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

by A. K. Meek

  “You want the nine?” Henry held his pistol out for Nate.

  “Hold onto it. If I yell, come firing.”

  Henry nodded and Nate moved along the back of the farmhouse to a small window. It led to a tiny dining room area. One of the panes was already cracked and he was able to move the pieces so that the window lock could be unlatched.

  He fought the window and the layers of whitewash that had frozen the sill in place. It gave with a clatter and squeak, and Nate flinched at the grinding sound. The window was low enough that he didn’t have to struggle to climb through it to get inside the house.

  The stench of sweat and rot, mingling with flowers, assailed him as he entered. His stomach turned at the disgusting odor and he stuck his head outside the window to breathe the warm night air until the nausea passed.

  Once he no longer felt like throwing up he started through the house, arms stretched forward, leaving the fresh air and the guidance of the bright moonlight outside.

  Trash, rags, and other objects littered every inch of floor. He half walked, half shuffled, as he moved from the small dining room to an inner hallway.

  Down the hall, a sickly light flickered, cast from another room, different from the bonfire that raged outside the front of the house. He walked toward the light until reaching a door in the hall. He tried the knob and swung the door open an inch or two.

  The smell of rot turned into the stench of death.

  His body shuddered as his mind raced with what might have caused that smell. The flushed fear returned and crashed down on him and his knees almost buckled. He closed the door and leaned on the wall, his breath becoming rapid.

  Fortunately, the room was too dark for him to see inside. He didn’t want to see anything in there.

  He swallowed the bile back down as his stomach quivered. He needed to hurry to rescue the others, if possible.

  Nate started back down the hall and kicked something with his foot. A glass bottle, from the sound of it, rolled into several others, and they scattered with clanks of glass. He reached down and found the object, one of many similar bottles on the floor. He held it close to his nose and smelled a soft fragrance, like lavender. In fact, that scent permeated the house, just under the other offensive smells. He continued down the hall.

  The two flickering lights, hurricane lanterns, welcomed him to the wide living room. He crouched and slowed his walk, since right outside the front door two guards stood.

  More trash, clothing, and bedding littered the floor. More of the lavender bottles glinted in the pale light.

  He picked up another empty jar and held it close to the lamp. The label showed it as: Lavender Dreams Bath Salt.

  A tiny table, the only intact piece of furniture in the house so far, caught his eye and he dropped the jar onto a pile of rags and went to the table.

  Two books were on top, resting on a decorative scarf draped over the table. The book edges were aligned with the table edge and no trash covered them.

  He picked up the first book, a paperback with a broken spine, and held it up to the light so that it could be seen.

  It was a Farmer’s Almanac, open to the date April 30 circled in red. On this day, one of the few perigees, or supermoons, for the year would occur. During this full moon, it was at its brightest, being nearer the Earth, and held significance for pagan rituals, according to the Almanac.

  He dropped the dog-eared paperback and picked up the other book, thick and hardbound, and held it toward the lamp for better light. But something else caught his eye.

  A horn dangled from the table by a gold chain connected to each end by gold bands. The horn, like that of a bull, had been carved with ornate designs, the rim and tip also covered in shiny gold. It reminded him of the gaudy wall decorations sold in home furnishing stores. Unless it was real.

  His feet shuffled and he kicked an object that rattled metal, a familiar sound. He put the book on the table to investigate the noise.

  Peeling away smelly layers of rags and blankets, Nate found rifles, M-16s, ammunition, and other weapons.

  This was what he needed to find.

  He loaded an armful of the cache and ferried them to the back of the house, to the window where Henry stood watch.

  “Psst, here,” he said softly, careful not to startle Henry. “Weapons. A ton of them. I’m going to grab everything I can. Take these.”

  Henry took the armload and set it down away from the house, then took an M-16 and checked its chamber.

  Nate made a couple more trips, draining the Herd of their weapons, their power in this world that forever would be ruled by those who held the most ammunition, who could overwhelm the enemy, being able to fire long after the other ran out of bullets.

