The Last War: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller

by Ryan Schow

  “Machines can’t make decisions for themselves,” Macy argues.

  “Actually they can,” Stanton tells her, and I know this to be true. “I pray that’s not what’s happening here, but the more this persists, the more it’s looking like an extinction level event is underway. It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap,” Macy says. “Do you know how insane you sound right now?”

  “Have you seen the National Guard? The Air Force? Any military assistance at all?” he argues, a little heat entering his voice. “Has the television or the internet returned? If no one has a clue about what’s going on then it means they have no idea who’s behind these attacks either, and if there’s no clear enemy and no clear solutions and no help from the government or local authorities, what does that tell you?”

  “That we’re on our own,” Macy quietly concedes.

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” I ask.

  “Dig in, weather the storm, be the kind of people we were never taught to be, the kind we never wanted to be, the kind of people God would not want us to be if He could speak to us now.”

  “You want us to become…savages?” I ask, horrified by what I’m hearing.

  A long pause, then: “Yes.”

  No one says anything for a spell, then finally Stanton breaks the silence. “We need to get a good night’s sleep, then we have to fortify this place in the morning, talk about maybe finding someplace more permanent. Some place more suited to long term sustainability under war time conditions.”

  So that was our big evening talk. Our big “come to Jesus” meeting. Stanton basically scared the crap out of me and Macy. Now Macy’s asleep and Stanton’s asleep and here I am, worrying away my sanity.

  How much more of this can I take? I don’t think I can do this.

  I shouldn’t have taken a nap earlier. It’s thrown off my sleep schedule, which is beyond aggravating right now. The world is finally as quiet as a tomb, but I’m just laying here, cold, with no reprieve from my thoughts—thoughts that are quickly turning to some sort of anxious desperation.

  Around two or three a.m., I hear a noise.

  I get up, slide the curtains back a sliver, then peek out the window. A group of guys are walking down the middle of the street, not bothering anyone, but not in bed dreaming of sheep either. They’ve got backpacks and guns. They’re dressed in warm clothes with beanies on their heads. Are they leaving town? Should we be leaving town, too? Is there even a way out?

  I go back to bed because it’s freezing and my body is finally letting go. The heater goes on and I’m thinking, Thank God for the little things.

  In the morning, I wake up to Stanton and Rex talking to Macy about the guns we have. She’s standing up in the kitchen in a shooter’s stance with the Sig Sauer stretched out in front of her.

  “You don’t want to pull the trigger,” Rex is saying. “You want to let out your breath, then squeeze.”

  “What’s the difference between squeezing and pulling?” she asks, one eye shut, looking down the barrel.

  “Pulling raises the barrel, squeezing tracks better.”

  So for the next half hour she dry-fires the pistol, practicing on squeezing rather than pulling. Then it’s Stanton. And then it’s me. After that it’s a rationed lunch and more gun training. Then it’s taking the weapon apart and putting it back together again.

  When the afternoon is over and I’m feeling beyond tired again, Macy says, “So now that I know how to shoot a gun—”

  “You haven’t ever actually shot it,” Rex says.

  “Yes, I know. But now that you’ve taught me how to do it, do I have to give up my sock?”

  “Keep your sock as backup, honey,” I say, not sure if she’s being smart-alecky or dead serious.

  “She can get rid of the sock anytime she wants, Cincinnati.”

  “But it smells so good,” Macy jokes, and then we’re all laughing. Well, we’re all laughing until the note slides under the door.

  “I’ve had enough of this crap, Stanton,” I say, the mood suddenly shot.

  “I got this,” Macy says, telling everyone to sit tight.

  “Like last time?” Stanton says.

  Macy snatches up the note, doesn’t even bother to read it before stomping upstairs. Stanton grabs the Sig, goes and stands just outside the door, listening. When he comes inside, he says, “I think it’s just some kid up there.”

  A half hour later, Macy comes back down with a boy her age, maybe a year or two older. “Guys, this is Gunner. He’s waiting for his parents to come home.”

  Gunner looks shy.

  He’s tall and cute, but in a nerdy sort of way. Plus he’s skinny, totally harmless looking.

  “If they’re not home by now,” Rex says, “chances are pretty good they aren’t coming home.”

  “Rex!” I say.

  He shrugs his shoulders, makes a face.

  “Sooner or later he’ll see it, I’m just saving him time.” Looking at the kid, Rex says, “C’mon man, you have to know what’s going on out there.”

  He stands there, looking sheepish. Is it bad that I’m thinking, of all of us, he’ll be the first to go?

  “Speak up Gunner,” Stanton says.

  “I haven’t been out of the house, but I’ve been sick, so…”

  “You know there’s a war going on outside, right?” Rex says. “Man versus the machines and man is losing?”

  He looks down, his face growing paler by the minute.

  “Do you have food upstairs?” I ask. He looks up, nods. “Well if you run out, you come down and see us, okay? Same goes for water or medical supplies.”

  “Why would I need medical supplies?” he asks, his voice too small for the times.

  “In case you catch a stray,” Rex says.

  “A stray?”

