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

by A. K. Meek

The battering ram slammed into the doorknob. It crunched loudly but didn’t give. He let fly another blunt force blow. The door molding shattered and the door swung violently inward. Clive jumped to the side once he breached the door.

  Kurt entered the house swinging his rifle left and right, senses itching with adrenaline-fueled fury. For all he knew he could be leading his deputies into an ambush. But he had to act.

  He couldn’t stand another moment of sitting on the sidelines while Bartel crumbled around him. He had to do something, even if it was chasing after a ghost.

  Methodically, they cleared the three-bedroom, two bath house. Once the rooms and closets were secure, Clive took a guy into the attic to see if Ted had stashed himself up there.

  They found nothing but computer boxes, sleeping bags, and Tupperware cartons of Christmas ornaments.

  It was quickly apparent to Kurt Ted had packed up and left home in a rush. He didn’t doubt Ted knew he’d be knocking on his door today.

  After the house was secure and his men had made sure Ted was gone, Kurt stretched his neck which had cramped from holding his rifle ready. He walked from room to room, looking for any details that might point a finger to where Ted had gone.

  There was a study just off the kitchen. On full display were Ted’s twenty-plus years of military service, immortalized in certificates, statuettes, and paraphernalia.

  On the walls hung pictures of aircraft breaking through clouds or gliding 10,000 feet above some city. Many pictures chronicled Ted as a young man entering basic. A scrawny kid in an oversized hat with bug eyes and a frown on his face. Only a mother could love that picture.

  A shadowbox on the wall held a folded flag behind glass. Next to it were mounted Air Force stripes and various military patches. On his desk was a four-tier wooden rack. It held military challenge coins of various sizes. One caught his attention and he picked it up and examined it. Etched around the edges were the words: Naval Development Group. In the middle, EOD was written in large fiery red letters.

  He tossed the coin back on the shelf where it knocked several others onto the hardwood floor. Kurt knew Ted had been a career military man. Who knew what exactly he did. Anyone who has ever talked to a veteran knows they speak a different language. Acronyms and unfamiliar terms and colloquialisms pepper their sentences.

  Ted spent some time working on some joint projects with Navy Special Operations. And to Kurt, that meant Ted, more than anybody else in the town, knew something about explosives. That and the fact he’d bugged out was enough ammunition Kurt needed to feel the justification to search the premises.

  “Sheriff,” Clive said after he finished searching a bedroom. “Find anything?”

  Kurt chewed the inside of his cheek. “Looks like he left already.” Clive didn’t need for him to say anymore.

  “To me that’s even more proof he planned to blow up the mayor,” Clive said.

  Kurt wanted to believe it. After all, he was the one who saw Ted fleeing the scene before the bomb blast. He wasn’t supposed to be in town.

  “Okay, let’s get back.”

  Johnny arrived back at the pound to a hero’s welcome.

  When Roscoe’s truck pulled into the dirt parking lot, many of the pound were already standing in a reception line. His truck shuddered to a halt, kicking dust and bite-sized crushed rock and pebbles into the air. The men held up beers and bottles of whiskey in celebration.

  It wasn’t the amount of guns Johnny brought. It wasn’t even the fact they returned safely. It was the fact Johnny was so willing to do this for Bob, for the cause, for the Dog Pound. That’s what impressed them.

  “What’s all this?” Johnny said as he stared at the lines through sleep deprived eyes, adrenaline and the post-murder high making him want to crawl from inside his skin.

  “It’s all for you Johnny-boy,” Roscoe slapped him on the back. “You’re a member now.”

  Johnny leaped from the truck and Bob, who was at the front of the group, raced over to him with his hand out. Johnny took it and Bob shook it vigorously patting him on the shoulder like a father would congratulate his son for hooking his first bass. “I knew you’d do it, Johnathon. There was no doubt in my mind that you’re one of us,” he said from behind a greasy smile. “Welcome to the club.”

  Johnny smiled because he knew Bob was sincere. They rolled out the red carpet for him. They truly appreciated him. At the back of his mind, he replayed the awful scene of him clubbing LaTonya to death. He had to force it even further back so he’d forget. Beer would do the trick.

