Survival EMP Box Set | Books 1-4

by Lopez, Rob

  “No, Corporal. It’s war. Have the men fall in now. We’ll resume the march to Hendersonville.”

  Parson gave him a pensive look, then about-turned and walked away.

  “Told you he’d be trouble,” said Fick, gazing at the clouds.

  “It’s not a biggie,” said Connors. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “And when it is?”

  “Every problem has a solution, my friend.”

  *

  The militia spent the rest of the day marching the ten miles to Hendersonville, stopping to check in on several tiny settlements on the way and supplied periodically by vehicles coming from Asheville. With the footsore militia moving so slowly, it was early evening before they reached the barricade at the edge of Hendersonville.

  The roadblock, created with cars taken from a nearby used car lot, spanned the four lane highway. A log bunker had been built on some elevated waste ground at the side of the road, and an American flag flew from a pole in the lot. Connors halted his column, sent a platoon into the woods either side of the road, then rode alone to the barricade.

  “Who goes there?” came the challenge from the bunker.

  Connors addressed the shadowy face within the bunker embrasure. “I’m Major Connors, U.S. Army and commander of the 1st Carolina Militia. I’m here on the authority of the government of the Carolinas, and I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge of this city.”

  There was a moment of confusion in the bunker. “There ain’t no government of the Carolinas.”

  “There is now. You can escort me to your leader, or I can deploy my men to clear this unlawful obstruction. I warn you that any attempt to prevent the passage of a state representative will be met with force. If you honor that flag there, you will let me pass. Who’s currently in charge of this city?”

  “Mayor Ryland.”

  “Then take me to see him.”

  Connors was taken to City Hall on the back of an old Triumph motorcycle, the loud exhaust echoing through the historic but dull streets. It was just another city with a small-town feel, whatever its pretensions, and like Asheville, the downtown district was all but deserted, the restaurants and stores having nothing to offer.

  Mayor Ryland turned out to be a she.

  “How can I help you?” said the mayor as the motorcycle exhaust receded outside her office.

  Connors noted the crude circuit board on her desk, with a microphone and speaker, powered by a car battery. He guessed she’d already received news about who he was.

  “Nice setup you’ve got here,” he said, nodding toward the home-made radio. “Governor Jeffries has relocated the state government to Asheville. Under emergency laws, I’m authorized to inspect and assess the security of this city.”

  Ryland read the documents that Connors passed to her. “You want to confiscate our weapons?” she exclaimed.

  “Not if they’re legally held. It’s simply a matter of registering the weapons. Anyone in possession of what we will class as Category A firearms will be given the option of enlisting in the state militia or handing in the firearm for someone to use in their stead.”

  “This is draconian.”

  “It’s a little heavy-handed, I agree, but you know what these career politicians are like. They want to make a name for themselves, but as a serving officer, I am duty-bound to administer these orders. I don’t like it any more than you do, but if we cooperate with each other, we can find a way to make it work.”

  “You’re going to leave us defenseless.”

  “I assure you, that’s the opposite of my intention. My troops will man the barricades, freeing up your people for more productive duties, and I’ll leave a small garrison commanded by one of my more able officers. Your security will be guaranteed.”

  “That won’t be enough. We’re facing weekly raids by outlaws and thieves hiding out in the forests around Jump Off Rock. We’re at full stretch trying to protect our people as it is.”

  Connors gave her a reassuring smile. “Ah well, you see, that’s where I can help you. Outside your city right now, I have over a hundred men and heavy weapons waiting for my command. They’re a little tired from marching, so we’ll make camp in the area for the night, but tomorrow morning, guided by your people, we can go find those outlaws. They won’t be a problem to you no more. What do you think?”

  The mayor continued to peruse the documents. “It appears I’m not being given a choice.”

  Connors’ smile broadened. “Oh, there’s always choices. It’s just that one of them’s usually smarter than the others. You simply have to make the right choice.”

