EMP Crisis Series (Book 3): Instant Mayhem

by Russell, Mark J.

  In fact, he and Owen had reached the first building on the town’s main street before anyone noticed them, when an old lady, who looked to be at least seventy, rounded the corner ten feet in front of them and came to an abrupt halt. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, and when she saw them, her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. “Lord, please, no…” Her eyebrows furrowed as she wiped one high cheek bone with the heel of her hand and said, “What do you bastards want? You already took everything of value, even my son’s life. I have nothing left to give you.”

  Abram replied, “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But I’m carrying this white flag for a reason—namely, we’re not the bandits. We weren’t here when this happened. How long ago was it?”

  Her angry expression faded, and she looked over her shoulder toward the town. Probably looking for some help, some witnesses. Seeing no one nearby, she faced Abram once again. “A couple hours.”

  Abram nodded. That jibed with what he’d seen. “You must’ve known they were coming, because most of you I saw just before we came into town are just kids or grandparents like yourself. I really am sorry about that, ma’am.”

  She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Sorry don’t bring my son back, but thanks for saying it. Yes, they made demands, but they weren’t reasonable. We knew we were in trouble, but we all decided we weren’t just going to roll over and let them take what we work so hard for. Maybe it was stupid, but we had to fight.”

  Her eyes unfocused and she seemed to gaze through Abram instead of at him. “Now we don’t even have rifles to defend ourselves with. Every gun we had was in town, defending what’s ours, and the bastards took those along with everything else, like locusts, going house to house and taking everything, even crap that wasn’t useful. Like they decided to take it all now, so they could sort it out back at their lair. They even took the bodies, so I can’t even say goodbye to my poor, dear son. I suppose he’s going to end up as nothing more than chunks of meat in some bandit’s soup bowl.”

  Abram gasped. That was a horrific thought. He had heard a few very recent rumors of cannibalism, particularly among groups of refugees who had turned to raiding out of desperation, but it was rare even among them, at least for now. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to believe his poor daughter had ended up as a meal.

  Abram shook his head to clear the ugly thought. “No, ma’am. At least I can give you that small comfort. They didn’t end up as soup.” When the woman’s eyes flashed with anger and her mouth opened, face flushing red, Abram hastily raised his hand to placate her and added, “We came across their final resting place. Well, I hope it’s not where they end up staying. But, we found them, and we’ll be happy to tell you where.”

  She pursed her lips and closed her eyes for a long moment, one muscle under her left eye twitching, but then her face relaxed. Opening her eyes, she nodded. “I’ll thank you to tell us where. We want to say goodbye to our husbands and wives, our kids, and our parents. What is it you want here, though? I’m afraid we have nothing left to give strangers. Even if we wanted to. Even to find out where they are.”

  Abram smiled wanly. The people who still lived were generally the ones who had realized early on that they couldn’t support everyone who came along, not anymore, though prosperous people might trade food for labor. From the well-maintained clothes this lady wore, he had to assume Nettletown had been one of those. Unfortunately, that had cost many of them their lives…

  He replied, “I doubt anyone took what we’re looking for. We don’t need a handout, and we’re not looking for work.”

  She shook her head. “All the pretty girls are dead, mister. You should’ve seen my son’s wife. She was so beautiful…They would have given me gorgeous grandkids.” She looked down at the sidewalk. “I think I’ll see them again, soon enough.”

  Once upon a time, Abram or Owen would have tried to comfort her with meaningless clichés, like the social contract had dictated. There was no longer such a contract, though. He certainly understood her motives, if she had indeed been suggesting she would be committing suicide. In the world’s new reality, that ultimately only meant the town would have one less mouth to feed. Moreover, it was the town’s business, not Abram’s.

  Abram cringed at that last thought, somewhat shocked at his own stony callousness.

  The woman must have misunderstood, though, because she gave Abram a soft smile and said, “It’s okay. I promise I won’t blow my brains out in front of you. But again, I ask, why are you here? Why did you risk coming into town, after seeing where our dead ended up and all those bodies?”

  Abram chewed the inside of his cheek. Should he be honest? They might jack up the price, since it would be obvious from both the kind of part and the fact that they had braved entering the town that getting the part was an urgent matter for him…

  No, this woman had been straight with him. He’d be straight with her. “We need a car part. It’s a pretty common one, and unless bandits are stealing thermostats, it will be in stock. We can trade for it, though we only have what we could carry in our bags.”

  The old lady sniffed. “Too lazy to walk home? Yes, I’m sure we have it. I don’t think they touched that store, but if they come back, they’ll probably grab that, and everything else, if it might be handy in a couple years.”

  Owen laughed out loud, and both Abram and the old woman looked at him like he was a Martian. Seeming oblivious, he said, “Lazy? Not hardly. No, we need the part so we can get to another town, where one of our people has family. We’ve got to talk them into standing up against these raiders, joining with us to fight them, because if we don’t stand together, we are all going to end up…” He paused, then his mouth snapped shut.

  She said, “End up like us. Well, you’re not wrong. A week too late, though. Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you get the part. Anyone standing up against these bastards, we will do everything we can to help. I’m just sorry that isn’t much.”