  That night they partied, which was pretty much like any other night.

  The party lasted for days. It consisted of alcohol-fueled late-night binges, sleeping till well into the day, followed by more binges. Periodically it was broken up with an occasional raid to some lonely farmhouse for supplies or anything else that could be sold on the New Market, as it was called. In reality, it was a black market, which had replaced any honest economic system.

  A couple times, travelers were ambushed, harvested as part of a new crop. No matter the change in terms, it still meant slavery. Through a few of these exercises Johnny found out he had more tolerance to other people’s misery than he first imagined.

  In all, the Dog Pound gave him a sense of belonging. All his years he’d heard about having a calling, or knowing when you find your purpose in life. He could never relate because as he idled through dull existence, hopping from one episode to another, he’d never experienced it. Now, the goals of the Dog Pound fit him like a glove.

  Less than a week later, on an exceptionally warm day when the air sat still as a painting and the humidity made each breath taste like ocean, Johnny sat on a concrete picnic table, the top splattered with white and grey droppings. He watched the kennels with idle curiosity as several of Bob’s dogs (as they affectionately called each other) were gathering men and women.

  An old U-Tow truck, the red and white now faded and the rest covered in dust, idled at the opposite end of the kennels. A man with skin darker than night and a belly that seemed to hover close to his knees walked purposely in front of the kennels, Bob at his side. The pair were in deep discussion, looking over the inventory. They stopped in front of the kennel that held Janelle.

  Johnny’s heart leaped.

  He still remembered the first time he saw her in the kennels. Covered in dirt and grime, hair twisted in knots, and the fact she kept her back to everyone made her irresistible in some odd way.

  When Johnny first set his eyes on her in that deprived state, old feelings he’d had for her came rushing back. But this time even more twisted and carnal. Something about her being locked up in a cage made it all the more exciting. On more than one occasion as he built up his liquid courage, he wanted to ask Bob to spare her, but chickened out before ever going through with it.

  The black man with the hovering belly motioned with a stick of jerky before taking a bite. Bob waved and Gump grabbed two hockey pucks on the pole in front of the kennel and unlocked it. He barked a command and Janelle and a blonde girl stepped forward to the gate that was open enough for them to pass through.

  Suddenly, the blonde girl burst forward, slamming herself into the gate. It obviously took Gump by surprise as he fell backward, allowing the gate to swing open. The girl raced through.

  Like a seasoned human trafficker, Gump regained his composure and calmly pressed one of the hockey pucks.

  The girl screamed and clutched at her neck. She tripped and tumbled to the ground, dust exploding from where she hit hard. She continued to thrash on the ground, wailing in pain as she ripped at the orange collar on her neck, but couldn’t remove.

  The shock collar worked.

  Gump quick-stepped to the unfortunate escapee. He wrapped one large fist in her tangled mass of hair and unceremoniously dragged her back to the kennel. He slung her back inside then slammed the gate and locked it.

  With the momentary diversion over, the black man eyed Janelle and the blond for a long mi
nute. Finally, he pointed to the blond.

  Bob motioned to Gump and he went back to the kennel. She sobbed as he dragged her out of the kennel to the back of the U-Tow truck.

  Another sale.

  Inside, Johnny’s racing heart slowed. Janelle was safe. For now. He often sat out here and watched her, for hours. He could look, but not touch. The one rule. He didn’t dare disobey Bob’s rule.

  The U-Tow trundled away and Bob motioned with his hand at Johnny.

  “What’s up, boss?” Johnny said.

  “I’ve been watching you, Johnathon,” Bob said seriously.

  Immediately Johnny went on the defensive. “No boss. I haven’t done anything…”

  Bob laughed and held up his hands to slow Johnny down. “Easy son. It’s not bad. I just want to say I think you’re ready for a promotion. You have potential that reminds me of, well, me when I was younger.”

  Johnny relaxed. His shoulders settled and the nervousness in the pit of his stomach diminished. “A promotion,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Bob whispered back. “I don’t do this for just anyone.” He stared at the kennels for thoughtfully, considering. Reaching a conclusion, he said, “You can pick one for yourself.”

