Town on Fire: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Series, 25BF Season 2 (25 Bombs Fell)

by A. K. Meek

  “No. That doesn’t explain the reports we heard before we lost power. Let’s see if there are any survivors.”

  Most of what turned up were dead bodies, or signs of people having left their vehicles. They searched wreckage, racing against the fading sun in the hopes of finding anyone alive.

  After a half mile, Clive spotted a familiar car flipped over, its top crushed onto the soft shoulder. “Hey, over here.”

  Trailing behind, Kurt rushed to where Clive waved. He dropped to his knees. “Kyle, Samuel!” he cried out when he saw two of his three deputies.

  “Can you see anything?” Clive asked.

  “Hold on.” A fizz and intense red lit the twilight. Kurt waved a road flare near the window. Odd shadows danced and scattered.

  Clive slid a little away from him. “What about gas, or fumes?”

  “Stop it. That’s only in movies.” He crawled forward and pressed his face against the earth, trying to peer into the crushed car top. “Kyle Anderson, Samuel Biggs?” The flare sputtered, but Kurt swore he could hear a voice from inside the trashed patrol cruiser.

  “Take this.” He handed Clive the flare and started scraping loose dirt like a dog digging underneath a fence. He pressed his head into the dog hole. There wasn’t much room, but enough for him to see a body folded impossibly small, crammed into the space between the passenger seat and dashboard.

  “Sheriff,” Kyle whispered. “Sam’s here.”

  “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you out.”

  “Get Sam.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Kurt’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Don’t worry about Samuel,” Kurt whispered back. “Let’s get you out of there.”

  A broken piece of fender became a shovel. For the next hour, Kurt and Clive worked feverishly, undercutting the smashed cruiser to create enough gap in the earth to pull Kyle’s body through.

  “The machine,” Kyle said as his head cleared the car. His voice was panicked. “Is the machine here?”

  “Machine?” Clive looked at Kurt.

  “He’s delusional. In shock. We need to get him to the hospital.”

  “Sheriff, watch out for the machine,” Kyle was insistent. He clutched the sheriff’s sleeve with a sweaty hand. “I saw it. It’s ferocious.”

  “Yes, the machine,” Kurt reassured Kyle’s delirium with thick placation. “I’ll watch it. Now we’re going to have you finish crawling out.”

  Another fifteen minutes and they finally wrenched his body free from the flattened cruiser. His leg was broken. They lashed a makeshift brace to stabilize it before hoisting him onto Kurt’s horse, Calliope.

  They’d spent over an hour there. Being in one place for so long made Kurt’s hair stand on end. “Let’s get him out of here. Who knows what’s left out there.”

  “Bob’s still missing,” Clive reminded Kurt of the missing deputy.

  “I know. But we have Kyle now and he needs help. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. We’ll come back.”

  The three men and two horses picked their way through the wasted highway, guided by the ghostly red glow of the remaining flares.

  And Kurt was glad when the last one burned out so he could imagine none of this happened.

  He sat in his darkened office, the only light a sputtering kerosene lamp on his desk.

  Kurt knew he needed to go home, to get away from office turmoil for a bit. Get some good sleep in his own bed. Marcia would take care of him. She always did.

  Shiloh was scared. Kurt had told his son the bad things in the world wouldn’t stop for him to spend time with his family. But he assured him he’d be back home soon. That was two days ago, when the world fell apart.

  At some point in his tenure as sheriff, he convinced himself that the sheer act of staying in his office would minimize terrible things happening in his town. It may have been a mistaken presumption, but one he clung to, like any good superstition.

  After Clive had picked up his nieces, their father had taken it as an open invitation. He’d been hanging out at the station ever since. And like Kurt expected, his brother had managed to find some whiskey and drink himself stupid.

  In the morning he’d send the girls to his house. Marcia loved having them over, always wanting a daughter of her own. Lord knows they needed a mother figure.

  They needed a father figure too. Someone other than Johnny.

