Hideaway (Book 1): An EMP Thriller

by Hayden, Roger

  James patted the pistol at his side. “I need a vehicle. Any 1970s model or older should do.”

  Davis opened his arms and turned to the church. “You could always stay here. Where's your wife?”

  “That's all right,” James said in an appreciative tone. “She's pretty far from here, but she's waiting for me to come back.”

  After a pause, the sheriff then offered another suggestion. “You brought up classic cars. Get with Bill Mosley. He has a farm about a mile up the road. I believe he has a classic Dodge Challenger.”

  James's eyes lit up. “Does it run?”

  Davis shrugged. “I can't say, but he might let it go at the right price.”

  “I've got cash,” he said, eagerly ready to fork it over for a ride.

  “Go and talk to him then,” Davis said, stopping in front of the church. “I'd take you there myself, but I can't leave.”

  James swung his backpack around, taking out a small notepad and pen. “Can I get the address?”

  The sheriff pointed out toward the road. “You'll see 2438 on an old mailbox off a dirt road. I haven't seen Bill in a couple of days, but you tell him Sheriff Davis sent you.”

  James thanked him with a hearty handshake to follow. Though there were a few vehicles parked near the church and plenty more throughout town, James was running out of time. He needed a vehicle that worked. He hurried through the church lot, bypassing dusty, debris-covered cars covered. Sheriff Davis yelled out to him as he reached the road. “You be careful out there. Those escaped prisoners are everywhere.”

  James spun around with a brief nod of acknowledgment.

  “We've got plenty of bicycles!” Davis continued as if remembering. “Sure beats walking.”

  James turned completely from the road. The sheriff had a point.

  Davis waved him on back where they had them stored inside a large tool shed behind the church. Under the shade of an overhead canopy were several food dehydration units, with trays of dried fruit next to water funneling pumps. He felt as though the sheriff must have trusted him to even bring him back there in the first place. Davis slid open the door to the tool shed, revealing what looked like a small bike store; adult bikes, kid bikes, and everything else.

  “We've gathered them up for short-distance mobility,” Davis explained. “Nothing more, nothing less.” He then asked James to “take his pick,” stepping aside. Not wanting to spend all day sorting through bikes, he grabbed a red ten-speed Huffy with thick, sturdy tires and was on his way. As he pedaled off, after a wobbly start, James felt confident in his mission so far. He had rarely encountered such kindness before or after the EMP attack, first with Larry and Carol opening their home to him, and now with the town sheriff. There were bad elements in any crisis, but James would be hard-pressed to not find just as many selfless people along the way. Nothing, however, could prepare him for what awaited at Bill Mosley's farm.

  Farmhouse

  James pedaled the bike up the hill and reached the top after an exhaustive effort. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. Farther down the hill, he saw running barbed wire along a spacious field and tall, wavy grass that moved with the breeze. There had been only a few homes along his way yet. The area seemed every bit as isolated as Larry's neck of the woods. But he felt relief upon the open road. He felt free and uninhibited. He only had so much time left before Larry grew suspicious. His journey had led him this far, and he wasn't about to turn back now.

  Coasting down the hill, James straightened the handle bars, trying to maintain balance on the bumpy road or cracked pavement and uneven asphalt. He flew down the hill after picking up some speed and then began pedaling with the evening of the road that stretched far ahead. He estimated his distance traveled at nearly a mile, but there were still no homes in sight. Davis could have been off. There was always that possibility.

  James skidded to the side of the road under the shade of passing clouds. An increasing wind picked up amid a sky awash in gray. A storm was on the horizon, its distance hard to assess. James only knew that he needed to expedite his mission however possible. He raised the binoculars hanging from a lanyard around his collar and looked far ahead. Within sight was a rusty, crooked mailbox at the end of a dirt road. He could barely make out the numbers, but they looked very close to 2438. No other homes were around. There were no vehicles left abandoned haphazardly in the middle of the road, and there were no people either.

