Defending Camp: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The EMP Book 6) Page 2

Dan and his grandfather had ridden out the worst of it. Or so it seemed.

  The weeks had gone by and things had gotten quieter and quieter. Now no one moved in the streets. There was no sound of vehicles nearby. No sound of anything.

  The food was running out. The cans that had been neatly stacked in the basement were disappearing one by one.

  So much time had passed. Shouldn’t the government have gotten things under control by now? Shouldn’t the lights have come back on?

  But there was no sign of that now.

  Dan hadn’t held out much hope. Until, that is, he’d found his grandfather’s old shortwave radio in a dusty trunk in the attic. There hadn’t been any way to power it, until Dan remembered the small broken generator he’d taken home from the dumpster at the hardware store. It had just been sitting there in the garage for close to a year.

  It’d been hard to do with his hands and his coordination. But if he’d learned anything from his grandfather and from working at the hardware store, it was he could do a lot of things that people said he couldn’t. So long as he had the time he needed.

  So it’d taken him longer than it would have taken others, but he’d gotten the generator hooked up. He’d even gotten the radio to work. He’d run the generator in the garage with the door open, keeping one eye at all times on the backyard. The knife had never left his side.

  It had taken days to find anyone on the radio at all. There’d been absolutely nothing, and Dan had figured that the rest of the country was simply dead, completely obliterated by some kind of intense weapon. A nuke, maybe. Or something worse that he couldn’t even imagine.

  Finally, when it had seemed like all hope was lost, he’d made contact.

  Dan was cautious at first. Sure, he was asking for help blindly. But he had his suspicions about anyone who responded.

  Over time, though, talking to this man every night, Dan had grown to trust him. The conversations were always short, and the man never gave his name.

  Dan was tired. Completely exhausted. The defense of the house had been up to him and him alone. He’d barely slept in the last weeks.

  He’d been staring at the family photographs in the hallway, lost in thought, for who knew how long.

  Now he was outside his grandfather’s door, pausing, listening. There wasn’t the sound of his usual heavy snoring.

  “Grandpa?” said Dan.

  No answer.

  Dan didn’t knock. He opened the door. It took him a moment. His hands weren’t working that well.

  His grandfather lay there, a look of peace on his face.

  But he was dead.

  Dan kept it together. He’d suspected this day would come.

  He didn’t need to check for a pulse, but he did anyway.

  His grandfather’s body was cool. He must have died hours ago, while Dan was staring out the window.

  Dan stood there, next to his grandfather’s body, completely stunned. Sure, he was tough. But he was still just a kid. He hadn’t even graduated high school yet.

  And now, for the first time in his life, he was completely alone.

  Suddenly, there was a tremendous sound outside the street.

  It had been so long since he’d heard anything, Dan almost didn’t react at all.

  But the sound was only getting louder. It was the sound of engines. Not one, but many. Loud and rumbling.

  Dan grabbed the kitchen knife that he had placed on his grandfather’s bedside table and dashed out of the room.

  3

  GEORGIA

  Georgia glared down at Max and John.

  “Get the hell off the ground, you two.”

  They both started sputtering out words, trying to explain themselves.

  “You’re acting like two little kids,” said Georgia. “And I don’t want to have to treat you like such. You’re two grown men. I know you’re forgetting that, but I need you to act like the men that you are.”

  Everyone else was piling out of the tents and the van now, rubbing their sleep-filled eyes.

  It took Max and John a few minutes to calm down, but when they did, they acted embarrassed, and apologized to everyone for waking them up.

  “All right, everyone,” said Georgia, clapping her hands together. “Show’s over. Back to bed if you need the rest. If not, it’s time to work.”

  “You two should be ashamed of yourselves,” said Mandy.

  Georgia was glad to be back on her feet, so to speak. She could actually move her body now, almost in the way she could before she’d been shot. It felt good, but not as good as getting things done.

  “What do you need help with, Mom?” said James. He had a sunken look to his eyes that killed Georgia every time she saw it.

  “Go get yourself something to eat. And some coffee. Then we’ll get started. Sadie, you do the same.”

  “Is this another one of your fun little projects?” said Cynthia. “What are we doing today? Arts and crafts, maybe?”

  “You’re still sarcastic as hell even on no sleep,” said Georgia. “You were up all last night. Go back to bed if you want to be any use to anyone.”

  “Right. I’ll catch up my beauty sleep then. Another couple hours and I’ll look five years younger.”

  Georgia didn’t even crack a smile. There was work to do. She surveyed the campsite. It was a complete mess. Gear was scattered everywhere. The woodpiles had slowly grown into nothing but messes that were starting to creep over the whole campsite. They needed to get organized.

  “Georgia, can I talk to you for a minute?” It was Max, looking as sheepish as she’d ever seen him.

  “What’s up, Max?”

  “In private, I mean,” said Max, casting an eye back to his brother.

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Georgia.

  They walked together, side by side, in silence towards the trees.

  Georgia’s rifle had been slung over her back. She took it in her hands now. She didn’t like being far from camp without it at the ready, even though things had been calm. No sign of anyone.

