“I will kill this man if you don’t get the hell out. Do you hear me, lieutenant?” Mike yelled.
“Nine.”
Mike squeezed the grip of his gun hard. Either his fingers would break, or the rifle’s handle would.
Bram’s mouth looked as though it was about to form the word “ten” when a bullet split the side of Cain’s head open. The moment that happened Bram slid the blade of his knife across Anne’s throat and she fell to the ground.
Mike aimed his gun at Bram and squeezed the trigger. He pulled it repeatedly. He couldn’t tell how many of his shots got off, because once the first bullet went into Bram’s body every other soldier with a weapon fired.
Once Mike could hear the click of the firing pin signaling that his magazine was empty, he felt the pieces of lead tear through him.
The hot bullets flew into his chest, sending him backwards and hurling him to the ground.
When Mike woke up he felt as if a car was sitting on top of his chest. His vision was blurry as he looked around. There were tubes stuck into his arm, and it was difficult to breathe.
He was dressed in a hospital gown and when he tried to move a sharp pain shot through his entire body.
He could hear a beeping somewhere next to him. It was growing louder. A woman came in and pressed a few buttons on the machine next to his bed.
“Where am I?” Mike asked.
“Take it easy, Mr. Grant.”
She pressed her hand on his shoulder. Mike started to feel dizzy.
“I need to see my son,” Mike said.
“You need to rest.”
The nurse plugged another needle into his arm. He started to feel sleepy again.
“No, I need… to… see…”
When Mike woke up again his chest still hurt, but he was propped up in the bed. The first face he saw when he opened his eyes was Dr. Wyatt.
“Hello, Mike,” Wyatt said. “You’ve been out cold for a few days now. It’s good to see you awake.”
Mike tried to remember the events before the hospital. How he got there. Where his family was. Slowly, everything came back to him.
“Where is Freddy?” Mike asked.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Wyatt asked.
Wyatt kept dodging the question. Mike could feel panic rush over him. There wasn’t any anger left. It was just fear. Fear and grief. He started crying.
“Where’s my son?” Mike asked, tears pouring down his face.
Dr. Wyatt rose from his seat slowly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver pocket watch that Mike had given his son.
When Dr. Wyatt placed it in Mike’s hand the scream that came out of him was so primal, so harrowing that it caused three hospital staff members to rush into his room.
Mike thrashed on the bed. His chest felt as if it was going to rip apart, but he didn’t care. He’d lost everything. There wasn’t any type of pain left in the world that could hurt him.
16
Day 56 (Cincinnati)
Mike put on the shirt the hospital staff gave him. He buckled his pants, tied his shoes, and ran his fingers over the scars on his chest.
The doctors took out four bullets. Even though it had been a few weeks Mike still couldn’t push himself. The doctors told him it would take another three months of rehab before he could do anything physical again, but Mike didn’t have any plans on staying here.
He knew the doctors couldn’t make him stay once he was able to start getting up and moving around on his own. The only time he’d left the hospital previous to this was when he buried his family.
It was a few weeks ago. He declined to speak during the funeral. What little hope he held onto was that his family knew how much he loved them. And he knew they couldn’t hear him anymore anyway.
Dr. Wyatt requested to see him before he left. Mike didn’t want to speak with the man, but that was the one condition upon his release. This place was as much of a prison as it was a hospital.
Mike walked into the waiting room and Dr. Wyatt was there, reading a magazine.
“What do you want?” Mike asked.
Mike’s tone was dry, heartless. If he had a weapon on him he would have killed Wyatt on the spot.
“I’m asking you to stay. You’re still not well enough to travel and be on your own yet. We’re just now starting to set up supply routes to get the rest of the country up and running, but it’ll take a few more months. It’s still not safe out there,” Dr. Wyatt said.
“It’s not safe anywhere.”
Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket watch that belonged to his father, which he passed down to his own son. Now both his father and his son were dead. Mike tossed the watch to Wyatt.
“I don’t want it,” Mike said.
“It’s something you should keep. It belongs to your family.”
“Then bury it where the rest of my family is.”
Mike turned to go, but Dr. Wyatt stopped him.
“Here, take this,” Dr. Wyatt said, handing him the journal.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t hold up my end of the deal. This journal has enough evidence for you to do whatever you want to me.”
Mike grabbed the journal, stuffed it into his bag, and left. As he walked down the streets of Cincinnati he realized there wasn’t anything left in this world for him. He decided to go back to the one place where he could be alone. The cabin.
The only thing he had to worry about now was how he was going to choose to leave this world. That was one choice he wasn’t going to let anyone else make for him.
17
Six Months After the Blackout
The judge brought the gavel down hard.
“Order. I will have order in this courtroom,” he said.
Mike still had his handcuffs on and he was sitting next to his appointed attorney.
