Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  "Officer down!" he shouted, clutching his chest. The officer pulled at his handheld radio, trying to get it unclipped from his belt. Mahmud and Jamal's lifeless bodies lay on the ground next to Ibrahim. Crouched beside the truck, Sean and Nasser watched in horror.

  The officer managed to get his radio loose and held it with one shaky, bloodied hand. "Shots fired! Shots fired!"

  Nasser looked to Sean. "We have to get out of there."

  Sean didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed real. He turned to the port in the distance. Their drones were no longer in sight, though there was plenty of fire and smoke. Sirens wailed from afar, getting louder by the second. Nasser placed his hand on Sean's shoulder and shook him.

  "Hey! We have to leave. Let's go!"

  Sean nodded. A sick feeling came over him—a realization of who he was involved with and what they had done. They took one look at the bodies of their friends and, with knowing glances at each other, decided there was nothing they could do but run. Nasser ran to the driver's side of the truck and swung the door open as Sean followed.

  "Hurry! Get in," Nasser said. The officer was no longer screaming for help. He was either unconscious or dead. Sean jumped and crawled onto the passenger seat. Nasser climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. He cranked the truck to life and peeled out, leaving the drone controls, bodies, gun, and shells behind them in the dust.

  Black Widow

  The terror cells had struck a lethal blow to the nation's ports. Long Beach, California. Houston, Texas. South Louisiana. Wilmington, North Carolina. Port of New York and New Jersey. Port of Pennsylvania. Port Everglades, Florida. Port of Boston, Massachusetts. They were all hit on the same day with attacks synchronized to detonate at the same moment: Tuesday, July 7, 2016, ten A.M. Eastern Time, seven A.M. Pacific. Eight ports in all. Six bombings. One chemical weapons attack. And one strike with miniature drones.

  The dirty bombs had destroyed an untold numbers of boats and cargo and killed an unknown number of people while spreading radioactive material for miles. When the losses were calculated, it was as if a dozen Pearl Harbor attacks had been inflicted on the country all at once. The United States was overwhelmed.

  Immediately after the carnage, Americans were struck with the very real fear of being under attack by a foreign enemy. Internet and cell-phone services were quickly overloaded throughout the entire country, adding to the already unprecedented sense of fear and disorder consuming the country. News media scrambled to report, while local and state governments deployed emergency response teams to stave off more potential attacks. No one in any position of authority was certain how far the attacks would stretch or when they would end.

  The federal government was dealing with a crisis beyond measure and quickly tried to enact emergency protocols among its myriad of agencies. The enemy who had unleashed the series of port attacks was nameless and faceless. No one initially took credit. The U.S. was dealing with a determined, malevolent force that had inexplicably remained anonymous.

  The Islamic State had done the impossible. After years of establishing itself in the Middle East, taunting and threatening the U.S., they had struck their greatest enemy—just as promised. And they did it through a vast network of sleeper cells. The attacks on the port, however, was only one step toward their greater goal of destroying the Great Satan and establishing a global caliphate.

  At FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., the atmosphere turned from nervous to chaotic in a split second. The minute the ISIS flag consumed the screens of their monitors, Special Agent Craig Davis knew they were under attack. He tried to tell his superiors that their informant was lying to them, that something wasn't quite right about someone disclosing information so willingly, but they didn't listen. Their prime concern was preventing a terror attack on the three major transit systems. And while the FBI’s intentions were good, the Islamic State had changed their tactics and had taken the bureau by surprise.

  Half the operations room stood motionless as the news flashed across the screen: Thousands estimated dead. Other officials gripped their cell phones, calling their families.

  "What the hell is going on out there, gentlemen? I need answers!" FBI Director Kurt McMillian said angrily.

  Assistant Director Frank Holloway pulled away from his phone in a panic. "Mass explosion at Houston Port in Texas."

  Deputy Assistant Director James Calderon interrupted. "Reports of toxic gas at a Long Beach port in California."

  McMillian shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of gas and how?" He was lost and confused, trying desperately to stay on top of everything.

  "New Orleans!" Supervisory Agent Vince Walker said. "Wires confirm that New Orleans has been hit with a dirty bomb."

  Collective gasps filled the room. Craig tried to let it all sink in but still couldn’t quite believe it. It was beyond even what he had thought possible.

  “We’re at war, sir. That’s what’s going on,” he said to the FBI director, receiving only a confused look in response.

  “Well, thank you for clarifying that, Agent Davis,” Calderon said, clearly frustrated.