  Owen smiled down at her. “Well, if you give us a T-stat, that will be help aplenty, lady.”

  She smirked at him through the gloom, then looked at Abram and said, “Follow me, mister. I’ll make sure no one else stops you, and then, afterward, you show me where they took my son.”

  Abram nodded and extended one hand, inviting her to lead them onward.

  She took the lead, and as she walked, said over her shoulder, “So, tell me about this family and the town he’s in?”

  Abram only half listened as Owen told her of Frank and his son-in-law, but the rest of his mind was on the woman’s words. It was too bad they hadn’t come one week sooner…How many other towns and villages were out there, wishing they could stand up to the bandits who made their lives miserable and deadly, lacking only someone to come along who was willing to stand beside them?

  He only hoped Frank’s “no-good son-in-law” would be as welcoming as this grieving old lady.

  21

  Nick felt the ground with his toe, then stepped off the wooden ladder. Although the crew had built the latest tower like a Sherman tank, since it was the central one and keystone for the entire system of guard towers, he still preferred solid ground beneath his feet. “You did a great job on this one, sir. I can see almost everything in the compound, except right next to the buildings,” he said with a smile for Tom Crogan, an older gentleman with a lifetime of carpentry skills and the lead designer for the tower system.

  Tom ran his rough fingers through his full mane of now-silvery hair, the motion making his arm flex against the fabric of his polo shirtsleeve. “Wasn’t anything,” he replied—always the modest one, that Tom—and his answering smile lit up his ice-blue eyes. “I appreciate the compliment, though. I don’t cut corners, you know. Unless the blueprint says to, of course. But I told you before, stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not that old, yet.”

  Nick’s cheeks grew warm. He’d been raised to call older men “sir,” but Tom had a particular dislike for the term, even if the deep w
rinkles in his leathery skin showed every one of his sixty-plus years. “Sorry, Tom. Anyway, I have to go check on people. You can sign off on this tower if you feel it’s done. There’s another one to keep you busy, after you muck the stalls—”

  “Already? I just cleaned out that turd factory. I changed the bedding and everything.”

  “That was days ago, and they fill up fast. Owen usually does it, but he’s not here.”

  Tom’s frown deepened. “You could have Corey do it. He’s young and strong, right?”

  Nick rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Look, Tom, I know it’s not a fun task, but it has to get done, and Corey is doing other things you also wouldn’t want to do. But your arm is as thick as Cory’s thigh, so I think you’ll be fine.” He lowered his hands to look Tom in the eyes and added, “Sir.”

  Tom snarled but spun on his heels and stormed away toward the stables.

  Liam, his bear-like chest still heaving from the heavy work he’d been doing moving lumber for the last tower, stepped up beside Nick. He stood in silence as seconds ticked by, so Nick waited patiently for the burly man, perhaps their best marksman, to say what was on his mind.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Liam, still looking at Tom’s retreating back, said, “Don’t be hard on him. He’s not the only one to wonder if you’re going easy on Corey ’cause he’s your boy.”

  Nick’s lips flatlined. “Is that something you wonder, Liam?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but it came out as monotone, the tension evident even to his own ears.

  Liam chuckled, surprising Nick. “Nope. I don’t wonder that, at all. Your boy is still soft, Nick. He works hard, don’t mistake me. But you put the best one for the job into every slot, far as I can see it. Well, I need to haul supplies up for the next project, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re going to be late to check in on Radio if you don’t get moving.”

  Nick wasn’t sure whether he should feel offended or proud, but Liam was right about Nick’s timing—he had a basement to get to. “Thanks. I think. Don’t forget to drink water before you get started, okay? We can’t afford to have you falling out from dehydration.”

  He and Liam shook hands, then he headed inside. Maggie and Emma were together in the kitchen, so he waved as he went by, and smiled as they returned his greeting. Then, he reached the door leading down to the basement.

  Inside, the radio operator, Dexter, looked up sharply, sending his shaggy mane of brown hair swinging and nearly dislodging his thick-rimmed glasses, though he caught them before they slid off the end of his nose. “Nick! You startled me. Why so early, is something wrong?”

  Nick grinned. Ha, early. Dexter was always so scattered…“I’m not early. I’m a couple minutes late, in fact. You lost track of time again, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Right.” Dexter looked at the big, round wall clock and pursed his lips. “Well, about that. I was distracted by something important this time, at least.”

  “Oh?” Nick made his way further into the basement and sat in one of the wooden chairs opposite the radio operator’s at the desk that held the bulky base radio’s main equipment.

  Dexter nodded, hard enough to shake his glasses. “Yeah, I think it was important. I flipped on the tape recorder as soon as I realized what I was listening to.”

  He paused, looking expectant.

  Nick made a motion with his hand for Dexter to continue, suppressing his urge to ask about the tape recorder. He hadn’t known there was one, though it made sense. Those few that remained would likely have survived the CME, where digital ones, of course, had generally not. Plus, Abram liked things to be “old school,” one very good reason he was so well set up to survive the event that had killed so many others.