  Speaking of Johnny, he walked into Kurt’s office, startling his brother from his thoughts. Fortunately, it was dark so Johnny couldn’t see him blushing.

  “What’re you doing?” Kurt asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Head’s hurting.” He rubbed his temples like he needed to back up the statement. “I’m shaky.”

  “Probably withdrawal.” Kurt’s voice was flat and matter of fact. And cold.

  Johnny was determined to not give in to his baiting. He felt like crap and wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Instead, he studied Kurt’s military and police career on display. Awards, military challenge coins, and going away trinkets covered in flags and eagles. Kurt was the most patriotic guy in town. Just ask him.

  “I think I have the flu,” Johnny said, turning away from Kurt’s I Love Me wall.

  “I think you—” Kurt caught himself and swallowed the witty comeback he had planned. Any attempt to point out his brother’s faults would be wasted breath.

  Johnny hoisted a small figurine, an eagle with its wings spread wide. He couldn’t make out the inscription. “What happened out there? To your guys?”

  “Sam’s gone. He was killed.”

  “Wow. Bummer, huh.”

  Kurt’s throat contracted as he thought of Trish and their five-month old baby. “I wouldn’t quite call it a bummer. That’s what you say when your turn at the bong is skipped.”

  Johnny lifted his hands defensively. “Whoa, easy, bro. I just meant that’s bad is all.”

  “Yeah,” Kurt knew he was probably being more sensitive than the situation called for, and his brother was too dense to actually taunt him.

  “You know,” Kurt said as he reflected, “Samuel was the youngest deputy on staff. I hired him right out of the Academy.”

  He chuckled. “I remember meeting him at one of the high school outreaches. Twelve-year-old Samuel strode right up to me and said he was going to be a police officer. And from the look in his eye I knew he would do it, too. He was determined.

  “Over the years I checked up on him. Even before he graduated high school he applied to the Academy. I personally wrote his recommendation letter.”

  Johnny tossed the figurine back onto the shelf. “So you’re saying he was like a little brother to you?”

  “Something like that.” Kurt’s voice was subdued.

  The room had become chilly even though it was summer. And Kurt wished Johnny would leave.

  Fortunately, it didn’t take the awkward silence long to make Johnny retreat. Kurt watched him meander back through the main office, over to some cots where his girls slept.

  Kurt thought about when he and Clive returned from the death road.

  They took Kyle to Doc Armitage, an eighty-year-old retired pediatrician. Bartel had no hospital, and with Haven—the nearest hospital—being out of the question, the sole med stop clinic had been slammed.

  Kurt reasoned old Doc would be used to working in primitive conditions, without electricity. He was.

  Sam dead, Kyle at Doc’s with a broken leg, and Bob unaccounted for. So much for his deputies.

  LaTonya had winnowed out only two citizens that met her criteria. Knowing her, the criteria would be stiff. But he was exhausted and couldn’t even read a resume if he wanted to, which he didn’t. That could wait till morning.

  As soon as everything went south, he figured he might need some more peacekeepers to beef up his deputies as they were already stretched thin. He had a bad feeling things were going to get worse, whether he remained at post or turned away for a second.

&nb
sp; His bad feelings would prove true quicker than even he expected.

  01.04

  COURTHOUSE

  The night didn’t last near long enough. That’s what Kurt’s body told him as dirty light, peeking through the window, awakened him. He rubbed his temples as he separated himself from his chair to a semi-hunched position. That was all his stiff back would allow.

  The smell of burning filled his nose. He snorted to get rid of the odor then attempted to finish straightening his back. But before he could, Clive burst into the office.

  “Boss, we got an issue. It’s Farrah.”

  This wouldn’t help him at all. Regretfully, Kurt followed Clive outside. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with the reverend.

  Outside, low, grey clouds crowded the sky. But brightness from an invisible sun permeated the overhead haze. It all smelled of smoke, of a distant fire. But it wasn’t a forest fire; it had the smell of chemicals, or metal. Some great fire had spread a smoke blanket over the town, so low it looked like you could reach your hand up and touch the air.

