the end of each arm, large multi-barrels replaced hands, and muzzle fire flashed from each. The behemoth machine turned its torso and the barrels rotated, cutting into the surrounding forest. Any unfortunate tree caught in the barrage shattered and fell apart. Spent bullet casings clinked onto the canopy floor. A small metal box of a head sat upon its shoulders, where one would expect a head to rest on a body. A dim red beam projected from it, scanning the area.

  Nate’s head became as heavy as a rock; it dropped back to the soft pine and he closed his eyes again.

  His eyes fluttered open to the light of a small oil lamp. Meredith and Melanie knelt over him.

  “Nate, Nate, can you hear me?” Meredith said. She dabbed a strip of wet cloth on his head.

  Morning light had just started to brighten the sky as night and darkness gave way to the shady gray forest, dripping with morning dew.

  “Hey, Merry, I hear you. My head—what’s going on?” He tried to sit up again. The pulse in his head still throbbed and his left side still rebelled.

  “You’ve been unconscious.”

  “What? How’s everyone?”

  “The tank is gone. They’re fine,” Meredith said.

  Trees rustled as Juan emerged from light shadows. He let his rifle dangle from its sling and rested his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “I found Sergeant Phelps. And Will,” he said to no one in particular.

  Nate fought to stand. “Help me up.”

  The trio helped him to his feet and then Juan led them back through the underbrush. They stepped over felled trees. Several still smoked and smoldered. The air tasted of burnt, fresh timber. What was left of the standing trees swayed in synch with Nate’s dizzy head.

  Juan slowed and then came to a stop. He rubbed his head and turned away.

  Sergeant Phelps’ camouflaged body blended in with the ground clutter, the green and brown leaves and thickets. Nate moved to him, dropped onto his knees, and rolled Sergeant Phelps onto his back.

  A wisp of steam wafted from his open chest. Nate’s stomach flipped and he focused on Sergeant Phelps’ dark, dirty face.

  “Hey,” he whispered, mouth barely moving. “I did it, Nate.” He sputtered and coughed. “I didn’t run this time.” His chest shook as he tried to take a deep breath, but it would never come. “I faced it. I wasn’t scared. Nate, I’m scared now.”

  Nate squeezed his arm, then grabbed his hand. “Stan, you made a difference. You drew them away from the group. You saved us, you sacrificed yourself for others.”

  Stan coughed and his eyes fluttered. “Yes sir, I did. Watch for friendly fire.”

  His head slumped and he fell asleep.

  “Nate,” Meredith said.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he turned away to follow her voice, several yards away. “Oh no,” he said.

  There, suspended in smilax, that Devil’s Rope, between two trees, hung Will. The thorny vines wrapped around his arms, torso, and head, keeping his body from collapsing to the ground. He had struggled against them. He always struggled against them. Tiny cuts and cat-like scratches covered his face. One of his arms hung limp over his head, 9mm still clutched in his hand. Deep red splotches obscured his shoulder, lower stomach, and hip. A grotesque marionette.

  Nate kicked aside the bugle on the ground and pulled the bayonet from his pocket; he started cutting vines that were tangled in Will’s hair. Thorns bit into his hand and he jerked them back. He started again and carefully unwound the vines that supported Will’s dead body, stopping every minute or so to rub the blood from his own cuts and to wipe his eyes.

  “Bruce!” Meredith hopped across a tree trunk and ran to him as he staggered from the misty morning haze. She helped him as he stumbled to an uprooted tree and plopped down.

  “Are you alright?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Bruce said. He clutched his arm. “Will—is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “The tank, I saw it. It followed us, me and Will. We got pinned down and I decided we needed to scatter, to confuse it. It followed me about a half mile through the trees. I finally lost it across a creek and bridge over a two-lane highway. I backtracked when I lost it.”

  Nate cut another vine and the spiderweb of vegetation finally released Will’s body. He slumped to the ground. With bloody hands, Nate dragged him from the thorns onto open ground, Sergeant Phelps’ peculiar last words playing through his head.

  Twenty-one smooth hand-sized stones adorned the freshly turned earth, Sergeant Phelps’ grave. Bullets had become more precious than gold, so stones replaced a twenty-one gun salute. Enoch fashioned a cross from entwining branches with vines.

  He said the cross meant that a good man was buried there.

  Airmen Field and Balinger divided his gear between them, but gave his M-16 to the group, minus the ammunition.

  Captain Jordan had tried to flee after the gunfight started, but couldn’t make it far because of the bullet in his side, the self-inflicted wound from his struggle with Will.

  The group offered them the chance to stay, to travel to the coast with them, but they refused. The two young airmen said they needed to continue north with the Captain, looking for other surviving military, so they could get him medical treatment. They needed to find military leadership so they could continue the fight.

  Despite Captain Jordan’s decline into madness, they would still follow him. They were devoted to service, through the good and bad. For them, it meant carrying their captain to safety, wherever that was.

  But then, Nate would’ve followed Will to Hell and back, if he
had asked.

  Nate grasped Will’s shoulders, wrapped in a layer of blue tarp. Henry held Will’s legs. They carried his body through the trees eastward, into cleared land, probably farmland converted to feeding pastures for cattle. It took two hours for them to finally find an area Nate felt appropriate.

  They sat his body on the brown grass and dropped next to it. Nate pulled his canteen and took a long drink, and passed it to Henry. The daytime sun and the exertion had sapped his strength. Plus, stepping out into the open in the middle of the day would leave them exposed, vulnerable. Who knew where that machine, that thing, had gone?

  Nate put his canteen back on its belt clip. “Ready?” he said.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Henry said.

  They lifted Will and carried him into the field, near the center, and placed him on a small rise, next to a watering pond.

  Nate cut the binds that held the tarp closed and unfolded it from Will’s body. Henry bowed his head and walked away, back to the edge of the pasture. Nate rested on his knees next to Will’s quiet, peaceful body.

  “I never told you this, I waited for the right time. But it never came, until now. I met Sharon the day this all went south. Until the very end she was looking for you, just like you never gave up on finding her. Like when you led us from Haven to Bartel.

  “She looked like you described her. You were right, though. You cared too much, wanting to find her, and here you are.”

  Nate paused to swallow.

  “After Ocmulgee, that day we spent there, not telling anyone what happened. No one would understand this unless they were there.”

  He took the tarnished and beaten bugle from his chempants cargo pocket and placed it next to him.

  “Goodbye, my friend, my brother.”

  He walked across the pasture to the edge where Henry waited for him in the shade of trees and pulled his composition book from his cargo pocket.