by Hunt, Jack
Days of Panic
EMP Survival Series Book 1
Jack Hunt
Contents
Also by Jack Hunt
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
A Plea
Reading Team
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Jack Hunt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
DAYS OF PANIC: Book 1 is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Also by Jack Hunt
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The Agora Virus series
Phobia
Anxiety
Strain
The War Buds series
War Buds 1
War Buds 2
War Buds 3
Camp Zero series
State of Panic
State of Shock
State of Decay
Renegades series
The Renegades
The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath
The Renegades Book 3: Fortress
The Renegades Book 4: Colony
The Renegades Book 5: United
The Wild Ones
The Wild Ones Book 1
The Wild Ones Book 2
Mavericks series
Mavericks: Hunters Moon
Time Agents series
Killing Time
Single Novels
Blackout
Defiant
Darkest Hour
Final Impact
For my Family
Chapter 1
New York City
Twelve Hours Before
Jesse Michaels couldn’t believe his bad luck. There were a lot of upsides to being a bike messenger in the Big Apple but being held up at gunpoint wasn’t one. Twelve months of pedaling through the city that never slept, it was only a matter of time before a group of hoodlums decided to jump him and lighten his load, he just didn’t expect it on the busiest day of the year. In all truth he’d wondered why it hadn’t occurred sooner.
The three thugs surrounded him like a pack of wolves while the meanest leaned in and pressed the Glock’s cold, hard muzzle to his forehead.
The guy’s brow pinched. “Run that by me again?”
Without hesitation or fear Jesse replied, “You heard me. No.”
The guy looked baffled. He obviously wasn’t used to hearing that, especially not when they had a guy like him outnumbered and out of sight of anyone who might come to his aid. He pushed the gun harder against Jesse’s head and eyeballed him.
“You wanna die?”
There it was, the question he’d been chewing on for the past twelve months since losing Chloe. To be honest, he really hadn’t made up his mind. He certainly had no fear of death. Whether he died today or checked out in fifty years’ time, it was unavoidable.
He never answered the question.
“Is the contents of the bag really worth losing your head over? Huh?”
“I guess you’ll need to pull the trigger to find out,” Jesse replied.
He snorted and cast a glance at his two pals. He shot them a look of disbelief before returning to the reason they’d jumped him and dragged him into a urine-smelling back alley full of industrial dumpsters and winos. In a split second the thug reared his hand back and whipped Jesse across the face knocking him off his bike. Then he leaned over to take what he wanted by force.
“Give me that,” he said, shoving Jesse and tearing off the backpack while the other two prevented him from resisting. “I gotta say, man, you are either the dumbest asshole in the city or you have serious mental issues. Either way, I would recommend getting your head examined.”
He tapped the muzzle against Jesse’s black bicycle helmet.
The guy unzipped the bag, peered inside, grinned and jerked his head to let the others know to follow him. “Nice doing business with you.” One of his pals kicked his bike. Then the other one picked it up and tossed it into a dumpster. It clanged and echoed. They laughed and disappeared into the stream of pedestrians and the steam rising from manhole covers. Why they’d bothered to target him was a mystery. They couldn’t have got away with much. Most of his runs were for law firms and corporate offices — material that couldn’t be faxed, emailed, scanned or FedExed. Contrary to what most might have thought, bike messengers were still needed. It was cheap, fast, and a reliable service. It catered to the “I want it now” generation. And there was no way anyone could get something from point A to point B in the city faster than a bike messenger. Racking up anywhere from 40 to 60 miles a day, he could eat whatever the hell he liked as it burned off like wildfire. He worked for no one, but contracted himself out like the other five thousand bike messengers in New York. When he wasn’t doing runs for City Kings, he filled up his day with runs for UberRUSH, GrubHub, Postmates, DoorDash, and some flower firms. While the work was simple, he was lucky to make eighty bucks on a good day. It certainly was a far cry from the work he’d previously done.
Jesse coughed and rubbed the side of his eye that was beginning to swell.
He looked towards the mouth of the alley where a slew of pedestrians hurried about their day. He spat a wad of blood on the ground before gazing up at the gray sky. It was freezing cold in December. The streets were packed. New Year’s Eve was a nightmare. Over one million lunatics crammed into Times Square every year just to scream, kiss and see that damn glittering ball drop. It was utter madness and the reason Jesse had been trying to get wrapped up by three that afternoon. He didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of it; it brought back too many bad memories. The cops were already closing down access to Times Square starting with 43rd Street and Broadway then working their way north as thousands from out of the city arrived. On one hand the lack of vehicle traffic made it easy to weave through the streets but with the boys in blue out, it meant fewer rules could be broken — like skitching, which involved latching onto a vehicle, or blowing through red lights because stopping meant a delivery might not arrive on time.