  On his last trip into the living room, Nate scoured the floor for anything else. Off to the side, near a closet, under a pile of trash, he found a bulky and molded plastic case. Some type of military case, from the look of it. It was heavy, but he could manage it.

  He sat the case down next to the table and lifted the book and held it close to the lamp.

  The hardbound cover was a dull mustard, the front board warped. Imprinted into the textured cover was the title Anderson’s Comprehensive Guide to Mythology.

  Nate thumbed through the fine-print pages and stopped at the only bookmark in the Guide, the chapter titled “The Babylonians.” He closed the book and sat it back on the table. He slung the horn over his shoulder and lifted the case.

  With his free hand he removed the glass cover from one of the lamps and sat it on a bare, flat spot of floor, among the refuse, propping it next to a filthy rag.

  With Anderson’s Guide in one hand, a horn necklace over his shoulder, and a long case in the other, Nate kicked over the lamp so that the den of iniquity would burn to the ground.

  05.01

  BARN DANCE

  Henry had moved the weapons a safe distance from the house, and now they waited in the shade of the old, abandoned tractor, yards from the house. Nate gripped the 9mm. Henry shouldered an M-16.

  The rifle definitely had an advantage over the pistol, but Nate decided to forego the rifle. He wasn’t sure exactly why he chose it.

  Either way, his nervousness would cause his hands to tremble no matter what he held.

  He gave a sideways glance at Henry.

  The large man held the rifle perfectly, like any well-trained soldier. He didn’t even shake, at least not that Nate could see.

  The flame that had begun from the overturned lamp quickly grew, spurred by the refuse and hundred-year-old timber. In a few short minutes fire licked at the back of the house.

  From the other side, Sam yelled at Stephen to grab a water hose while he went for the artifacts and the salt.

  “Now, let’s go,” Nate said.

  He used the cover of the burning house, circling around the left side as Henry circled from the right.

  As Nate rounded the corner Meredith noticed him and lifted her head as if to speak. He put his finger to his mouth and pointed to the front of the house with his 9mm. She didn’t speak but looked in the direction he pointed and gave a slight nod.

  Fire crackled from inside the house to match the bonfire. The whole area was getting hot, uncomfortably hot. The sweat that trickled down his forehead stung in the corners of his eyes. He blinked to clear them, then sprang around the corner with his 9mm aimed.

  Stephen was busy pulling a thin water hose toward the house. A trickle of water leaked from the nozzle.

  “Stop, Steve, don’t move,” Nate said.

  Stephen dropped the hose and glanced behind him, to the M-16 that he had propped against a dead tree trunk, next to the water spigot.

  As he turned back to Nate, Henry’s rifle butt caught him in the temple.

  Stephen collapsed upon himself onto the ground, unconscious.

  When Henry needed to move fast, he could. Nate was thankful for that. Now he pointed to the open front door.

  Henry spun his rifle and planted the but
t stock into the crook of his shoulder, then leveled the barrel at the entrance. Despite his size and awkward appearance, he moved like a soldier.

  Black, oily smoke billowed from the top of the doorway and Sam burst from it, a few jars in his arms. “Steve, where’s the bible, the weapons?” he said. He almost tumbled off the porch as he came to an abrupt stop.

  “Stephen isn’t with us right now. He’s taking a nap,” Henry said. “I suggest you don’t move. It will be less painful.”

  Sam’s head turned from Nate to Henry, back to Nate. “Where did you two come from?”

  “Come off the porch,” Nate said. “I don’t want to shoot you.” He took two steps toward Sam with his gun aimed at Sam’s center mass. He hoped his shaking hands couldn’t be seen.

  Sam dropped the bottles he held. They clattered to the warped boards and rolled off the porch. He extended his arms wide. “Shoot me, if that’s all you can do.”

  Nate lowered his gun slightly. He hadn’t expected Sam to say that.

