The Doomsday Series Box Set | Books 1-5

by Akart, Bobby

  The engine groaned but wouldn’t fire.

  “They’re coming!” Angela raised her voice, causing Kaycee to stir in the backseat.

  “Mom?”

  “It’s all right, honey. Lie down. The truck’s being stubborn.”

  “Hey, does your truck run?” a woman shouted from their left. Both Tyler and Angela whipped their heads around to see how close she was.

  A man shouted from behind them, “Hold up, buddy! I need a ride to the hotel. Come on, kids!”

  Tyler looked in the rearview mirror and saw a man running toward the Bronco with three teens in tow.

  He tried the ignition again, and this time the motor started. He didn’t hesitate as he pushed the manual stick shift into first gear and let the clutch out. The truck lurched forward toward a group of women, who shrieked and jumped out of the way.

  “Let’s go!” Tyler said excitedly as he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. He quickly shifted gears as he picked up speed.

  As predicted, most of the people on the exit road were in shock to see him coming, but a few attempted to wave him down. Tyler didn’t hesitate. He laid on the horn and kept going for them, assuming they would jump out of the way. It was a game of chicken he was willing to play to win.

  “Oh, crap!” shouted Angela. “Another car just pulled out of a parking space.” A vintage Chevy pickup from the sixties pulled out of a space ahead of them. The truck was struggling to run, most likely due to the cold weather.

  “I’m gonna shoot the gap through the cars. Hold on!”

  Tyler slowed and found an opening between the parked cars. This sent them to a different parking row and a whole new set of obstacles in the form of people standing in the way.

  He slammed the palm of his hand on the horn as he approached, sending them scampering for cover.

  “Go! Go! Go!” shouted J.C. from the backseat. Both kids were awake and leaning forward to observe the action.

  Angela turned around and instructed them to sit back, which they did, for all of ten seconds. Then their curious faces were back to see their father play demolition derby with the stranded motorists.

  “Almost, babe,” Tyler said calmly.

  “Oh my god!” exclaimed Angela, pointing to their right. “They swarmed the pickup truck, and they’re pulling the driver out of the front seat.”

  “This is why we aren’t slowing down,” mumbled Tyler, who gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He leaned forward in his seat and bore down on a large group blocking the final turn before they were out of the park.

  “They’re not moving!” shouted Angela.

  “They will.” Tyler slammed his fist on the horn as he roared toward them at nearly sixty miles an hour.

  “Move, you idiots!” shouted Angela as she waved her arms across the inside of the windshield.

  Tyler pressed forward, and several men stood in front of the crowd, defiant.

  “Dammit!” shouted Tyler out of frustration as he let off the gas.

  Angela looked over at him and said, “No, Ty. Keep going. I’ve got this.”

  He picked up speed again as Angela cranked the passenger-side window down. She hung her arm out the window, cocked the hammer on the forty-five, and fired a shot over the heads of the group blocking their exit.

  They screamed and panicked in unison. Jumping out of the way or pushing their way to safety, the sound of gunfire created an opportunity for Tyler to roar past them, with the assistance of his wife’s quick thinking.

  Tyler glanced in the rearview mirror at the people who’d recovered from the scare, shaking their fists and giving him the middle finger. He didn’t care about their hurt feelings. The Rankins had hundreds of miles to travel to get to safety, and this was just mile one.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New Year’s Day

  Near Fort Dix

  New Egypt, New Jersey

  Tyler drove as fast as the forty-five-year-old truck could travel, leaving Six Flags and the throngs of stranded visitors chasing them down the road. Without a predetermined destination other than the New Jersey Turnpike, they found themselves approaching the small town of New Egypt, a small community of twenty-five hundred known for its wineries. Before they entered the quiet town, Tyler pulled into the Bible Baptist Church and drove around to the rear of the buildings, next to a softball field. He quickly turned off the engine and exhaled, the first time he’d done so since they’d escaped the parking lot.