  20

  The Round Knob raiders had grown complacent, settling into a routine. They sent small groups out in cars every day, driving without advance guards. They didn’t patrol their access roads. In fact, Rick had never seen them send out foot patrols anywhere. If they had, they might have noticed some changes to a small section of road between Round Knob and Old Fort.

  Rick had selected the spot carefully. It was positioned in a tight bend between two steep slopes. Trenches had been dug and camouflaged overlooking the road. A tree had been felled and left lying close to the road. Explosives stinking of sulfur had been packed into a culvert that ran under the road, with wires leading up the stream to a firing position. Foliage had been cut down to provide clear fields of fire.

  A spotter on the hill whistled and held up two fingers: two vehicles were approaching from the camp.

  “Okay, move that log,” called Rick from the roadside.

  The felled tree was dragged into position across the road, then the shooters scrambled up the slope to the trenches. Rick checked that everything was in place, waved to the spotter and made his way up the slope. The six shooters he’d selected stared grim-faced over their sights. Scott had trained them as best he could, and Rick had prepped them with a speech:

  “If you don’t kill them, they’re going to kill you. They’ll come after you and your families, and they’ll spare no one. I don’t want anyone hesitating. You are going to kill men today. You are going to see them in your sights. They may be shooting at you, panicking or trying to run away. They may be wounded and begging for mercy. It doesn’t matter. You aim for center mass and pull the trigger. If they’re still moving, you fire again. You won’t have time to second guess. This ambush has to be done quickly and then we need to be gone. Any raider who gets away is one more to have to deal with later, and the odds are against us. Put aside any qualms you might have about killing a man. If you’re not prepared to do it, quit now and I’ll replace you.”

  Nobody quit, but Rick still wasn’t sure about the caliber of the men he had. It was impossible to tell how they’d react to being under fire, and it was certain that the raiders, once trapped, would fight for their lives.

  Rick settled into his trench. He had just two magazines: the one in his rifle and the other in his pouch. This was not a day to spray bullets on full auto. Beside him he had three Molotov Cocktails prepared. The rest of his militia were armed with bolt-action or semi-auto rifles. He didn’t want shotguns on this trip. Every round had to count, every hit had to kill or fatally wound. He had Scott on the other side of the road, ready to detonate the explosives, and Packy backing him up with the Mac-10: that was his one concession to spraying and praying, if only to cause confusion among the raiders.

  The rest would be down to cold, calculated murder. In a way, Rick wanted these men to feel that sense of what they were doing. He wanted to harden them. If the ambush failed and they were forced into a long guerrilla campaign, they’d need that. Whether they were ready for it or not.

  Another whistle sounded, indicating that the vehicles were close, but Rick could already hear the engines echoing in the valley. They were moving fast with their usual lack of caution. Rick checked his timepiece, an old wind-up stopwatch. Once the firing started, his group had ten minutes, plus a few minutes for reaction time, before the raiders sent a rescue force. That was how long Rick had to annihilate
the two vehicles and escape. With trained troops, that was more than enough time. With these guys? Rick wasn’t so sure.

  From his vantage point he caught a glimpse of the vehicles snaking along the valley side, close to Mill Creek, flashing in and out of sight. The lead vehicle was the Suburban the raiders had captured earlier. The other vehicle was the sedan. The raiders were packed in tight, four or five to each vehicle by Rick’s estimate. They would have difficulties getting out in a hurry – not that Rick was going to give them that opportunity.

  “Nobody fire until you hear the signal,” said Rick.

  Militia members fidgeted nervously, wiping sweaty palms on their pants. The tone of the engines rose as the raiders changed gear to climb the slope to the bend.

  Rick slipped off the safety catch, aiming at the bend. The two vehicles raced into view, bumper to tail, when the lead driver caught sight of the log obstruction. He slammed on the brakes, and the Suburban ground slowly to a squealing halt just short of the log. The sedan, its brakes even worse, nosed into the back of the Suburban with a gentle crunch.