  James pedaled forward, excited about what awaited him ahead. He felt ready to make a deal and eager to talk to Bill Mosley no matter the challenge. His doubts remained, but James remained hopeful. To put a price on a working vehicle was near impossible, and it would probably stay that way for some time. He only hoped that Mosley would be fair if he was even at home.

  James turned onto the dirt road, his tires wobbling through the sand. The path curved ahead, under pointy, skeletal branches of woods running along each side. James hopped off the bike and placed it behind some bushes on one side. He jumped ahead and kept a steady pace around the dirt path as a two-story home soon came into view beyond the tunnel of woods at his side.

  He emerged into an open area, surprised to see a modest corn field on full display with a small garden next to it, surrounded by chicken wire. To the opposite side of the house was a big red barn, complete with an open door on top and hay sticking out. Its bottom door, however, was closed. James turned from the barn and cautiously approached Mosley's two-story house with its surrounding porch deck and thin wood pillars that reached to the roof of the second floor.

  The windows had vertical shutters that were open, which was a good sign, along with a pick-up truck parked on the side of the house. He didn't see the Dodge Challenger yet but remained hopeful that Mosley had it hidden somewhere. He walked up the steps and approached the front door, ready to engage in some bartering. He opened the screen door and rapped his knuckles across the granite surface of the door’s blue wooden surface. “Mr. Mosley?” he said, pausing. “My name is James Weller. Sheriff Davis sent me here to talk with you.”

  Ear pressed against the door, he listened and waited, but there was no immediate answer. James knocked again, only to hear the faint shattering of glass breaking from inside the house. He froze upon hearing some tumbling, followed by another crash. As his hand went for the door knob, a man crashed through the window right next to him, rolling onto the porch deck and collapsing against the wooden railing, a bloody mess. James backed away from the door in utter shock as he reached for his pistol.

  The front door swung open as several men rushed outside with menacing steps. They hadn't yet noticed James, but he wondered for how long he could stay hidden.

  “Why aren't you at the church with the others, old man?” one of the men asked as they surrounded their beaten victim.

  James peeked out from behind the open door and saw the trembling man on the ground, struggling to get up as the group descended upon him, punching and kicking him back down. James's hands shook as he ejected his pistol's magazine, examining how many rounds he had left. The side hole gave him a visible count of ten. The gang before him weren't the same men he had encountered at the church. They seemed even more violent. James inched closer, careful to stay hidden and prepared to intervene once again.

  The men before him, like the earlier convicts, were various sizes and builds--bulky, lanky, short, and tall. They wore mismatched, ill-fitting clothes James could only assume had been stolen from one of the other homes.

  “Get up, you old bastard!” a lanky man with a skull cap shouted. A thickly muscular black man next to him then lifted the old man straight into the air by one large hand gripping his neck. “Why do you have to lie to us? I know you got a safe around here. All you have to do is tell us where it is.”

  A broad-shouldered mustached man wearing a bandana, and sunglasses chimed in. “Then we take what we want, and we're out of here.” Laughter among the group followed. The old man gasped and struggled to answer, grabbing his assailant’s a
rm, legs kicking in the air.

  James readied his pistol when he caught a glimpse of shotgun in one of the men's hands. They were armed, and it wouldn't be so easy to chase them off. They continued to taunt Bill as he choked and pleaded with them for his life.

  “Got... no... safe...” he said, sputtering within each shortening breath. “Please...”

  The skull cap man stepped back in disbelief. “You'd rather die than tell us where the safe is?” He stopped and signaled to the choker, who continued to hold Bill with next to no effort. “Colt,” he said, identifying the man. “Take this fool out. He ain't worth our time.” Colt complied, tightening his grip.

  James chambered a round as careful as he could. He stepped forward, aiming squarely at the head of the shotgun man. His tattooed face was turned to the side with a smirk and an odd bowl cut going around his head. With his arms steady and both hands interlaced around the grip, he pulled the trigger as the pistol rocked upward, blasting a round into the air.