  “Bullet. All that gunfire yesterday was the cops shooting at the idiots in the church. I’m talking about gang bangers, not parishioners, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Oh,” he says, then he turns and wanders out the front door.

  “No more notes!” I call after him.

  He stops, says nothing, then heads back upstairs. Stanton, Rex and I trade looks. Macy shuts the door then turns to us and says, “Talk about a dead man walking.”

  Rex looks at Stanton, then back at Macy with new eyes and says, “You know Stanton, I think little Macy here’s going to be okay.”

  Let’s hope so.

  14

  It feels like years have passed. Decades. In reality, it’s only been a couple of weeks. With only one thing to do (survive), the days seem much longer, the nights measurably shorter. Surviving with no amnesty from the effects of the bombing and the drone flybys is taking a toll. Macy seems to be adapting the best, and Rex is solid, but me? I’m struggling. But not as bad as Stanton.

  Lately my husband has become increasingly agitated. I think it’s from seeing the material summation of his life sitting in ruins. If we are our jobs, our houses, our cars…all our pretty little things, and they’re all gone, then who are we really?

  At some point in time, we’re all going to have to figure this out.

  To make matters worse, the water stopped working a few days ago. Talk about a devastating blow. What’s next, the electricity? My mind starts thinking about spoiled food, lights, heat. So now we’ve rationing out the food a little better because, well…the attacks are ongoing and we’re not sure they’ll ever stop. If they don’t then transformers will eventually be hit and the entire grid will fail. At that point, you can pretty much goodbye to the Bay Area for the next hundred years.

  What’s surprised us most is that it’s not over by now. Maybe it will never be over. We can’t stop it. And there’s no fast food solution. No “call this person and get it handled” type of possibility of getting this problem done and over with. The drones seem to have an endless supply of ammunition and all we can do is hunker down
and hope they don’t bomb the neighborhood anytime soon.

  As for that easy solution to the drones? Right now people are taking up arms against them. In the battle of guns versus bombs, however, Rex says bombs almost always win. He would know. He’s done two tours in Afghanistan.

  Some of the people we’ve talked to, those we’ve met (to their reluctance) on the block, they keep talking about things like emergency services, FEMA, the National Guard. After the shootout at the church, we found a slew of dead cops stripped of their uniforms, their guns and in some cases their radios and cars.

  Now these scumbags (whom I’m assuming had gang affiliations) have guns and badges, so we don’t trust that the cops are really cops. We’ve been warning people about that, but mostly people are trying not to die of dehydration, starve to death or lose the roof over their head, the one that could be shelled at any minute.

  The thing is, when you’re on your own and the future looks dim, downright forlorn, most of these people aren’t thinking about things like hope and long term survivability. That’s why we don’t talk to many people. I need to stay positive.

  So that’s my goal—not to lose myself, or get lost in all of this. I don’t expect it to be easy, even though it’s a noble, foolhardy cause, but this is my focus. So I try to set aside my fears and I try to be positive, and most of all, I do my absolute best to have faith in the future, the odds be damned.

  The way we do this is by building our water stores and rationing our food. We’re collecting dry goods where we can and storing water for later. It’s not safe here, though. We know that. What we need to do is find a way out of this city. Find someplace safe. Someplace rural.

  So yeah, we’ve got lofty goals, but whatever. We’re optimists in training.

  Today Rex, Macy and Gunner are out scavenging for food and munitions. Me and Stanton are on water duty.

  In your standard residential hot water heater, on average, you can always find between fifty to eighty gallons of water. We know this because Rex knows this.

  A few days ago, in an abandoned home two doors down, we checked their water heater and found it nearly full. No surprise there. It’s exactly what Rex said we could expect. Using a couple of orange Home Depot buckets, we humped as much of the water back to our house as we could and started the purification process. In other words, we started boiling it. Pot by pot.

  Once the purified water cools enough, we transfer it into our ever growing collection of sealed glass containers. The ones Rex, Macy and Gunner have been collecting. We’ve come up with a pretty impressive array of them by now. In fact, they’re over the home.

  It’s in this moment that I decide to mention the elephant in the room: Macy’s constant pleas to carry a gun of her own.

  Rex and Stanton are all for it. Me? Not so much.

  “Just because you think she can shoot doesn’t mean she’s ready for the soul swallowing burden of taking a life,” I say. “You and Rex can’t turn her into either of you.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told her, which is exactly what Rex told me. And I hope you’re internalizing this as well because this is how it has to be for all of us. If someone’s in your face and you don’t feel right about them, if something feels off, just shoot them. Don’t even think about it. Just do it. Follow this rule, and we have a chance.”

  “You forget I spent my career saving lives, not ending them,” I say, breathless and beyond uncomfortable with the idea of what I feel is unjustified homicide.

  “Those days are gone, Sin.”

  “All I’m saying is she’ll never be you or Rex. She won’t be able to do it, or handle herself if things get hairy.”

  Barely meeting my eyes, he just nods in complete silence as if to say, Yeah? We’ll see about that.

  “I just think you two are pushing her into this with a false sense of confidence.”

  I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but honestly, I’ve been too quiet about this for far too long now.