Jesse remained on the ground for a second or two before clambering to his feet and brushing off the city grime. He brought a sleeve up to his arm and smelled it, it reeked of piss. “Shit.” He grimaced and went over to the dumpster and leaned in to fish his bike out. After dragging it out and wiping off pasta, and God knows what else, he looked at the back wheel which was wonky. He
straightened it out as best as he could and then prepared to make a call to Alfonzo, the head boss at City Kings.
Leaning his bike up against the dumpster, he retrieved his phone and placed the call. The fact that those three thugs hadn’t stolen his phone, or the six dollars in pocket change, made him think they knew what was in the bag. They’d probably been paid by some big shot to ensure it didn’t arrive at its location. Delays in the city could make or break businesses. It could bring court cases to a grind and cause no end of trouble as it was an easy way to make other people’s lives a living hell.
“Jesse, where the hell are you? Doug Richards hasn’t got his package.”
“Yeah, about that.”
“Why don’t I like the sound of that?”
Jesse rubbed his eye again. It hurt like hell.
“I was jumped.”
“Noooo,” Alfonzo replied.
“Nothing I could do about it. Three of them, one had a gun. They took everything.”
Alfonzo sighed.
“Look, don’t worry about it. I got them on camera.”
“What?” Alfonzo asked.
“I’ve been wearing a GoPro lately. You know, to record my daily route.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not exactly rolling in money, and strangely enough people are interested in seeing what I do for a living. I upload it online and make a few bucks on ads. Anyway, those guys couldn’t have been too bright as they never bothered to search me. They just wanted the bag.”
Jesse groaned and steadied himself against the dumpster.
“You okay?”
“A few scratches and bruises. I’ll live.”
“Right.”
There was dead air between them.
“Alfonzo.”
“Yeah. Um. Look, just head to the next pickup location. I’ll deal with this.”
“The next pickup? Have you seen it out here? The streets are crawling with people. I’ll be lucky if I can make it a few blocks. It’s crazy. Anyway, I was planning on knocking off early. Besides my bike isn’t exactly in the best state.” He stared down at the wheel. That was one of the downsides to being a bike messenger. You had to buy your own bike, replace tires, maintain it, get the right clothes. There were no promotions or raises, no healthcare, no workers compensation and every day he had to risk his neck dealing with pedestrians and annoyed cab drivers. Every month bike messengers were injured by collisions or doors swinging open, and some even died. That’s why there was such a high turnover. With the low rate of pay, no one got into this to make money, it was all about freedom, or in Jesse’s case, healing, as it was the only thing that allowed his mind to stay off the past.
“Two more pickups and drop-offs. C’mon, you owe me that.”
“Owe you?” Jesse asked.
“Jesse, I’m on the hook for everything that was lost. Someone has to take responsibility.”
“Just give the cops my video footage.”
“Doesn’t matter. Listen, just do the last two pickups or…”
“Or what? I don’t work for you, Alfonzo.”
“No, you don’t, but you rely on the work I send your way.”
He was right of course. The pickings were slim in the city. Big courier companies were becoming a thing of the past with more and more deliveries being sent by email. However, with advancements in technology, laziness had become the new problem, and some companies were taking advantage of that by offering free pickup and delivery, and then making their money off the back end through sponsors and other forms of advertising. Jesse was starting to feel like a walking billboard with ads attached to his clothing.
“How much?” Jesse asked. Every online messenger service was different. Some might offer sixty to seventy percent per delivery, but when the delivery cost was only five bucks, you had to chase the money to make it. That’s why he preferred working with Alfonzo, he could haggle with him and City Kings had been around long before all the new startup companies showed up on the scene.
“Thirty bucks.”
“Sixty,” Jesse replied.
“Forty.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Forty!”
He groaned. “Alright, I’ll do it.”
“Good man. Oh, and Jesse. Happy New Year.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jesse grunted and pursed his lips together as he got back on his bike and wobbled off down the alleyway back into the maze of death.