  On instinct, half the men flew to the ground immediately after the first bullet struck shotgun man, dropping him like a sack of rocks. The shotgun fell to the ground with him and another convict reached for it, leaving James no choice. He aimed down and fired twice this time, hitting the man in the back. The man shouted and then went limp. Bill's assailant dropped him at once and then spun around as most of his group either went to the floor or were quickly crawling away.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “N-No one,” James said. He watched carefully as the looming giant of a man inched closer to the shotgun lying only a foot away. There appeared to be two dead out of their crew thus far. The others had run off, even the skull cap man who had seemed to be taking so much pleasure in everything only moments before.

  “Your ass is about to be dead,” the man said, with his hands above his head.

  During their tense confrontation, James glanced over the man's shoulder and saw Bill wheezing as he rose. His bloodied face was a mess of cuts and gashes from both the beatings and the glass shards that covered the floor. He reached for the shotgun, his intentions unclear to James.

  “You going to shoot an unarmed man,” Colt asked James, on his knees and holding his hands in the air. They locked eyes for a moment, each of them burning with contempt. Colt lowered his hands and went to push himself from the floor, when suddenly the barrel of the shotgun came to the back of his head.

  “No!” James shouted, but it was too late.

  Colt's eyes widened upon feeling the cold steel at the back of his head. A deafening blast followed that blew his head apart in a splattering mess. James stumbled back and fell against the wall with a ringing sound in his ears. He crawled back, desperate to find cover. He reached the corner of the house, stunned to see a near headless body lying on its chest, endless blood flowing.

  Bill lay behind Colt's body, staring up at the ceiling and gripping the shotgun close. He looked to be losing consciousness quick in his rapid, delirious breaths.

  “My name is James Weller. Sheriff Davis sent me here to check on you. Please, drop the shotgun. The men who assaulted you are gone.” Sitting against the rail, he paused and waited, holding the pistol in both hands. “Bill, can you hear me?”

  A moment later, Bill dropped the shotgun to his side and lay there, covered in blood and bits of skull and brain matter from his kill. James used the porch railing to stand and approached Bill with caution across slippery ground. The old man was losing consciousness.

  “Stay with me, Bill,” James said, lifting him up. He carried Bill back inside, arm around his shoulder, and dropped him on the couch. The house had been ransacked, with its flipped furniture, opened drawers, and scattered papers throughout the place. James ran into the kitchen and grabbed the first towels he could see, returning to Bill in haste.

  “Where are your car keys, Bill? We need to get you out of here.”

  Bill looked up at him in a delirious daze. His left eye was swollen shut. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I'm a friend of Sheriff Davis.” James paused, trying to think of an explanation that would make sense. “He sent me here to check on you.”

  Bill's head sank back into the couch cushion as James carefully picked pieces of glass from the cuts on his arms. The house had no power, which wasn't surprising, but James was disappointed to find that there was no running water either. Bill was a mess, covered in blood that wasn't just his own. The three bodies outside weren't so fortunate. James wiped at Bill's wounds, staining towel after towel. The ringing in his ears remained and his hands shook uncontrollably. The shootout had happened so fast, and without warning. He feared that more would come back to finish the job.

  “Bill, wake up,” he said, shaking him. “You have a Dodge Challenger, right?”

  Barely conscious, Bill shook his head and spoke just above a whisper. “Get out of here...” He soon drifted off to sleep despite James's pleas. There was no use. He had been badly beaten and rendered unconscious.

  James sprung up from the couch and paced the room. Part of him didn't know if he'd even get out of Winslow alive. He left the spacious living room, stepping over a fallen bookcase, and rushed to the hall where he found a bathroom. He turned the faucet knobs as a reflex, but no water came out.