  “But I’ll tell you,” Sam said, “I can take your soul. Parks can take your soul and feed it to Marduk. He can do more than shoot you. You can be cast into an everlasting torment as unquenchable as the fires that rage before us.”

  He looked wildly at the doorway to the house.

  Fire now licked the top of the entryway, and the smoke had thickened and rolled along the bottom of the porch covering.

  Nate’s face felt warmer than before and the gun handle shifted in his sweaty grip. All that he could smell was burning wood.

  Sam turned back to Nate. “My soul has been damned since birth. My mother said I was a curse to her, and so a curse I was. All of us, Marduk’s Herd, are cursed. Cursed in a cursed world. Now I go to join my brothers in the fire.”

  “Sam, don’t do it.” Nate lowered his gun.

  Sam smiled, gave a small salute, then ran into the burning house.

  The porch creaked as fire ran along the ceiling. The heat grew and Nate and Henry moved back.

  From inside Sam screamed, a long, pain-filled, fear-filled scream. It ended abruptly, silent, his dying breath overtaken by crackling of wood and material as the porch and a portion of the house folded and crumbled onto itself.

  Nate’s neck pulsed with the scream, a scream he would not soon forget.

  “Go free Meredith, then tie Steve up,” he said. “I’m going to the barn.”

  On his way around the dying bonfire to the barn, he grabbed an ax next to a pile of splintered wood and logs.

  At the barn, boards and chains were wired together, keeping the doors from opening. He wiped his hands on his pants and gripped the ax handle tight and started swinging.

  Several haphazard strikes later, the final clasp pulled from the hinges and the doors swung partially open. He slung the ax away and yanked a door, opening it.

  The kidnapped group littered about the barn. They had been tied with baling wire and cords. Some were strung up, dangling—much like Meredith—from the rafters, feet barely able to touch the floor. Others had arms and legs bound together.

  “Henry, come help,” Nate yelled from the doorway. He ran to the nearest body, Charles, who sat cross-legged on the floor, arms bound behind him and raised, lashed to a stall gate.

  “Nate,” Charles whispered through his parched throat, dried blood clumped to the sides of his face, “you made it back. I didn’t think I’d see you or anyone else again.”

  Nate found his knife in his pocket and fought his trembling hand as he cut the thin wires and cords. “I came back for you, Charles. For everyone.”

  “What a lousy couple of days,” Charles said, laughing, which turned into a fit of coughing. His chest rattled.

  “I guess these are the crappy days you spoke of,” Nate said, trying to sound calm. “If so, then things must get better.”

  He cut the last of the bindings and Charles’ body slumped down. Nate swept a pile of straw together to make a pillow for his head. “I need to help the others.”

  Charles nodded and Nate moved from person to person, untying each.

  An hour later Nate and Henry had everyone moved from the barn to the tractor in the field, beyond the burning house. Those that were able tended to those that weren’t.

  Ed was the worst, which Nate hadn’t expected, since he was the only white person taken captive.

  His bruised body and untreated broken ribs and arm made it difficult to move him.

  According to Feleysa, Parks asked Ed to join the Herd. He had agreed until he found out what they planned to do and balked at helping them.

  They made him pay.

  The other males, Martin, Charles, Reggie, Juan, and Desmond, had all been beaten, more to keep them from resisting or fighting back than to seriously harm. The Herd obviously wanted a fair fight hunting each.

  Marduk probably preferred that.

  A few yards away, the farmhouse burned, punctuated by a small explosion of something inside. Several in the group jumped at the loud pops.

  Amber didn’t speak but sat on the ground, holding Paige. The small girl had finally stopped crying.

  Despite the ordeal Meredith had endured, she set that aside to tend to Paige, nursing the cuts from the wire that tore into her tender wrists. She offered to take the child so Amber could rest, but she didn’t respond, she just rocked with her baby held tight in her arms.

  Juan had recovered from his blows rather quickly and had already claimed a rifle. He walked to where Nate sat on the ground.