  “Way to go, Dad,” said Kaycee with a thumbs-up. She and J.C. exchanged high fives. The youngsters were old enough to appreciate danger, but they were still at an age where any adventure generated an adrenaline rush, regardless of the circumstances.

  Angela, who’d kept a death grip on their sidearm throughout, finally pried her fingers off the pistol’s grip and set the weapon on the console between them. Tyler looked down at the gun and up to his wife’s lovely face and smiled.

  “You’re an animal,” he said jokingly. “When you shot over their heads, you scared the bejesus out of them. You talk about parting the Red Sea. Moses couldn’t have done better, babe.”

  “Agreed. That’s why I did it. They were challenging us, and I don’t think those guys would’ve moved. Your horn wasn’t working, so I used mine.”

  They laughed and reached across the console to hug one another. They looked into the backseat, and the kids were staring at them, smiling.

  “What?” asked Tyler.

  “Oh, nothing,” began J.C. “Sometimes you two are gross.”

  “Gross?” asked Angela. “There’s nothing gross about me loving your father.”

  “You guys are always hugging and kissing and stuff,” said J.C.

  “Good thing, buddy,” said Tyler. “The day that stops, we’ve got big trouble. Let’s get out of the truck and stretch our legs while I think. Everybody, keep your eyes open in case somebody saw us pull in here. We’re surrounded by trees, so I think we’re okay.”

  “I’ve gotta pee,” announced J.C. innocently.

  Angela chuckled. She looked around for their options. Near the baseball field were a few porta-potties. “Kaycee, why don’t you guys use the bathroom over there. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

  “Okay, Mom,” said Kaycee as she led her brother by the hand toward the toilets. She could be heard talking to J.C. as they left. “I almost peed my pants when I saw you fall out of the roller coaster.”

  “I was too scared to pee,” replied J.C. “All I could see was the ground, and then I couldn’t breathe. It was like my whole body froze, including my pee.”

  The two continued chatting as Angela and Tyler opened the rear hatch of the Bronco. He began rummaging through their bags, which consisted of clothing, snacks, a cooler of drinks, and two backpacks. The two identical black backpacks differed only in the gear attached using the MOLLE attachments on Tyler’s. Pronounced molly, MOLLE was an acronym for modular lightweight load-carrying equipment. The system allowed for several attachments to be added to a backpack or military-style chest rig.

  Tyler was capable of carrying more weight than Angela. He unzipped the main compartment and began to empty his gear onto the floor of the Bronco.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Do you remember that tin of cookies Brett sent us last year for Christmas?”

  “Yeah. They were terrible. Five different types of Fig Newtons? Ugh.”

  Tyler laughed as he found the tin in the bottom of the bag. “The kids liked them anyway, right?”

  Angela shrugged. Tyler opened a side zipper pouch and pulled out his Morakniv Eldris firestarter/knife combo. The black knife with the short blade was perfect to store in their backpacks or tie around their necks when hiking. He removed the fixed blade from its hard plastic sheath and carefully cut the aluminum tape that sealed the tin.

  “The cookies sucked, but the tin came in useful,” Tyler said as he opened the lid to reveal a Kenwood TH-D74A triband radio. The Kenwood model enable
d him to access ham channels, citizens bands, and emergency responder networks. Plus, it had built-in GPS capabilities.

  “Is that from work?”

  “Yeah. Richmond Fire-Rescue received upgraded handheld units three months ago. They offered the old units to us at a dime on the dollar. These originally sold for five hundred fifty dollars. I paid fifty bucks.”

  Angela took it from him and looked at the myriad of buttons on the front of the device. “How do you turn it on? Or, should I say, will it turn on?”

  “I hope so,” replied Tyler. “I created a small Faraday cage out of the cookie tin. I tested it when I loaded our packs before the trip. Let’s see if it worked.”

  Tyler took the handheld radio back and pressed the power button. He beamed as the display lit up and a beep announced the Kenwood was fully operational.

  “What’s that, Dad?” asked Kaycee as she and her brother returned from their porta-potty break.