  Seething with frustration, James glanced at his sweaty, tense reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bulged and crazed. Blood spatter covered the thick stubble on his cheeks, his short hair a wavy mess. The front of his T-shirt was drenched with sweat and blood. His backpack was gone, and he couldn't remember what he did with it. He gripped the sink, staring into the mirror, telling himself that he was going to make it.

  He took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen, looking around. There was a truck in the front, but no sign of a Challenger. He began opening drawers. Silverware clanged together as he opened one, while junk mail sprouted from another. He pulled open drawer after drawer until he reached the end of the counter. Looking up, he froze upon spotting a key rack with various keys hanging on all six hooks.

  Two of them looked distinctively like car keys. He snatched them both without hesitation and then returned to the living room to find Bill passed out on the couch. He was still breathing but didn't look any better. James continued outside the house, stepping over a near headless body slumped in front of the door. It was best not to look. He then saw his backpack lying on the side of the porch where he had fallen. He picked it up and hurried across the creaking floor.

  Once down the steps, James headed directly toward the barn. He opened the first of two red double doors as daylight beamed inside. A rumbling followed from the gray sky above. It looked as though a thunderstorm would break out at any moment. But that was the least of James's concerns. He walked inside the barn to the encompassing smell of hay shrouded in the shadows. Continuing across the straw-covered sand, he saw a large object in the corner of the otherwise empty barn, covered by a blue plastic tarp. His heart beat wildly as he approached the shape of what looked like a distinguished automobile. The sheriff may have been right after all. James lifted the tarp from the front, revealing headlights and a slim front grill with the Challenger logo decal.

  Brimming with anticipation, he uncovered the car completely, dragging the tarp to the bumper of the car, fully exposing it. There in the falling dust of a hay-stacked barn sat a classic two-door Dodge Challenger in near-mint condition with its flawless white paint, side tinted windows, and new tires. James stepped back in awe, clutching the keys in his hand. His mind harkened back to his Pontiac Firebird, tragically lost in the chaos of the attack that Friday morning.

  James walked around to the driver's side, pulling the unlocked door open. He sat at the wheel with four keys in his hand. He placed the others on the seat next to him and chose the long skinny key with the curved “C” on it. It fit beautifully inside the ignition, further raising his spirits. The Challenger starting would be no less than a miracle. Of course, in their new world, nothing was gu
aranteed.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said, turning the key.

  A spastic choke followed as the engine vibrated. Not near dissuaded, he turned the ignition again, pressing the gas as the engine sputtered, rattled, and then roared to life. James slapped the steering wheel, ecstatic beyond words. His eyes welled with tears of joy as an uncontrollable smile widened along his face. He glanced at the dashboard and saw that they had a half a tank, plenty to get to the church. James leaned against the hood, felling light-headed. The horrific incident played out in his mind with every gruesome detail vivid as the moment it happened. He knew he had to stay focused. All that mattered was getting Bill inside the car. Everything else could wait. With the engine running, he left the barn and ran toward the house, determined to get out of Winslow for good.

  The Dodge Challenger burned through the church parking lot, tires skidding as James slammed on the brakes. He held down the horn as its blare echoed through the lot. Bill lay in the passenger seat, a blanket to his neck. His face was discolored, and he appeared to have a high fever, but he was nonetheless coming to. He opened his non-swollen eye, confused at the new surroundings. James held down the horn again as he sat staring at the front entrance.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” he said under his breath. “Get out here.”

  “Where are we?” Bill said, raising his head. Near half of his face was now swollen, not just his eye. He looked around, bewildered and straining to see. “Who are you?”

  “My name is James. You were attacked by some men. I came to your aid.”

  The front entrance swung open and the sheriff emerged, rifle in hand and two women cautiously following. Davis walked toward the car and lowered his weapon upon recognizing not only the Challenger, but the passengers inside. He hadn't yet noticed Bill's injuries just yet, but his concern quickly turned to shock soon enough. He went right to Bill's side and opened the door, leaning inside toward James for answers.