  “What?” Johnny said. He didn’t understand.

  Bob motioned with his head. “You can choose any girl you want.”

  Johnny smiled stupidly at Bob, waiting for the punchline. But it was no joke. Once Johnny realized this, there was no hesitation to his decision. He trotted to the kennel like a child finding a candy store just around the corner. “Her.” He pointed to Janelle.

  “I figured you’d choose her.” Bob looked her up and down. “But first, I want you to go with Roscoe. He’s going on a sacrifice run.”

  Johnny had heard of sacrifice runs many times since he’d arrived. He’d asked what that meant, but the death stares he got back told him he needed to not press the issue.

  The next morning, with the bed of his truck loaded down with sealed cardboard boxes, Roscoe and Johnny left in the early hours. Two guards, Squash and a female that acted more male than female, rode in the back. They each held AK-47s and had plenty of ammo to spare—thanks to Johnny.

  “So where are we going?” Johnny asked as Roscoe left a paved road and turned onto a dirt path that found its way deep into a pecan orchard, far away from any streets or houses.

  Off to the left, close to the horizon, several trails climbed into the still sky, smoke from campfires or bonfires. Roscoe saw Johnny’s eyes wander in that direction and intercepted him before any question was asked. “Those are zombie lands,” Roscoe said.

  “Zombies?”

  “Diseased. Infected. From the fallout. We were attacked with nukes. Some bad mojo in those bombs hit a lot of people. Hard.”

  “It turned them into zombies? You mean like eat your brains and stuff? You’re kidding.”

  “Not those zombies. More of those on the verge of being dead. Walking dead, if you know what I mean.”

  Johnny really didn’t know what Roscoe meant, and Roscoe plainly saw it on Johnny’s face.

  “They’re suffering from the fallout. Sickness, sores, gross things. We don’t know if what they’ve got is contagious or not, so better to keep them far away from us. Any stumble across our paths and we ship them here. Or put them in the dirt.”

  At first Johnny thought that was a cruel thing to do, but as the truck continued plowing along the isolated road, diving deeper into backwoods orchards and overgrown swaths of land, he remembered the wall being built around Bartel. His brother turning away people who suddenly found themselves homeless, stranded in this world, was no different. Whatever the reasons were, they were kept from entering the town.

  Firsthand he saw the damage strangers could do. He thought of his nephew, Shiloh. Then he thought of his daughters, the ones he left behind. He couldn’t remember the last time he thought about them. The weeks were a whirlwind of parties and blackout episodes. With enough practice, he found he could block many unpleasant things from his mind. Like his life before he came to the Dog Pound. Even if that included his daughters. They were just victims caught in the crossfire of neglect.

  The truck’s brakes screeched as Roscoe pulled over on the dirt road they’d been traveling. This put them in the middle of nowhere, Georgia. The guards hopped out the back of the truck, produced a dolly, and began unloading the boxes. Johnny stared at the unkempt foliage and twisting vines that created a wall of green. “Where are we?”

  No one answered.

  Once the dolly had been loaded to near tipping over, Roscoe secured a box as well. “Grab a box, let’s go.”

  Johnny scanned the truck bed and snatched up what looked like the lightest box and followed them down a well-worn path he hadn’t noticed.

  The jutting branches still made the narrow path difficult to navigate. Mosquitoes hovered under the canopy, waiting in swarms for any poor soul unlucky enough to wander past.

  After ten minutes of wandering and Johnny feeling like the box was about to slip through his sweaty hands, they four emerged through a break in the foliage.

  The area had been cleared of trees, leaving jagged stumps in an area thirty yards in diameter. A metal machine, thirty feet high, rose from the center of the clearing. It Johnny think of a full-size Transformer. Around the base of the robot sat five Asian men.