  “Well, guys, I think this little radio may help us avoid a lot of aggravation on our way home. I know the logical, fastest way to get back to Richmond; however I-95 through Philly, Wilmington, Baltimore, and DC doesn’t sound like a very good idea under the circumstances.”

  J.C.’s chin dropped to his chest. “We’re not gonna see the Liberty Bell or Independence Hall, are we?”

  Tyler pulled his son close, draping his arm over his shoulder to give him a hug. “I’m afraid not, buddy. Not on this trip. That said, we’re still going to have an exciting road trip on the way home. If my memory serves me, we’ll drive through the countryside, maybe ride on a boat as we cross the Delaware, just like George Washington, and then, to top it off, we’ll go in a tunnel under the Chesapeake. Whadya think about that?”

  “Sooo cool!” exclaimed J.C., who jumped around on one foot, prompting Angela to look down at his feet.

  “Joseph Charles! Did you go in those nasty porta-potties with one shoe on?”

  “Um, yes, Mom. But I hopped in on one foot, right, Kaycee?”

  “That’s true, Mom. I watched him. But his sock is all wet from running through the wet grass.”

  Angela rolled her eyes and smiled at Tyler. “This is your son,” she said with a laugh.

  “Oh no, you created that monster. My child is the sweet one.”

  Angela playfully shoved Tyler, who, caught off guard, slid backwards and nearly fell on the wet grass where the snow had melted.

  “Hey! Bad form!” shouted Tyler back and tried to catch Angela, who easily eluded his clutches as she raced around the Bronco.

  “Can’t catch me, pokey!” said the more athletic Angela, who kept the hood of the truck between them. Tyler was about to make another move when his radio squawked to life.

  He could barely hear it because he had the volume turned down. He quickly adjusted the volume, but the transmission was lost. It was, however, a reminder they needed to make a decision and hit the road.

  There were a number of factors to consider, the most important of which related to traffic and population centers. Tyler had already decided to avoid the interstate. Tens of thousands of vehicles traveled along that stretch of interstate in any given hour, almost all of which would’ve become disabled by the EMP.

  Tyler knew it was best to avoid large areas of population and even small towns if possible. Their experience in the Six Flags parking lot confirmed that. He’d never driven the back roads from this area to Virginia before. From recollection, he knew the area was rural—a definite plus.

  He was familiar with the ferry that ran between Cape May at the southernmost tip of New Jersey and across the mouth of the Delaware River into Delaware near Ocean City. About ten years ago, the ferry had run aground on a sandbar during an unusually low tide. The event had made the news and caught Tyler’s attention.

  After they crossed the Delaware, the ride down to Chesapeake Bay would also be fairly desolate compared to the alternate routes through Baltimore and Washington, DC. The final stretch into Virginia would be across Chesapeake Bay via U.S. Route 9, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.

  “That’ll be a breeze,” he mumbled to himself as he rooted around under the driver’s seat in search of the atlas. The seven-year-old map book was a little out of date, but the roads hadn’t changed any in this area. He studied the route and smiled. Roughly three hundred eighty miles of back roads and a straight shot to Richmond.

  Now the only challenge they should face was fuel.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  USA Health University Trauma Center

  Mobile, Alabama

  Michael Cortland fought sleep. Despite being reprimanded on two occasions by the night nurses on duty, Cort continued to monitor the events around the country through the news. He desperately needed a cell phone. Not to reach to any members of his staff but, rather, to speak with his father-in-law, George Trowbridge. The words rang in his head, pounding out the throbbing pain resulting from his near-drowning experience.

  Either you control destiny, or destiny controls you.

  His rest was fitful at best. Initially, he’d fought sleep as he hungered for information and tried to create his own working theory as to who was behind the random attacks around the country. They were varied in their targets and methods, yet perfectly timed to occur just before midnight on the East Coast.

  The coverage was riveting. The media lived for drama such as this, and every network, including ESPN, had some kind of coverage. Lost in all of the reports of terrorism was the crashing of Delta Flight 322 into the Gulf of Mexico at the mouth of Mobile Bay.