* * *
He grunted at the sight. The line was longer than last time. He hated waiting because it meant talking to people but he had little choice as the other places would be just as bad. Elliot Wilson pushed his shopping cart full of cans, bottles and other plastics to one side then fished around in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it. He blew a plume of gray smoke and squinted as he scanned the dirty faces of fellow street people while he waited outside one of the Acme markets in Manhattan. It was one of several supermarkets, drugstores, and other businesses registered as redemption centers, and had become his single source of income after arriving in the city over a year ago. He’d spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon collecting sticky containers from trash receptacles, as each one would net him five cents, and allow him to redeem the legal maximum of $12 per visit. Most homeless New Yorkers would go from one supermarket to the next and if they were lucky, they might be able to scrape together just enough to make it through to the next day. Canning was unpredictable and could be dangerous at times, but it was all he could rely on. The street was full of the mentally unstable, those who wouldn’t think twice about sticking a blade in you to steal what you had. For him, thieving was out of the question, and no one would hire him — not without a fixed residence. Besides, he hadn’t come to the city to find work, but that was another story.
Elliot hopped up on top of the shopping cart and pulled out a New York Post newspaper he’d swiped from a McDonald’s restaurant earlier that morning. The headline read: North Korea Launches Ballistic Missile Hours After White House Warning. He scanned the article which covered the president in a UN speech threatening to attack and totally destroy North Korea. There had been mixed opinions from the American people on what should or shouldn’t be done. Some felt the president was only inciting the young leader of North Korea.
“Can I bum a cigarette?” a gruff voice asked.
Elliot lifted his eyes. It was the same question every time. While he saw many of the same faces, and some tried to speak with him, for the most part he kept to himself. It was safer that way. There was no telling whom he was dealing with, the nicest of people could turn ugly in seconds. Had he met the guy down in the underground he would have obliged but standing here, in a line of nine, that was like flashing a handful of money. Instead, he just shook his head. “Sorry, last one.”
“Too bad. Then a drag?”
He was persistent. Hustling, everyone had to do it. Elliot scanned the man behind him, and the woman in front, before handing him the partially smoked cigarette.
“Keep it.”
The grizzled homeless man gave a nod. “Thanks, man.”
He went back to reading the article. According to the military, the North Koreans already had a ballistic missile submarine capable of causing major damage but rumors has it they had developed a more advanced one that would present an even greater challenge to the USA. China suspected of helping the North Koreans develop the technology? He shook his head. He wouldn’t put it past them.
Ahead of him a commotion had started between a woman and a guy. It was common to see arguments. One person would steal a bag of cans from another or accuse someone of having scavenged in their territory. He dropped the newspaper back into the cart and watched as the white male shoved the small Chinese woman to the ground and everyone looked on without saying or doing a thing. Only one guy tried to intervene but after the man flashed a blade he backed off with his hands up. It was a dog-eat-dog world. It reminded him of wolves attacking prey. The dominant ones would prevent the othe
rs from coming close until they had fed.
“Those are mine,” she said, tears streaking down her face.
“I saw you this morning. I warned you not to come into my neighborhood,” he said taking what she had and loading it into his already overfilled cart. He had them in bags hanging off the sides and tied to the back. Elliot watched the woman claw her way back to her feet and try to retrieve her bags. This time the man kicked her hard in the stomach knocking her back. He loomed over her, jabbing his finger in her face. “You brought this upon yourself.” Then he began mocking her by pretending to sob. “Now shut the hell up.”
As he turned to continue robbing her, Elliot hit him square on the end of the nose. It burst like a fire hydrant and he buckled but remained standing. One more crack to the jaw and he was out cold. Then, without saying a word, Elliot took the bags he’d taken from the woman and placed them back in her cart, then went over and took her hand and helped her up.
“Go, find another place to redeem the cans and bottles.”
She nodded and hurried off with the cart, shortening the line. Elliot returned to his spot in the line and kept an eye on the man who was lying near his cart. He figured he wouldn’t be out for long and when he awoke things would get even more violent, but he wasn’t going to run. That was a sign of weakness; besides, he still had $12 to collect.
After redeeming his cash, he headed back to Grand Central Terminal; his home was located underneath the platform between tracks 111 and 112 on the lower level. He could have stayed in a shelter and for the first day after arriving in the city he had, that was until he woke up to some naked guy jacking off near his face. Shelters were ripe with the mentally ill. If it wasn’t dealing with sexual advances, it was the risk of being stabbed or suffocated at night. It was brutal, and the reason why so many preferred to sleep on the sidewalks, huddled below blankets, or down in the tunnels where the air was humid and poor. It was better than dealing with shelter curfews, restrictive laws and a broken social system.
There, he and other homeless people referred to as mole people created homes in a labyrinth of graffiti-filled tunnels, above dirty support beams and inside small abandoned crew rooms that were at one time used by tunnel workers. Elliot had managed to turn his dusty abode into a two-room residence complete with an old mattress, cookware, blankets, and even a camping stove and mini fridge that pirated electricity from somewhere in the underground system.
