EMP Crisis Series (Book 3): Instant Mayhem

by Russell, Mark J.

  Abram was about to ask the man what town he was in but thought better of it. There could be other people—bandits, even—listening in on their conversation. “Sorry to hear that. I’ve heard of towns forming militias to fight off bandits. Do you have enough fighters to defend your community?”

  “Negative.” The radio crackled, and the man’s voice returned. “Listen, I need to go. Are you on this frequency, around this time, daily?”

  “Affirmative. I’ll check in tomorrow. Same time.”

  “Roger that. Talk then.” The man repeated his call sign, then said, “Out.”

  Abram set down the microphone and grabbed the two-way radio, keying it on. “Bravo One, this is Alpha One, over.”

  “Alpha One, this is Bravo One,” came Nick’s reply. “Everything’s good out here. Hear anything so far? Over.”

  “Nothing good. I’ll tell you about it later. For now, finish resetting those tripwires.” Before the most recent bandit attack, they had set up tripwires using inert smoke grenade tops and shotgun primers that would act as early warning signs of intruders. Unfortunately, most of them had been mowed down by the invading bandits, and they not only had to reset the triggered tripwires but set up more throughout the forest as well.

  “On it,” came Nick’s reply. “Talk to you later. Bravo One out.”

  Abram set the radio on the table and leaned back in his chair, running thick fingers through his hair. Despite what he’d just heard about the looming threat, his mind could only focus on the nightmare he’d just had. What did it mean? After all, it wasn’t a suppressed memory that had resurfaced. They’d never found Miranda’s body.

  He swiveled in his chair, shaking the remnants of the dream away. He had to be alert and strong, doing what was needed to keep his loved ones safe. If he didn’t focus all of his attention on ensuring his family’s safety, if he dwelled on shadowy dreams and regrets, he would fail them like he had failed his sister.

  No. Abram needed to stay focused.

  It was just a dream, after all.

  Gary swung around, pistol gripped tightly. One of the bottles had been tipped over, and that would only mean one thing—someone had entered the house. The snapping twig before he’d entered flashed through his mind. Had the sound he’d heard in the forest before coming into the house been made by his pursuer? No, nobody was out there…

  But what if they were?

  Whoever had hidden out there could’ve easily followed him here, now making their move to corner him. His heart thudded in his chest.

  Should he hide?

  Or should he take this potential threat head on?

  On the second floor, he had the advantage. Of course, he needed to move as quietly as possible. Whoever was down there would hear him walking if he weren’t careful.

  He took a step, hearing the floorboards creak beneath his foot.

  Dammit.

  He sucked in a breath and took another step. Holding his breath, he expected the next floorboard to cry out beneath his boot, but it was silent.

  Letting out his held breath, he turned his flashlight off—he didn’t want to give away his position. A few silent steps later, his eyes were already beginning to adjust. He reached the door and poked his head out, getting a good view of the dim hallway.

  Nothing was there.

  Holding his breath again, he focused all of his attention on hearing where the intruder was within the house. Not a sound could be heard.

  He took a step into the hallway. Whoever was down there would eventually come upstairs, and when they did, he’d be ready for them.

  He stopped and waited, listening intently. His mind reverted to the moment that he’d heard one of his early detection trips being knocked over. But which one was it—the one at the back door, or the one at the front? He furrowed his brows. It had sounded somewhat loud, which would suggest the front door, the same door he’d come through. But either way, the advantages still lay with him. Whoever was down there probably didn’t know he was in here, and he still had the advantage of being above his pursuer, who would have to climb the stairs to reach him.

  Waiting there, he let out a quick breath. Then, his eyebrows rose. His mind flashed to the stranger he’d met in the road. Mr. Candybar. What a ruse that guy had put up…and the man had had the audacity to think that Gary would fall for it. Any weak person who’d be thrown off in any way by such terrible theatrics deserved to be flogged—or worse. Gary’s lips flatlined. Hopefully, it was Mr. Candybar—Gary couldn’t wait to beat the man senseless.