  They stopped in a small clearing in the trees, within eyesight of camp, but out of earshot.

  Max took his binoculars from around his neck and began looking off into the distance.

  “See anything?”

  “Nope,” said Max.

  “So what’s this all about?”

  Max lowered the binoculars and looked Georgia right in the eye.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’m leaving tonight.”

  Georgia didn’t say anything for a moment. She’d been worried about this. Max had been talking on the radio with some kid for the past week, ever since he’d first made contact. The conversations hadn’t been long, but they seemed to have been on Max’s mind the entire time.

  “You don’t have to go, Max,” said Georgia. If she hadn’t been holding her rifle, she would have crossed her arms in front of her.

  Max didn’t answer. He was busy digging into the ground with the toe of his boot.

  “This just doesn’t make sense, Max. And it’s out of character.”

  “Out of character?”

  “Yeah, you’re always talking about practicality, about being realistic. You’re always trying to protect us. Our group. You know you can’t save everyone. What makes this kid different? I know this sounds harsh, but why does he deserve to be saved?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “He’s just… I don’t know. He reminds me of… If I had a son, I guess.”

  “Like the son you never had? Something’s gotten into you, Max. This doesn’t sound like you at all. Since when did you get all emotional?”

  Max shrugged.

  “I think you’re feeding me a line of bullshit,” said Georgia, looking him right in the eyes. “I think something else is going on.”

  “Maybe I am. You know me too well, Georgia. And what else is going on, then?”

  “I think you’ve gotten addicted to this.”

  “To what?”

  “To all this.
To all this running, all this fighting. It’s not fun. No one’s saying that. Mostly it’s hell. But it’s like guys who keep signing up for tours abroad again and again. They get addicted to it.”

  Max didn’t say anything, but the expression around his eyes had changed.

  “Things have calmed down now,” said Georgia. “And I’m doing better, so you know that I can take care of things here at camp. For now, at least. I just want you to be aware of what’s going on with you, Max. In the end, I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your decision. I just hope you realize what you’re getting yourself into.”

  It took Max a long time to respond. “Maybe you’re right. But I’m not the type to overthink things. All I’m doing is trying to go rescue a kid who’s in a bad situation. I’ll take the pot farmer’s truck.”

  “All right,” said Georgia. “If that’s what you want to do. I’m going to get this camp in good order. By the time you’re back, you won’t recognize it. There’s one thing that you need to know, though. One thing you’re not considering.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re going to have a hell of a time getting out of here without Mandy going along. She cares about you more than you realize, Max.”

  Max said nothing. He just nodded and turned, and walked back toward the camp. He limped slightly as he walked.

  As Georgia watched him walk away, she couldn’t help but thinking that this might be the last day she’d see Max. They’d worked and fought hard to carve out their little bit of relative safety here away from the madness of the collapsing world. And now Max was throwing himself right back into it all.

  4

  ART

  Art had been awake for an hour, lying in the darkness until dawn when the other men started stirring.

  He lay there on the filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, listening to the sounds of swearing, snores, and grunts as the men tried to shake themselves awake.

  They were packed in, about ten of them in a single room. The once-immaculate carpet had become filthy. No one took their boots off. No one changed their clothes. The smell was overpowering, almost gut-wrenching. No one showered. There wouldn’t have been any point, even if the water had worked.

  For a while, Art had thought he was getting used to the smell. But after a few weeks, something had changed. He didn’t know if he was just suddenly noticing it all more, or if everyone was smelling worse than before. He still didn’t know the answer, and it didn’t matter. Everyone stunk. Art included.

  They were packed in like sardines. They lived like rats. But Art tried to look at the positive side of things. He always had.

  He was one of the lucky ones. He was still alive. Unlike many, many others.

  Art’s positive outlook may have worked for him when he was living his pre-EMP life. Back then he was a graduate student, studying urban planning. He’d been popular with women, gone on plenty of dates, studied hard, and made sure to keep himself in good shape. He’d biked to work every day, braving the rush hour traffic on his road bike, telling himself that the physical benefits were worth it.

  Now, his positive outlook was falling apart. How could it not be? But he still clung to it. He still tried to tell himself he was lucky. He still tried to tell himself he was doing everything he could, that he wasn’t a bad person, that anyone in his position would do the same.

  It was hard to face reality. Impossible, sometimes.

  Back then, he’d lived his life conscientiously. Or at least he’d liked to tell himself that. He recycled. He donated a small percentage of his graduate student stipend every year to help out kids in need. He even volunteered in the local big brother program, which saw him tutoring a middle school student twice each week in reading and math, not to mention general life skills. How to cope with problems. How to deal with adversity. That sort of thing.

  Back then, his life had been well ordered. Now, it was chaos. Repeated chaos. And violence.

  He’d never get used to the violence.

  But he’d always been the sort of person who’d followed the rules, who did what he had to do to advance within the system. And now, those same instincts served him once again, albeit in a very different way.