  Thirty people, mostly black, had gathered on the steps of the courthouse, across the street from the sheriff’s office. Kurt could see Reverend Farrah’s lime green suit even from this distance.

  He arrived in town on a December night when injustice roamed the streets and white suppression was a hound at the heels of every decent, hard-working black man and woman. This was according to Reverend Farrah, of course.

  God had personally reached down from Heaven and tugged on Farrah’s ear and told him to set up shop so he could sweep the streets clean.

  He had bought the dilapidated First Baptist church on Commercial Square and converted it to the First AME Church.

  Sometimes, like now, Kurt wished the fire department hadn’t saved the abandoned church three years ago, before Farrah moved in.

  At the top of the courthouse stairs, leading the agitated crowd, stood the man himself.

  He didn’t need a megaphone as his voice had a shrillness that could slice concrete.

  He yelled that the mayor needed to lay out what she knew about the attack and what happened in the world. But Kurt knew she was as clueless as everyone else. That trivial fact wouldn’t deter Farrah from pushing his activist agenda to his congregation.

  Kurt sighed, mentally steadied himself, then walked the block that separated the sheriff’s office from the courthouse. He pushed through the crowd so that he stood at the base of Farrah’s impromptu stage.

  “Reverend,” he interrupted, “What’re you doing?” He didn’t hide his annoyance too well.

  Farrah had worked himself in a fervor, spouting incoherent words like he’d written up talking points on the evils of government while drunk. Kurt couldn’t follow his logic beyond Farrah hated everything, and you should too.

  Pausing mid-rant, Farrah finally noticed Kurt. He crossed his arms and put on his smug, devilish smile.

  “Reverend, what are you doing?” Kurt repeated.

  “Sheriff, I’m exercising my First Amendment.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t be here. I want to know why you’re here.”

  “A reliable source told me the city knows more about what’s going on. But they keep us in the dark.” His voice pitched again as he turned to the crowd, eyes maniacally wide. “They keep us in the dark!”

  The group voiced their agreement with their reverend as they let insults fly. Kurt started up the steps to try and reason with Farrah out of earshot of the mob. One of them, a teenager wearing three gold chains, ran up the stairs and started cursing out Kurt. The teen drew near enough so that the spit flying from his mouth splashed Kurt’s face.

  Clive attempted to wedge himself between the sheriff and the young antagonist. He shoved the kid who stumbled backward, almost falling off the steps. He twisted his ankle and screamed as he dropped to his knees.

  The crowd collectively gasped. Many more rushed onto the stairs, forming a tight circle around the sheriff and deputy.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Farrah screamed. “You’ve seen the unmistakable proof with your own eyes. Every chance law enforcement has, they push and bully us. Even children. It makes no matter to them.”

  The air became electric as the crowd cursed and fist-thumped. Closing in, they blocked the two from any exit. Kurt knew that one sideways look could ignite them.

  “Back away!” Clive shouted, still attempting to exert his legal authority which always vanishes with mob rules.

  They responded with more shouting as they moved in one mass of anger. The mob pushed against the pair, a wave of anger ready to shove them off the stairs.

  Someone sucker punched Kurt. Lights flashed in his eyes as pain erupted in his temple and rocketed through his head. Overcome with dizziness, he found himself frantically grasping at anything to keep from tumbling over. Getting a fistful of Clive’s sleeve in time kept him from hitting the unforgiving steps.

  “I said stand down,” Clive shouted. He racked his pistol and took a defensive firing position, feet shoulder-width apart, left forward. Kurt had seen him fire a thousand times on the range and knew his body was ready to accept recoil.

  Head still reeling from the cheap shot, Kurt leaned close to his deputy so there was no mistaking what he was going to say. “Are you prepared to shoot down a protestor on the mayor’s doorstep?”

  Clive, caught up in the emotion and chaos of the moment, stared at the crowd with unblinking eyes. His breath was shallow. Another moment and his posture softened. “They’re getting out of hand,” he explained.