  There was a pause. Rick had the lead driver in his sights, but he was waiting for Scott. A door popped open, and it didn’t look like the explosives would be triggered. The sedan backed up, pulling its dented bumper from the SUV, and Rick was about to fire. It was possible that at least one vehicle would get away if he did.

  Then the culvert packed with explosives blew behind the sedan, sending concrete, rocks and asphalt into the air.

  That was the signal. Rick opened fire, shattering a side window. Then everyone fired.

  The raiders flinched inside the vehicles, first trying to get low, then trying to open the doors. Glass fractured and holes appeared in the bodywork. From the opposite slope, Packy let rip with the Mac-10, perforating the Suburban and splashing blood on the inside of what was left of the windows. The back doors of the sedan were kicked open and two raiders tumbled out from either side of the car. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement as the militia tried to hit them. Rick lit the fuse of a Molotov and threw it at the Suburban, which still had its doors shut. The bottle shattered on the door pillar and doused the side of the vehicle with blazing fuel. Rick prepared a second bottle.

  The two raiders outside the vehicles rolled on the ground, trying to bring their weapons to bear. Bloody wounds appeared on them in seconds. The Suburban rolled forward. Rick wasn’t sure if it was because the driver was trying to get away, or because his foot had slipped off the clutch and the vehicle was still in gear. The SUV nudged the log and stalled. Rick hurled the second bottle. It sailed through the fragmented windshield and exploded inside. There was a scream as injured men battered at the doors, trying to get out.

  A third raider made it out of the sedan. Running past his stricken colleagues, he tried to make it over the ditch and to the trees. Packy’s second magazine, fired at close range, shredded him.

  Scott, coming up from his position at the stream, put two rounds into one of the raiders still struggling on the ground. The other had stopped moving. Rick launched the third bottle at the sedan, engulfing it in flames, and put a couple more rounds through the window, just to make sure.

  A burning body tried to climb out the back window of the Suburban. The militia filled him full of holes and put him out of his misery. Scott approached the sedan and executed a raider still inside. And that was it. Nobody in the convoy moved again.

  Rick checked his stopwatch. Forty five seconds since the action started. It had gone better than he’d hoped, but now he had to think of his guys, most of whom stared dumbly at the carnage they’d caused. Rick didn’t want them dwelling on what they’d done.

  “Everybody move. Back to the rendezvous point. Now!”

  Nobody moved. The burning man proved to be too alluring a spectacle. Rick ran along the outside of the trench, grabbing arms and pulling them up. “Stop looking and start walking,” he said. “This isn’t over yet.”

  Down by the vehicles, Scott and Packy were already picking up fallen weapons and hastily searching pockets for more ammunition. As soon as they were done, they sprinted down the road. Acrid black smoke filled the air. Rick slid down the slope to Scott.

  “Why was there a delay with the explosion?” he called.

  Scott shrugged. “I guess it just didn’t want to go. Took a little longer, is all.”

  There was a thump as the fuel in the Suburban blew, sending up a fiery mushroom cloud.

  “Better late than never, I guess. Let’s hope they take the bait.”

  *

  Rick figured that the raiders would get angry. A good leader would size up the tactical situation in light of new developments and prevent his men from acting like an angry mob and taking out their wrath on the nearest community. Rick had seen that enough times among militias in Africa, Afghanistan and Syria: local groups would react badly to an ambush or drone strike and immediately descend on the nearest village, demanding answers and the heads of any informers. Actions ranged from roughing up the villagers to razing the village to the ground. Hell, Rick had seen U.S. soldiers do the same sometimes. It all depended on the leadership of the armed group.

  Unfortunately, Rick had no idea of the character of the raider leader – nor even if they had one. He’d quizzed Doug on the matter, but the intel he received was vague, and the hours he’d spent watching the raider camp left him none the wiser. The second part of his plan was therefore based on a mere hunch.