  Before the EMP, the rules had been to get good grades, to make friends with the right professors, to keep his wardrobe up to date. Now, the rules were to do whatever the sergeant said. Sometimes that meant just getting gasoline. Sometimes it meant finding food.

  But the biggest rule of all was to complete the tasks at any cost. Usually the cost was someone else’s death. And at Art’s own hands.

  The images wouldn’t leave his mind. The people he’d killed, their faces were all still as fresh as ever in his memory. Every little mark, every little pore of their faces was burned into his mind.

  No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the memories. No matter how much he drank the night before, he’d wake up early with his heart pounding and the faces as vivid as if they were right before them.

  The last night, he’d gone out with the group. They’d shot two men. Art had killed one of them himself. And the most disturbing part of it was that it hadn’t even been difficult for him this time. He’d gotten used to the actual act. He’d just pulled the trigger and that was that.

  It was only afterward that he regretted it.

  He’d told himself it wasn’t his fault.

  But it was. He knew that now.

  Sure, he’d had no choice then. But he had a choice now.

  When the EMP had hit, Art had stayed holed up in his small and tidy suburban apartment.

  Then they’d come. They hadn’t identified themselves. Two men with big guns had showed up at his door. They hadn’t even said anything. Just dragged him out of his apartment, taken him to the street, and shoved him down onto the pavement. Art’s face had hit so hard that his nose broke. They’d told him to get on his knees.

  Slowly, more people joined Art. They too were instructed to get on their knees. When Art glanced at them, he recognized the neighbors he’d seen here and there over the years. They were people he’d never talked to, and sometimes not even exchanged a glance with. No one had said much to each other in that neighborhood.

  The men with the guns had gone house to house. There’d been a whole team of them, and they’d dragged everyone outside onto the street. Finally, when they had everyone left in the neighborhood rounded up, they’d given their instructions. They were crystal clear, and couldn’t be misinterpreted.

  “You’re fighting to the death,” one of them had barked out, loudly. “We’re pairing you off. If you win, you’re one of us. If you lose, you die.”

  To show that they were serious, the men had then, completely at random, shot four or five men dead. Right in the head. Dead in the street. They were the first dead bodies, not to mention deaths, that Art had ever witnessed.

  Two of the men with guns had taken Art roughly and basically dragged him off to the side. They’d handed him a hammer. He stood there quivering, facing down his next door neighbor, a man in his early fifties. Art didn’t know first name, but he knew that he was a math professor at some college, and that his last name was McGovern.

  McGovern had a crowbar in hand.

  They stood there, both of them quivering.

  Art had never been in a fight in his life. He couldn’t even look McGovern in the eye.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” The armed man had screamed in his ear.

  “Do you want to die? ‘Cause both of you are about to if you don’t get to it!”

  Art had simply not known what to do. His body felt as if it was frozen.

  Then it happened. The pair of neighbors next to them weren’t fighting either. Each of them was armed with a baseball bat. The guy who’d been screaming in Art’s ear had simply walked up to them, raised his gun, and calmly shot both of them in the head.

  That was what had spurred them on.

  Instinct kicked in.

  McGovern made the first move. He’d come at A
rt hard, swinging the crowbar high.

  But he was too old. He might have been big, with a well-developed upper body, but he’d let it go slightly to seed over the years.

  Art was young, and in good shape. Maybe he wasn’t big, but he was fast. On his commutes to work, he’d always included sprints, allowing those fast-twitch muscle fibers to develop.

  It all happened so fast that it became a complete blur. Or maybe he’d blacked out in some sense, just from the sheer intensity of the situation.

  The next thing he remembered, Art was standing over McGovern. The hammer in Art’s hand was bloody. McGovern’s skull was smashed in.

  That was the moment his life had changed. A far bigger change than the EMP himself. For him, at least.

  What he’d discovered was that he’d always had this part of him, this intense violence, but he’d never been aware of it before.

  “Nice one,” the man with the gun had said, and pulled him away from the rest of them.

  That was how Art had become one of them. No one knew exactly who they were, even the members. They were just a group. Some called them the militia. Some called them the devils. Some cursed at them, but most knew better than to do that.

  Someone was shaking Art, pulling him out of the torments of his memory.

  “Art, buddy, wake up.”

  “I’m already awake, asshole.”

  It was Joe, Art’s buddy in the militia. You couldn’t really call him a friend. But they looked out for each other. If they hadn’t, they’d probably both be dead by now.

  “Sarge is about to get here. You better get your ass out of bed.”

  Art opened his eyes finally, and as a reward got to see Joe’s face staring down at him. He was unshaven, a scraggly beard taking over his face. There were cuts along his cheek, mixed with mud that Joe hadn’t even bothered to wash off.

  The room was awash with activity. Everyone was scrambling to get their act together before the sergeant showed up.

  He wasn’t, of course, an actual sergeant. Not that it mattered now. There didn’t seem to be any army.

  And for all anyone knew, maybe the sergeant had been in the military. He sure acted like it sometimes, like a boot camp instructor. Word was he reported directly to the militia’s leader, Kor, but who knew. After all, rumors always ran rampant, and more often than not they turned out to be nothing more than fabrications.