  The local stations were on the scene, covering the rescue efforts. Thus far, no cause of the aircraft’s total loss of power had been determined, nor was there a complete death count.

  Cort knew one thing for certain. He was alive, and Congressman Johnson Pratt, the would-be prosecutor of the president, was not.

  On the third visit by the floor nurse, Cort’s lifeline to the outside world was cut off. She removed the remote function from his hospital bed, disconnected the power cord to the television from its outlet, and stood on a chair to toss the cord above the television. Cort followed her every movement, and as she finished, he quipped, “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  She didn’t think it was funny and stormed out of his room.

  Unplugged, Cort finally drifted off to sleep, if one could call it that. The images of death and destruction from around the country were quickly replaced with a vivid recollection of his own near-death experience. He tossed and turned as he re-created the nightmarish event in his mind.

  Known as re-experiencing, having flashbacks to a traumatic event was a hallmark symptom of people suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome. Some people had vivid nightmares that were exact replays of the trauma they experienced. Replicative nightmares, during which the brain replays the event over and over in a continuous loop, were the brain’s effort to process what had happened. During sleep, Cort replayed the moment he left his seat to help Congressman Pratt. In his dream, he recalled how he swam past the dead bodies strapped into their seats until he reached into the darkness and touched the congressman’s bloated body wedged into his seat. For nearly two minutes, Cort held his breath, fully in control of the situation, until he wasn’t.

  However, as the dream replayed, it became increasingly bizarre. His mind soon introduced a new twist to the events. His subconscious inserted a story he recalled learning as a child in Sunday school, the parable of the Good Samaritan as told by Jesus in the Gospel of Luke. Probably one of the most misinterpreted Gospels, it’s the story of a man who comes across a traveler on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho who’d been beaten, robbed, and left for dead.

  Other travelers, noticing the injured man, nonetheless passed him by. However, the Good Samaritan approached the victim, bandaged his wounds, loaded him onto his donkey, and rented him a room at the inn to recover.

  Cort, however, had his own interpretation, one that instilled horror into an already emotionally shocking experience.
He had been taught from an early age to help those around him, whether he was different from them or not. His family crossed his mind as he swam to check on the congressman. With each row of seats he passed, the drowning victims gradually lost their skin until they were nothing more than ghostly, shadowy skeletons lying limp in their seats.

  The closer he got to the first-class section in his quest to save the congressman, he too began to lose hunks of flesh, floating off his skin into the water, only to be nabbed by fish that swam around the wreckage. Congressman Pratt, however, was not deteriorating in his dream. He was alive and well, breathing and laughing, as Cort transformed into a wraithlike apparition of his former self.

  Cort’s nightmare repeated, with each replay becoming more ghastly and frightening. Soon, the dream was so realistic that his body began to shiver from the cold depths of the Gulf of Mexico. His body shaking uncontrollably, Cort tried to force himself awake, reliving the precise moment when he took the last forced breath under water before he blacked out.

  “Mr. Cortland. Mr. Cortland! Wake up, wake up.” The nurse tried to awaken him, but Cort, in his deep sleep, heard the voice of the gate agent in Atlanta, paging him to enter the doomed aircraft. His brain rejected the request, screaming within itself to run from the gate, don’t get on the plane.

  Don’t wake up!

  The nurse repeated her plea to Cort. “Wake up, sir!”

  “Huh. What?” Cort was forced out of his sleep through the gentle prodding of the morning nurse. He opened his eyes slightly to see the curtains open and a beautiful sunny day awaiting him outside. No dark, murky waters. No tiny bubbles floating past his eyes. No skeletons. No bloated congressman.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cortland,” the nurse began in her south Alabama drawl. She tenderly wiped the sweat off his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. “You were having quite the ornery dream. Try to calm down and take deep, level breaths.”

  Cort nodded and glanced around the room. After getting his bearings, he relaxed and his pulse returned to normal.