  One minute turned into two, and Gary’s impatience brewed. What the hell was taking this guy so long?

  He kept his pistol grip firm and waited, anxiety pouring through his body as each second ticked by.

  Then, a flash of motion on the steps. Whoever scaled it did so in a hurry, and Gary barely got a chance to fire off his first shot. But in his confusion, the shot merely grazed the figure, who lunged at him, knocking him onto his back.

  Gary landed with a thud on the floor, half of him up against the railing, putting him in an awkward position. A shot of pain coursed along his spine where his back had struck the balusters, and it was only with an effort of will that Gary managed to scramble to his feet.

  He swung his pistol barrel up, a moment too late again—his attacker used the side of his fist like a hammer to strike Gary’s head, sending him reeling into the wall and his pistol skittering from his hand.

  Gary’s world spun as the dark figure loomed over him. The man slid a blade from its sheath, and it glinted in the hallway’s scant light, like a predator playing with its prey.

  Gary inched backward on the hardwood floor. Why hadn’t this man ended him yet? The question coursed through Gary’s mind, quickly replaced by the pounding of his injured head. But he was still alive, and he needed to take action before this man ended him.

  Steeling himself, Gary lunged upward in a quick burst of motion and tackled the man. His opponent let out an oomph. The blade, too, skittered across the floor.

  Screaming in rage, the man slammed a fist into Gary’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  Gary struggled to catch his breath as his enemy raised himself up and drove forward so that his forehead slammed into Gary’s nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils and into his mouth, and Gary tried to put off any thought of the possibility that the man had broken his nose. He needed to focus all of his attention on fighting off this lunatic.

  The man lunged again, but Gary shifted to one side, then used both hands to redirect the man’s momentum—his opponent slammed headfirst into the nearby wall with a thud.

  The maneuver put Gary off-balance, and he fell to the floor, ankle burning. His enemy lay stunned, but it wouldn’t buy Gary much time. Gary pushed to rise, but his arms buckled beneath his weight.

  As the man came to, shaking his head in a groggy stupor, Gary clawed his way along the floor and his hand struck something—the man’s knife.

  Gripping the knife, Gary used all of his remaining strength to get to his feet, and he saw the other man doing the same.

  The man’s gaze flicked from Gary to the pistol that lay on the floor only a few feet away.

  Shit!

  Time slowed as Gary gripped the knife even tighter and rushed toward the other man, who seemed dead set on reaching the pistol first.

  As his hands touched the pistol grip, Gary slammed into him, knocking him away from it. No way Gary would let this man kill him with his own gun.

  Spinning, Gary’s back struck the wall, but the force didn’t knock him off his feet.

  On all fours, the man scurried toward his last resort—the 1911 pistol.

  Gary’s boot slammed into the floorboards as he took a step toward the man, who still had his back facing him.

  Damn fool.

  The man reached the pistol and began to swing it around to put a bullet in Gary, but Gary was faster.

  Gary brought his blade to the man’s jugular and pulled it across. Blood spewed out
onto the floor.

  The man tried crying out, but his scream came out gurgled. His lips moved, trying to produce words, but they were lost in the hot, flowing stream of blood. Whatever he felt in his last moments of anguish, he couldn’t verbalize it. He gripped his fatal wound—his only recourse—but no amount of pressure could stop that neck geyser.

  Gary used his boot to push the man aside, his body landing in a meaty thud on the hardwood, and he picked his pistol up from the ground, wiping it along the dying man’s jeans to remove some of the blood from it.

  He slumped to the floor, if only to catch his breath.

  Then, motion at the stairs. A floorboard creaked, echoing in the hallway.

  Turning, Gary’s eyes widened.

  A figure stood at the top of the stairs, staring at him.

  Despite the gloom, Gary recognized the man, the same man he’d met out on the road earlier that day—Mr. Candybar himself.