“Mike Grant,” the judge said, “you have pleaded guilty and provided a written statement to the crimes against the United States government and its people, correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“At this time you are able to make any opening statements before the proceedings take place.”
The courtroom was small. The only people that were allowed inside were a few high-ranking government officials, the attorneys, the judge, and sitting directly behind Mike was Agent Sullivan.
Mike dug his hand into his pants pocket and felt the cool outline of the his father’s silver watch. When the guards patted him down he was allowed to keep it.
“I have done terrible things. Things that have cost me everything I hold dear. When the power went out we didn’t just lose the lights in the cities, we lost the light within ourselves. We became dark, and twisted. We killed each other. We lost our way,” Mike said.
Everyone in the room was looking at him, staring, waiting for him to finish so they could walk through the dog and pony show and get to the execution, delivering him to justice.
“I watched my father, my wife, and my daughter die in front of me. I’ve felt their blood on my hands. It’s a stain I still haven’t been able to wash off. And when I found out that my son had been murdered, I didn’t think I had anything left to live for.”
Mike gripped the pocket watch harder. He was holding onto it for dear life.
“I thought I wanted to die. That’s why I came here, why I turned myself in. But then I remembered something my father told me a long time ago. He said that as long as one member of a family is alive, the rest live with them. They live on through the choices you make,” Mike said.
“What are you getting at, Mr. Grant?” the judge asked.
“Every single event that I listed in my statement happened—the EMP explosion, the planned coup to overthrow the government, all of it. But I wasn’t the one who planned it.”
Mike’s attorney started typing furiously at his laptop. Everyone started talking. The judge banged the gavel hard again.
“Order! Order! Mr. Grant, do you have any proof
of your statements?” the judge asked.
“Yes, I do. There is a small cabin just outside of Carrollton, Ohio. It belonged to me. Inside you’ll find a desk and in the bottom drawer is a journal. The journal belonged to a Dr. Quinn Wyatt. In it you’ll find all the evidence you need of who planned the attacks.”
Mike turned around and looked at Agent Sullivan. Ben was smiling.
“In light of these recent events I move that we take a recess. I would like both counselors to join me in my chambers,” the judge said.
Mike’s attorney disappeared and an officer came and escorted Mike out of the courtroom. Before Mike left Ben grabbed his arm.
“What changed your mind?” Ben asked.
“My son.”
Once the authorities confirmed the journal was at Mike’s cabin a new investigation was launched. Agent Sullivan was hailed for his thoroughness and diligence, and Mike was told that he would be set free.
Up until his release Mike was allowed to see visitors. This time he chose to see two.
“Mike,” Katie said, wrapping him in a hug.
Sean was by her side. He gave Mike a slight smile.
“I can’t believe you’re alive. All of this is… crazy,” Katie said.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The trial was on the news. The government was comparing catching you to catching Osama bin Laden.”
“Except I turned myself in.”
Katie gave him another hug and the three of them sat down.
“How have you been holding up? How are Mary and her sisters?” Mike asked.
“We’ve been okay. Mary and the girls have been staying with us. My company is finally getting back up and running. We’re going to be moving out to California in a few weeks so I can start heading up the West Coast division. It’ll be a nice fresh start.”
“That’s good.”
Katie grabbed Mike’s hands.
“Mike, I… We’re alive because of you. What you’ve been through, the price you paid… It’s not something I can ever repay. I am in your debt for the rest of my life.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. If you ever need anything, and I mean anything, it’s yours.”
“Thank you.”
Mike was given his personal effects when he was released. And when he walked outside Dr. Wyatt was waiting for him.
“I’m surprised you’re not locked up yet,” Mike said.
“They cleared me on a few conditions.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Mike, I can’t fix what’s already been broken. We both know that, but the reason I wanted to come find you was because I want to prevent these types of disasters from happening again.”
“People don’t want to change. They just want things to be back to the way they were.”
“Not everyone.”
Mike cocked his head to the side.
“What do you mean?” Mike asked.
“As part of the terms of my ‘pardon’ I’ve been asked to be a part of a new agency that would be in charge of preventing these types of attacks and disasters from happening again. I want you to be a part of it.”
“And why should I trust you?”
“How about me?” Sam said.
Mike turned around and the two men smiled and embraced each other in a hug.
“It’s good to see you, Mike.”
“You too, Sam.”
“Mike,” Dr. Wyatt said, “you’re not the only man who wants to work off the debt of death that we accumulated during the blackout.”
“So what do you say?” Sam asked.
Mike pulled out the silver pocket watch. He flipped open the cover and inside was a picture of his family.
“When do we start?”
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!
Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.