  “We have to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand, not help speed it along.”

  “You see,” Farrah said with a sarcastic sweeping gesture, “all we want are answers. They don’t give us anything, except treatment like we’re criminals. Gun us down in the streets.”

  Kurt turned back to Farrah. “I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t much. There’s no need—”

  Screams drowned him out. The mob, suddenly emboldened by Clive’s drawn weapon, surged around the two with renewed anger.

  Fear was in their eyes. Fear of the new world that had suddenly fallen upon them. Fear of the unknown death and the unsettling of a comfortable life where the worst concern was where to eat dinner, McDonald’s or Chick-Fil-A. First world problems had been replaced by third world survival.

  Most people live life looking for the comfortable autopilot. A routine to live by. A reliable job, a reliable spouse waiting at home, a local store with the same hours, eight to eleven. The bread is where the bread should be, the vegetables together in their forest of fruits and veggies. All routine and normal.

  The bombs fell and disrupted that routine. When the unknown “x-factor” is inserted into the mix, it spreads havoc.

  Kurt had seen it play out a hundred times. Only at a minor level. The extraordinary inserted into the ordinary.

  People react in one or two ways. Some take the situation and evaluate, and from there decide the best route to proceed. Unfortunately, most react the second way. Irrational knee-jerk responses driven by fear.

  Everyone goes one of these directions. It comes down to conditioning.

  The people that were racing up the stairs were the second. He saw it in their eyes. Otherwise law-abiding citizens driven to unlawful things out of fear.

  He backed up the stairs toward Farrah as a million hands clawed at him and his deputy.

  The siren mounted on the uppermost gable of the courthouse erupted in ear-splitting defiance.

  Air conditioning units sparked to life, condenser fans spinning. Several vehicles that had sat silent roared back to life. A distant car horn blared. Street lights blinked on. Bartel once again was drowned in the ambient background of electric hum.

  The mob that had been intent on tearing the sheriff and his deputy apart a moment ago stopped in their tracks. They stared at the sky, at the street lights, at each other.

  “Whoa,” Clive exclaimed as he also searched for some
explanation for the sudden return of electricity.

  “It’s a miracle,” Reverend Farrah proclaimed and threw up his arms. The crowd echoed him, adding “Praise God,” and “hallelujahs.”

  At the back of Kurt’s aching mind, he had come to the conclusion some sort of EMP had killed everything. The extent of his knowledge, though, went only as far as what Hollywood defined as EMPs. He had thought the pulse explained why cars or their walkie talkies no longer worked, which indicated much more than a simple power failure. From what he could recall, the EMP would blow everything out, which didn’t happen as everything appeared to be working again.

  What he considered now was how long would it stay on.

  Seizing the moment with everyone being distracted, he grabbed hold of his deputy’s arm. “Come on.” They pushed through the mob, past Farrah.

  “Where we going?” Clive asked.

  “To a television.”

  As part of the early, hastily drawn up contingency plan, two city employees were stationed as temporary building guards. They were to monitor the flow of visitors into the courthouse, where the mayor’s office was.

  Kurt had foreseen his deputies would be stretched thin from the beginning. And with the sudden loss of three, including Bob, he was already behind the curve of having enough to keep the town from complete chaos. He knew it was coming. He had seen a small sample with Farrah and his mob. It was all just a matter of when.

  “Stay back and don’t kill anyone,” he said at the courthouse entrance once the building guards let him in. “Get a hold of LaTonya. Make sure she’s listening to the scanner to see what’s going on. And tell her to get those recruits ready. Get Johnny off his lazy butt. Put him to work at the station.”

  “Doing what?” Clive said. “Make him a deputy?”

  “Johnny should never have a gun,” Kurt yelled over his shoulder and disappeared around a corner.

  He had walked through these hallways a million times, a home away from home. He passed the DMV section and the county tax assessor’s office, finally coming to a set of double glass doors. Councilman Aldrich, a Desert Storm vet who still wore a flat top and probably would in the grave, waved at him.