  “Yeah?” he says, turning to face me. “How so?”

  In the kitchen, four pots of water are now at a rolling boil, there are the consistent concussions bursts of buildings and houses being flattened, and there is the sound of automatic weapons being fired. Outside, birds don’t chirp, dogs don’t bark, and there are no planes or trucks or laughter to remind us of better times. Stanton is just looking at me, ready for an answer.

  He’s fully in the conversation now.

  “All I’m saying is you can’t lead her toward something she’s not mature enough to handle. I don’t want her killing anyone, Stanton. Not even if it’s necessary. I know this doesn’t make sense—”

  “She’s stronger than you think,” he says, his eyes becoming a touch intense. “And more resilient than we give her credit for. I mean, her friend Trevor died in front of her and she hasn’t gone to pieces over it.”

  “You don’t hear her crying at night. I do. And when she’s making jokes during the day or being snarky or whatever, she’s just like Rex. You haven’t had a man that tough and that experienced in combat curl up in your lap and sob for all the lives he’s taken.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Hiding your emotions isn’t the same as not having them. Things like regret and remorse sit like lead in your heart, infecting you, filling your head with nightmares, your eyes with tears and your soul with a terrible, impossible sadness. Is that what you want for our child?”

  “You know I don’t want that.”

  “I can’t protect Rex or you, but I can protect her. That’s why I don’t want her having a gun. It’s why I don’t want her killing anyone.”

  “We can’t tuck her away from this world, Sin. We can’t wait until it’s safe to bring her out of hiding. She has to learn it, the hard truths, the dangers, even if this world only lasts another week, month or year.”

  Turning away, feeling the sting of tears in the backs of my eyes, I say, “The water’s done.”

  He heads into the kitchen, shuts off the stove.

  “I thought I was stronger than I am and look at what happened to me,” I say. “Look at this blubbering mess I’m turning into. I never cried at work, or on the job. I mean, maybe once or twice, when there were children involved, or when mothers or fathers were taken from their family, but never like this.”

  “We’re all handling the stress differently,” he says, as if that helps at all. “Besides, you’re different than me and Macy. You’re strong, but you overthink the ramifications of what you might do, of what might happen. Have you ever thought of the consequences of not acting swiftly and decisively? Have you thought about what could happen if Macy was on her own and someone with bad intentions cornered her? Tried to hurt her, or take advantage of her?”

  “You think I don’t think about that? That’s all I think about! I can’t stop, Stanton!”

  “Then you understand why I want her to know how to protect herself.”

  “You can protect us,” I tell him, not completely believing this, but saying it anyway because I need to in order to clarify my position.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says after a long pause. “Eventually, if we’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, if we’re overwhelmed…”

  He can’t finish, but I know where he’s going.

  “Is that why you’re doing this? Is that why you’re letting Rex train her? Because you’re afraid you won’t be able to do something, if it really comes down to it? Because if we stick together, Rex included, she’ll have plenty of protection.”

  He looks away, then back at me, then away again. Something in the air changes, grows a touch colder, a little more suffocating. His eyes mist over. I know what he’s thinking, what he’s been thinking since the beginning. He’s thinking about rape, about our baby’s virtue. For the first time in a long time, I see the real him. The scared him. The insecure him.

  “No matter how prepared or capable we are, or how willing we are to savagely slog through the mires of this sick
new existence,” he says with haunted eyes and resignation in his voice, “if someone wants to, they can hurt us. Badly. Kill us, even. Or worse…”

  In that moment I pinned down by the hard edge of his greatest fears. I see them laid bare behind those rich brown eyes and it frightens me to know he feels this way. To know we feel the same. It’s this fear that’s been eating at me more and more each day. Apparently it’s been eating at him, too.

  “So this is the last time I’ll talk about this with you or anyone. We are on untenable ground, Cincinnati, and we can’t afford these tender moments. We can’t afford to give fear, concern or even civilized reason an inch of ground less we get caught off guard and killed. My only focus is on the survival of this family and if you keep taking me to these weak moments because you can’t crawl out of them on your own, you’re going to cut a hole in the only line of defense between this insane world and us.”

  I see his point. Still, I won’t relent, not just yet. I’m not sure how to do this, and maybe Stanton is right: we have to protect our daughter. But we have to protect her not just from those who would look to take advantage of her, but from the things this new world might require of her. I can’t have her shooting anyone.

  In my most delicate voice, I say, “How are you going to feel when you look into her eyes after she’s murdered someone and she realizes the gravity of her actions?”

  He doesn’t answer. Not even I can answer that. The truth is, I’m terrified of what that day will bring. Will I sigh with relief? Will my heart fracture or will I swell with pride for her? Will I sob for the loss of my baby’s innocence, or will the circumstances be so harrowing that I’ll feel nothing but joy that she’s alive? All I want is for her to live, to survive, to lead a moral, happy life. That’s why I can’t let her grow up too fast. And certainly not behind a gun.

  The day comes and goes with no more talk of killing or regret, and now it’s nearly midnight. The bombing has stopped, the night is full and the sly creeping of a bitter cold has invaded our home, as it does every night about this time.