  3

  Palmer flashed a smile, keeping his distance from the man who’d utterly annihilated his opponent in a glorious hand-to-hand fight. “You okay?”

  The man didn’t move, just studied Palmer as if he were some kind of science experiment. In many ways, he was. An anomaly among the other men who roamed this revised landscape.

  Even to Palmer, he couldn’t understand his own actions. He’d planned to kill this man, but someone else had beat him to the punch and tried to end this guy. So, instead of intervening, Palmer had simply stood in the shadows and watched the fight, like he had back at the compound when they’d been overrun with bandits.

  Staring at the man, he felt an even greater sense of respect for him. Yes, he’d nearly been killed by this assailant, however, he’d overcome him using his own strength and ingenuity. Not to mention his wisdom in setting up an improvised tripwire, demonstrating foresight and awareness regarding the probability of someone else entering the property. And then there was the fact that he was still alive, despite people all around them going mad, vying for increasingly scarce resources. Yes, this man was certainly built for this new world, and could be an asset. Maybe.

  Palmer kept his face neutral and held his hand out, offering his assistance.

  The man got up on his own, seemingly not wanting to make physical contact with Palmer. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wants to help you.”

  The man crouched down and grabbed the knife, keeping an eye on Palmer all the while. He slid the knife into a sheath on his belt, but instead of holstering the pistol he held, he kept it in his hand, ready for anything. Wise.

  “Well, you didn’t do much to help me with this bastard.”

  Palmer cleared his throat. “If I’d gotten here earlier, I would have intervened.”

  “I met you earlier today. Out on the road?”

  Palmer nodded. “Did you enjoy my gift?”

  The man stared. Perhaps he’d just raise his pistol and shoot, out of pure frustration.

  Palmer studied the man, ready to react to any indication of aggression.

  But instead of taking aim and firing, the man clicked on his flashlight and shone the beam toward Palmer. “I’m out of here.”

  Palmer stepped aside and flashed a practiced smile. He made sure to keep his hands where the man could see them, not wanting to instigate a conflict with a man he could use. Especially when that man had a gun in hand.

  The man cautiously stepped past Palmer, then hurried down the steps, glancing to his rear most of the way. How he didn’t trip down those stairs and flat out on his ass was beyond Palmer, but he knew the man wasn’t buying anything he was selling.

  Palmer left the crumpled body and followed the man. Down the stairs he went, catching sight of the man as he hurried out the front door.

  Reaching the front porch, Palmer spotted him entering the surrounding woods. “Wait up.”

  The man turned back to face him, pistol at the ready. He didn’t say anything, just waited expectantly. Palmer considered what he could offer this man. In these times, most men weren’t just after safety, but resources, and to be on the winning team. To date, the only winning teams were comprised of bandits and raiders, a bunch of untamed cats, loosely organized and led by unskilled charlatans, as Palmer had witnessed while watching the battle at the compound. But if this man desired to be a part of a group, he’d already be among the bandits. Instead, he was a lone road warrior. Perhaps, he hadn’t yet found the right people to join.

  Palmer held up both hands, palms outward in a nonthreatening gesture. He conjured up his best lie and took his time to speak clearly across the open expanse. “Listen, I’m heading to a nearby town and would like some company. It’s over that way a bit.” He motioned off to his right. “I hear there are resources there and men who are chomping at the bit for greater purpose. I figure we could give them something to do—shake things up a bit.”

  Something in the man’s features changed, like a light switch had flipped and he already had an idea of what purpose these fictional men could be used for. This change in expression intrigued Palmer, so he pressed forward. It would be interesting to see where the man’s mind led him. “What do you say?”

  Nick Caulfield clipped the radio to his hip and stepped toward the barn in search of Owen. There, he found him inspecting a goat that was wriggling in his strong arms.

  Owen glanced over at him. “A hand here?”

  “Sure.” Nick hurried over and held onto the small kid goat.

  Owen gave it a once over, examining the animal’s skin.

  “What are you looking for?” Nick asked.