  “Hang on.” Dexter leaned down to do something under the desk. He fidgeted for a moment, then a pair of dusty speakers on a work shelf nearby crackled to life. There was a lot of static, but it took only a moment for Nick to realize he was listening in on a military conversation.

  Nick blinked rapidly, surprised. Military? That was still a thing? Where were they when a horde of raiders killed Kat, damn them?

  Though they used a lot of acronyms and code words he had no way of understanding, they seemed to be based out of Burlington’s big airport, and the city and surrounding towns were under their control. The word “cantonment” came to mind, something Abram had once said while conjecturing about what the military response might be. It seemed he’d been right.

  And Burlington was less than fifty miles away. Nick reeled, the implications stunning. Maybe they could get the Army to help with the raiders…

  But fifty miles of bandit-infested wilderness might as well have been a thousand. Who could the compound spare on what would likely be a suicide mission? And there was no guarantee the Army was interested in anything more than maintaining their position. Hell, the Army could even confiscate their arms and supplies, if they even made it, and then they’d be stuck—refugees themselves.

  Nick let out a low whistle. “That’s big news. Abram will want to know about that, when he gets back. Maybe he’ll want us to reach out and contact them, somehow.”

  Dexter shook his head. “Unlikely. This traffic goes on like this for a couple of minutes before a new voice comes on and informs them that they aren’t on the secure channel. It ends abruptly, then. I mean, they could be monitoring the airwaves. There’s always that chance. But it’s far from the sure bet I would have hoped it would be. Plus, even if we did get in touch with someone claiming to be the Army, it would be hard to verify that, and we couldn’t give them our details over the open air. A lot of complications.”

  Ugh. Dexter had a point. Still, it was exciting news, and Abram might still have an idea Nick hadn’t thought of. “Good work, Dexter. Don’t bother Abram with this on his regular check-in time, okay? Let them stay focused, and it can wait until he gets back.”

  “You got it, boss,” Dexter said, then disappeared under the desk for a moment, followed by abrupt silence as the humming speakers went silent. When he reemerged, popping up like a gopher, Dexter shrugged. “Nothing else interesting to report, Nick. I’ll let you know if I hear them again, though.”

  Rising from his chair, Nick nodded. “Thanks.”

  He left the basement, his stomach flip-flopping with mixed emotions. The Army was so close they could almost touch them. A year ago, it would have been a trip he’d have made on a long lunchbreak, but in this new day and age, fifty miles was a journey of days or weeks—if one could make it alive at all.

  This new world sucked, as Corey would have put it.

  There was a light knock at the door to Palmer’s new office, and a man he recognized only in passing appeared, sticking only his head through. “Black, do you have a minute, sir?”

  Ah yes, being called “sir” was a rush, one that seemed unlikely to ever grow old. Palmer flashed an easy smile and said, “Of course. I have an open-door policy for a reason. Come on in, have a seat.”

  As the man shuffled in, Palmer mused that there was a reason he didn’t recognize the man, though he’d surely seen the guy once or twice. His guest was utterly nondescript, average height and build, brown hair, dull blue eyes…And he didn’t seem very bright, either, if first impressions were any indication.

  The man sat, leaning forward with his hands entwined in his lap, feet together. He looked nervous.

  Good, he should be. Palmer was The Man now.

  “Well, sir, I found something. Uh, something I thought you might want to know about.” Hands fidgeting in his lap, the man then waited expectantly.

  Palmer smiled again but imagined himself plunging a knife into this idiot’s throat. “Go on, tell me what you found.”

  “Right. Well, right outside town, there is a railway spur. You know, where they park trains off to the side so another train can go by, or if they need to do maintenance, or—”

  Palmer slapped his hand down on his desk, hard, interrupting the man. “I don’t need a history lesson. Tell me wh
at you came to tell me, because I have work to do.” He paused, forcing himself to relax. “I do hope you aren’t wasting my time.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “Yes, I hope so, too. Well, there’s a short little train parked on that side spur. Normally, they don’t park nothing there. At least, I don’t think they do. I was out hunting when I saw it. So, I checked it out, thinking maybe there could be, I don’t know, supplies or something. You know, thinking of like, a reward…”

  There it was, the man’s true motivation. Well, if what he’d found was useful, Palmer had no problem giving him plenty of reward, enough to make him go around blabbing all about what a good idea it was to tell Palmer about any cache they found, rather than trying to keep it for themselves. “Of course. If your intel is good, you’ll be drowning in reward. So, would you like to tell me what you found?”

  The man’s eyes darted all around the room, as though looking to make sure they were alone, then he leaned far forward. Half-whispering, he said, “I’m not rightly sure, sir. It wasn’t supplies. I think it might be something that threatens the town, though. You might want to get some people together to pull that railway car off somewhere else. One of those railroad cars was some kind of tanker, like what they hold liquids in. It had a…like, a symbol, painted on the side.”

  Palmer pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tightly. Lord, he needed patience to deal with this fool. He snapped, “What symbol?”

  Sitting back in the chair, the man frowned. “I’m not really sure. I think it’s nuclear waste, though. That symbol, it sure looked scary, like a warning. If some fool tried to open it up, if that got into the ground, what if it made it to the river? Or down into our water supply?”