  “I checked on Stephen,” he said, rubbing the bruise under his eye. “He’s tighter than tight. He’s not going anywhere. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Juan. I’m fine.” He stood and went to Amber and bent down and rubbed her daughter’s thin, wispy hair.

  She looked like her daddy, had his eyes.

  Nate imagined if he had a wife, what she would think if she knew her husband was being hunted like a dog.

  Like Charles’ dog Wishbone. Too stupid to realize the trouble it was getting into on that Afghanistan street. Like Bruce trusting in Parks and his herd.

  Nate turned to Amber. “I’m going to get him.”

  She looked up to him, her eyes hollow pits of worry. “Bruce,” she whispered; “you’ll find him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll find him.”

  “What?” Juan said. “Find Bruce?”

  Henry and Martin, hearing Juan’s raised voice, left their posts watching the perimeter and both went to Nate.

  Martin spit. “We all know what he’s done. You’ve told us how you don’t trust him. None of us do. I say we leave him and go before the rest get back. If Amber wants to come she can, but I’m not looking for him.”

  Nate shook his head. “No. I came back for you. Henry came for you. I’m sure you’re glad we didn’t abandon you.”

  “I didn’t lead us here. He almost killed you, probably killed Will and Arney.”

  Nate rubbed his side, the bruises still tender. “If he did almost kill me, then I have more reason than anyone to get revenge.” Sweat beaded his head. It wasn’t from the heat of the burning house. “But I choose not to.”

  “Tell that to Will.”

  “I would, but he’s not here. He’s dead. But I’m here, and I choose to forgive Bruce. Good or bad, he’s part of the twenty-five, part of us. He’s a human. I can’t forget that or I might as well join the Herd.”

  Martin shook his head but didn’t say any more. He glanced at Amber, then turned away.

  Henry said, “Nate, how are you going to find them before they find Bruce?”

  “They’re going to find me,” Nate said.

  05.02

  THE SUPERMOON

  The supermoon had made its way across the sky and started to settle behind the forest trees, where killers lurked.

  Nate stood alone in an open field, only a few sparse piles of debris, shrubs, and stacked wood nearby. He knew it was all coming to an end.

  A small campfire near his feet warmed his legs. Behind hi
m, yards away, the house that had once raged finally showed signs of burning itself out, but there was still plenty left to burn.

  It had collapsed in on itself, smoke carrying upward in the still night. The smell of spent wood filled his nose, and his eyes watered from the irritation. Any moment soon it would be daylight, or at least the pre-dawn light.

  His side hurt and his stomach churned. His arms and legs were lead. If he sat down for one moment he wouldn’t be able to stand again. He would probably sleep for days.

  Nate fought the urge, but finally gave in to the coughing that had been tickling his throat. He held his arm to his mouth and nose, hoping to filter the smoke. He forced his breathing to slow until the itching in his throat subsided.

  Once the sensation died, he took a deep breath and put his lips to the horn.

  A long, bassy tone echoed across the field and through the trees.

  In the still and quiet, the sound would travel for miles. His lungs burned as he forced every last bit of air from them.

  The tone warbled, then tapered off, and he gasped and took in a deep breath. His head throbbed and he swayed. After taking in several more gulps of air, he put the horn to his lips to blow another beckon.

  The second blast carried the heartache and pain he had suffered through the ordeal.

  Will came to mind and the sacrifice he had made for them so they could live. More than anything Will wanted to see his wife, just one more time. But in a moment’s decision he had put that aside for them. He had desired to live, but lost his life.

  Now Nate stood exposed in the field, waiting for Marduk’s Herd to come back, drawing them back, hopefully before they found Bruce.

  The comfort and safety he desired when he first entered Fallout Shelter 1710, so long ago, had been left somewhere. Maybe in one of the many forests, the Ocmulgee Monument, in the den of iniquity, somewhere. Whether he lived or died, he had to try to do what he could for the twenty-five.