  “Fleas and ticks. We need to keep our animals healthy. I’m also trimming their hooves and checking for signs of disease.”

  “How did you learn to do this?” Nick adjusted his grip.

  “Frank taught me,” Owen said, looking into the kid’s ears.

  Nick was once again glad that they’d brought in the neighboring farmer and his wife just before the bandit attack—Frank and Betty had proven useful on a daily basis since that fateful day.

  “Now I’m looking to see if there are parasites in his ears,” Owen continued, “and maybe clean them out a little if they are dirty.”

  “How much longer are you going to be doing this?”

  “Why?”

  “I just got off the two-way with Abram. He needs us to check to make sure all the traps are reset.”

  Owen let go of the goat, and it rushed away. “Okay. Did he get in touch with anyone over the radio?”

  “Yeah, more terrible news, apparently, but I didn’t get the details yet.”

  Owen glanced down a moment. “Hopefully, there aren’t more bandits. The last thing we need is another attack here. I mean, we don’t even have a dozen adults to defend this place.”

  Nick nodded at the hard truth. In addition to Nick, Abram, Shelly, and Maggie, the compound was currently comprised of Owen and his wife, Quinn, as well as Tom and the three remaining people who’d arrived with him—Liam, Vaughn, and Dexter—and two elderly farmers, Frank Brown and his wife, Betty. Of course, Corey and Emma were fast becoming more accurate with a rifle, as they’d demonstrated while defending the house during the battle two days ago, but they weren’t technically adults.

  Nick replied, “Well, if we keep these traps in order, we’ll have a better chance of knowing when the next threat is on our doorstep, so we don’t have a repeat of what happened to Kat.”

  Owen nodded somberly. “Yeah. Okay, let’s go then. I think Liam is out patrolling beyond where the tripwires are, so it might be wise of us to do this before his shift ends.”

  Nick led the way out of the barn, Owen following behind, and he heard music coming from the direction of the house. Vaughn was on his break, sitting outside at the picnic tables with Emma and Corey, giving them a guitar lesson, with Henry and Rae Ann tagging along. Nick couldn’t tell who was playing the guitar now, because they were all singing together, loudly. And a bit out of tune. There was laughter, too, which made Nick smile. It mea
nt that they had begun to recover from the raid. There had been nightmares and clingy hugs, but if they were singing and laughing now, maybe their reactions to the terror would soon be in the past.

  Still, Nick was painfully aware that he could have lost Rae Ann that day. In a way, he’d failed as a father. Both of his children deserved better, and it was all on him. If he’d only given his son the attention he deserved, and had showed him how to be a man, how to take care of others, he would likely have noticed Rae Ann slipping out of the main house before the attack began.

  Nick’s mind flashed back to the moment he almost died. Carrying Rae Ann in his arms as he scurried toward the barn, under fire, he’d had the realization that he might not be around one day to protect her. That job would fall on Corey, and so it was crucial that his son knew how to take care of little Rae Ann. Essentially, he would have to start treating Corey as an adult, making him more involved and teaching him the skills he’d need to survive.

  And that would have to start now, by asking Corey to help them with their most pressing task.

  “I’ll meet you at the gate in a minute,” Nick said to Owen, and then he jogged toward the main house, where the guitar lesson was wrapping up.

  “Hey, Dad,” Corey said.

  Nick regarded his son. “Corey, I need your help with something.”

  Corey perked up, glancing at Emma for a moment. “Can Emma help, too?”

  Emma spoke up, “I promised Aunt Maggie I’d help her and Quinn plan some of the permaculture stuff.”

  Corey shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Can I come?” Rae Ann asked, then looked over at Henry. “We can both help. And Pooper, too.”

  Nick caught himself from correcting his daughter once again that Henry’s dog was named Cooper and let it slide. Eventually, that moniker Rae Ann had invented would stick, and the poor pointer would have an unfortunate new name.

  “Sorry, Rae, but you, Henry, and Cooper need to stay back here in case Aunt Maggie needs your help.”