As an indie author, Amazon reviews can have a huge impact on my livelihood. So if you enjoyed the story please leave a review letting me and the rest of the digital world know. And if there was anything you found troubling, please email me. Your feedback helps improve my work, and allows me to continue writing stories that will promise to thrill and excite in the future. But be sure to exclude any spoilers.
I would love if you could take a second to leave a review: Click here to leave a review on Amazon!
Again, thank you so much for letting me into your world. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it!
Sleeper Cell: The Beginning
Closing In
I'm only here to make sure we get these bastards. And to make sure it's done right. Too much time and too many resources have gone into this case to screw it up now. Patterson is driving like a maniac. He's nervous, I can tell. He's got that look. Silent and focused. I have to admit, I'm a little nervous, too. We’ve got our SWAT team following us and after them, about a dozen unmarked cars trailing behind. With any luck, no one has tipped them off already. With any luck, we take 'em without a fight and find out who's funding them. With any luck, the money leads us to the big fish. Easy as that.
But it's never that easy. With all the data mining and agencies and bureaucracies and politics and money, these terror cells still grow and thrive. You take one group out, another moves right in and takes its place. I want to think I'm making a difference—that when it's all said and done, the terrorists will lose and we will win. At least I want to believe that.
Special Agent Craig Davis sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked Dodge Charger, barreling down the road at least twenty mph over the posted speed limit. He ran his hand across his short, brown hair then reached for his handheld radio. Instructions to the FBI agents and SWAT team members trailing behind had to be kept short, but even so, his mind raced with thoughts about the approaching raid. There was little room for error. Then again, that was always the case with anything in his job.
For six months, the FBI—in conjunction with Homeland Security—had been building a case against a suspected terror cell of Syrian refugees in a Minneapolis safe house on the outskirts of the city. Both departments had a vested interest in the outcome, but the case belonged to Agent Davis. He had fought to investigate and he had fought to keep it.
He didn't fully trust Homeland Security either. They were, after all, the agency currently allowing Syrian and Libyan refugees temporary asylum with the press of a stamp. They were the agency aware of American citizens traveling abroad to the Middle East and returning back home. And they were the agency that seemed least concerned about it. But at the moment, the FBI and Homeland shared a common goal: taking down a Syrian sleeper cell with links to ISIS.
“We move on my command,” Craig said into his radio. “No one goes in until I say the word.”
He held up a map of the neighborhood and focused on the area in question. A city block was circled on the map in magic marker, pinpointing the house where the suspected sleeper cell operated: 1513 Sandhill Drive. The owner of the house, an elderly man who lived out of state, had gone through many tenants over the years, but the current occupants were a mystery, even to him. There was only one name on the rental application: Saaheb Najmul.
Craig had his doubts that the man even existed. There was nothing on Saaheb in their database. No record whatsoever. Through surveillance, they had discovered that at least ten men were living in the house. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Intel, however, suggested an imminent attack in the works.
“Remember your points of entry,” Craig continued. “Stay alert to movements from nearby residents. We want to bring as little attention to ourselves as possible.”
Agent Patterson shook his head in disagreement with his eyes concealed behind black aviator lenses. His mop top of gray hair down to his ears and thick mustache made him look like a relic fr
om the 1970s, but he, like Craig, was only in his thirties.
Craig looked at his partner, taking notice of his disapproving head shake. “What?”
“We're gonna bring attention to ourselves no matter what we do,” Patterson said.
Craig glanced out the window as they passed cars parked along the sidewalk. Run-down houses passed by, packed too closely together, with small yards surrounded by chain-link fence. Drugs and crime were evident in the area. It was early morning, but the neighborhood operated on its own terms. The residents knew when the police were coming, and they knew when to flash signals, run, or hide.
Craig spoke into the radio. “This is going to be a quick, clean bust. I don’t want any casualties. Not from us or them.”
“Count me out, then,” Patterson said. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Craig lowered his radio. “That’s very funny.”
“Not as funny as traveling all the way from D.C. to Minneapolis to find a sleeper cell.”
Craig gave him a puzzled look while loading the magazine of his 9mm Beretta. “I thought you’d be glad to get away from D.C. for a little while.”
“I am. But Minneapolis? Come on.”
Craig slapped the magazine into the 9mm and pulled back the slide. “Tell you what, if I hear of any in Costa Rica, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Fair enough,” Patterson said.
The Dodge roared down the street as a convoy of unmarked vehicles followed. Patterson swerved the Charger to the left through an intersection just as Craig turned on the switch for the siren lights atop the rear-view mirror. The car jerked to the side. Craig gripped his armrest. Tires squealed against the pavement. He looked to the GPS on the center console. They were three and a half miles from the house with the convoy remaining steadily behind. Craig slouched over and picked up a blue bulletproof vest from the floor. He raised his arms and put the vest on, pressing the Velcro into place. He was ready.
Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Page 47