  He figured they’d come via Camp Grier again. Any other approach involved an arduous trek along the ridges and up the mountain, and the raiders hadn’t shown themselves to be keen hikers. The mountain bike trail from Camp Grier zigzagged up the slope in a series of long, gentle inclines. Rick had chosen one section to be a killing zone. A line of fortified trenches and camouflaged wooden bunkers had been built on the slope above a section of trail, running parallel to it. A blocking position hidden at a corner had been built with a view directly up the trail, ready to engage the raiders from the rear once they’d passed. It was a classic L-shaped ambush – not the most sophisticated military invention, but simple enough for the kind of troops Rick had at his disposal. Anything more complicated would have caused problems.

  Lauren commanded the main line. With her were the majority of volunteers, plus a few more that Doug had cajoled into joining the effort. Rick arrived at her position, bringing the extra rifles. Pale faces along the line stared at him as he dropped into Lauren’s trench.

  “You ready for this?” said Rick to his wife.

  “I think so,” said Lauren. “I heard the explosion. Did everyone make it back okay?”

  “Yeah, but a couple of them are still in shock.”

  Lauren glanced at her own troops, all clutching rifles, shotguns or bows. “I think we’ve got a few here like that already. It’s crazy. Are we really going to be shooting arrows at them?”

  “Better than throwing stones.”

  “Rick, two of them are using air rifles. Are they going to be any good to us?”

  “It all adds to the confusion. If we can panic the raiders, that’s good. I don’t want them recovering and mounting a counter-attack. We’ve got one shot at this and I don’t want it to fail. Where’s Josh?”

  “He’s on lookout.”

  Rick hadn’t wanted Josh involved in the actual fight, and in spite of Josh’s protestations had placed him in a high location with the best view. He would act as a runner to warn them of any developments, like a group of raiders coming from another direction. He was unarmed though, all weapons being handed to the fighters – even Rick and Scott’s sidearms – and Rick was uneasy about that. In spite of his preparations, he felt his family was vulnerable. It was the right decision, but he didn’t like it.

  “If it goes bad, you make sure he’s okay. You take him and Lizzy and head to the rendezvous point. I don’t want any heroics this time.”

  “I don’t want any from you, either.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll work bet
ter if I know you guys are going to be all right.”

  “Work?”

  “It’s just a job.”

  “Glad you can be so casual about it.”

  “I’m not casual about anything. You know that.”

  Lauren couldn’t help but smile. “Too well. But you take care, you hear?”

  Rick kissed her on the cheek and climbed out of the trench.

  “Is that all I get?” she said.

  “I told you, I’m at work. We’ll fire on your mark, okay?”

  *

  April sat on the ground in front of the huts, cradling Daniel’s head. She couldn’t hide her anxiety and Daniel had crawled into her lap, infected by her fear and wanting his own solace. April felt vulnerable without her shotgun. It had been added to the militia’s arsenal, though she’d held onto her Ruger pistol. In fact, Scott had insisted she keep it. She had the feeling that, had she asked, he would have given her the shotgun too, in spite of their need. There was nothing he wouldn’t give her, and that felt strange to April.

  None of the men in her previous life had been like Scott. He was easy-going and kind of casual, but at the same time she knew he was always looking out for her, and would do absolutely anything to keep her safe and happy. He’d kill for her. That was a fact. But he’d also die for her. And that was a worry.

  It felt wonderful to be so cared for. Especially now that her pregnancy hormones had kicked in and she felt hyper-sensitive, exposed and defenseless. But the risks were so much higher now than when she carried Daniel. Scott was getting involved in one dangerous situation after another, and while he kept surviving, and assuring her that he knew what he was doing, every victory only raised the odds of the next one being the calamity she dreaded. It was like a ticking time bomb.

  She’d raised one child alone. She didn’t want to raise the second one without Scott. In really emotional moments, the very thought of it brought tears to her eyes.