  04.01

  A PLEASANT RIDE

  Kurt clicked his tongue as he gently guided Calliope through the woods. Each day he pushed a little further out, meandering through once ripe peach orchards which had turned black with sour fruit. The reason the fruit turned bad escaped him. He didn’t know if it was from lack of care or something unseen, something toxic in the air that he couldn’t detect. Something deadly. Maybe fallout from up north had drifted down to central Georgia. Or it could’ve been the perpetual black and grey clouds that had shut out the sun, leaving the sky in perpetual twilight. He didn’t know, but he had the sense that the land was dying. A real death.

  His excuse for the daily ride was to check on the wall. In truth, he liked these moments because they got him away from the office. Not only that, he could get outside the wall and away from Bartel. The town had become a suffocating cage.

  He thrived on these moments, when he was able to shirk his responsibility. He wasn’t sure, but he would’ve sworn Calliope felt the same way.

  Leaning forward, he rubbed her neck. Sometimes he thought about letting her go. Just hopping off her back, ripping the saddle off and smacking her on the butt to send her on her way. Out of town. At least she could be free. But he never did.

  They meandered between orchard rows that had once been the lifeblood of Georgia’s crop production. Gone. So much was gone. Bartel and the small town way of life, his son, his brother. And now LaTonya. Another murder.

  The sheriff’s office, of all places, was broken into—weapons stolen. Who knew who did it. Of all the places in town that should’ve been safe, you’d think it was his office. He berated himself for not keeping a better watch.

  People were desperate. He knew that. Desperate for food, shelter, safety. The rules had gone out the window.

  LaTonya. Bludgeoned to death five feet from his office. He still had a hard time wrapping his mind around it. If a deputy isn’t safe in the sheriff’s office, what hope is there for anyone else?

  And here he was taking his horse out riding around, acting like he could escape from it all. What had he become?

  Calliope paused, stamped her foot. She snorted.

  Kurt thought possibly a snake slithered across her path. “Easy girl,” he said and rubbed her neck. He tightened up on the reins to ensure she didn’t bolt. Clicking his tongue again, he pressed her sides to spur her along, but she didn’t move.

  A noise to the left, rustling in the runoff ditch next to the trail. He stood up in the saddle to get a better view. Then he heard a raspy cough, very light, but definitely a cough. A human cough.

  “Whoa girl,” he w
hispered and slid from the saddle. Quietly, he slid his shotgun from the scabbard. As quietly as he could, he braced the stock on his shoulder and subconsciously rubbed his index finger against the trigger guard. He moved toward the noise.

  Alongside the dirt path, overgrown grass, stray vines, and scraggly bushes created a hiding spot. The perfect spot for a person, or persons, to hide.

  As he approached, the rustling grew louder. “Hello there,” he said, lifting his shotgun a little closer to eye level. “Come out, I won’t hurt you.”

  No answer.

  He took a few cautious steps closer and pulled one of the hammers on his double barrel back. The loudness of the click made his hair stand on end. Hopefully it made theirs do the same. With the barrel, and as carefully as a surgeon would use a scalpel, he moved a section of growth aside.

  A scream from the bush sent him reeling back. A female voice. A scared female voice. “Come out,” he ordered. He waited half a minute then stepped closer. With his foot, he pushed into the undergrowth and found black female, filthy, curled up in a ball, trembling.

  If someone could ever be considered feral, on the edge of human and wild animal, it would be this girl. As Kurt studied her, he felt a tug of recognition, but couldn’t quite capture it yet. He uncocked his shotgun and lowered it. “Are you okay?” he asked, even as he realized that was a stupid question to ask someone curled in a ball in a bush.

  Her eyes were wide with terror. Her body trembled and her mouth moved a fraction but any words traveled from her into the dirt, inaudible.

  Kurt had a decision to make.

  Here he was staring at somebody that obviously needed help. Someone alone in the world. His first thought was to leave her. He’d had enough of strangers.

  But she was alone. Defenseless. Who knew what she’d been through. The mayor’s standing order, which he happily enforced, said no outside people were allowed into Bartel.

  She could be a ruse, set up to lure him in, with a hundred scavengers waiting to storm the city. She was the Trojan horse. But his gut said different. Call it intuition. Twenty-plus years of experience. Whatever it was, he couldn’t leave her here.