  Craig walked out of the room just as the officials began shouting over each other in unison, like trade brokers on the stock exchange floor.

  The outside halls were much quieter. Craig took a deep breath and then started walking. The heels of his dress shoes clicked along the white-tiled floor as he walked, determined yet stealthy, toward the holding room three halls down. He could hear frenzied discussion from every office he passed.

  FBI officials, clerks, and agents were pacing their offices and cubicles frantically speaking into their cell phones. Their computers, their windows to the outside world, all displayed the same ISIS flag. It wasn’t hard to conclude who was behind the attacks, even given the lack of any terrorist organization taking credit for them. The enemy had managed to hack into their system and cripple it. It was as maddening as it was terrifying.

  Top FBI brass seemed to have little control of the situation. Craig believed that the answers lay with Malaka Surkov, their Chechen informant, who had provided warning of the mass transit attack. She couldn’t have been more wrong, and Craig was starting to feel more and more like a pawn in her twisted game of retribution.

  He traveled to the end of the hall and kicked open the door to the holding room. Malaka looked up from her seat, squeezing and twisting a rag in her hands as if she was ready to burst. Startled by Craig’s entrance, her young nephew, Husein, jumped up. Malaka, however, remained calm. Craig went right to their table and stared at them with intense, furious eyes.

  "All right. Who the hell are you?"

  She had claimed to be the grieving mother of two Chechen men associated with a sleeper cell—one injured and one killed—in a thwarted attack. Craig didn’t doubt that she was their mother. He only doubted her affiliations.

  Her information about the transit attack, she claimed, came from a note from her sons. It was also information that had been verified by captured sleeper cell members—men Craig had busted in a raid. He was certain she was part of the conspiracy, and he was going to make her talk.

  Malaka's eyes shifted from the television screen—which displayed aerial images, not of D.C. or New York, but of ports engulfed in flames—to Craig's fierce glare. Her face remained emotionless and indifferent.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I only give the information that I hear." She pointed at the screen. "You blaming me for this?"

  Craig slammed his palms down on the table and leaned into her face. "Cut the shit! We both know you're a part of this thing. You came here to throw us off."

  Husein urged restraint with a hand in the air. His striped T-shirt was wrinkled from a night of sleeping on a nearby cot. "Please, Agent Davis. My aunt doesn't know anything."

  "Stay out of this, Husein," Craig said, pointing his finger in the boy’s face. "I have a mind to lock both of you up until you tell me everything you know."

  Malaka scoffed a
nd waved Craig away. "Shoo, angry man. I have nothing more to say."

  She began to rise from her chair, struggling, or at least appearing to struggle. Craig laid his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down.

  "Is this some kind of game to you?" he shouted. He leaned in closer, right in her face, and spoke quietly. “People are dead, and if our government links this back to Chechnya, we’re gonna blow your entire country off the map."

  Malaka shook her head. "Is none of my concern."

  Craig backed away and paced around her like a cat. "We've been here before, and you know that I'm willing to do anything to get the info I want. So talk."

  "Never," Malaka said.

  Husein got up and backed away from the conversation. He didn't like where things were going. The last time Malaka had refused to talk, only a few hours ago, Craig had pulled a gun out and put it to Husein's head. "Leave me out of this," he said.

  Craig paid him no mind and slammed his fist down on the table again. "Talk!"

  Three FBI agents walking by the open door stopped and entered the room, drawn by the commotion.

  "What is going on in here?" One of them asked. He had a clean-shaved head and wore a dangling ID badge identifying him as Agent Hicks.

  Images flashed on the television of ports aflame. Banners scrolled across the screen declaring the worst terrorist attack in American history.

  Craig recognized the agents in the room but didn’t know them personally. He had met the bald one, Agent Hicks, before. He didn’t know the names of the other two. "I'm interrogating a suspect," Craig said. "This woman knew about the port attacks, and I'll be damned if she's leaving this room without talking."

  The three agents examined Malaka. Her face was stone cold. "I know nothing," she said.

  "Let’s all take a breather here," a curly-haired agent said. He looked down and shook his head as beads of sweat ran down his face. "I gotta call my wife and kids. This is fuckin' serious."

  "I'd like to leave now," Malaka said to the three agents. She turned and looked at her nephew. "Husein!"

  The boy climbed off his cot in the corner of the room. "Let's go," she said, rising from her chair.

  The three agents looked at her and then Craig.

  "Um. I'm not sure about that, ma'am," said a heavyset agent with slicked-back hair.

  "FBI is on lockdown," Curly-Hair said. "No one can leave the building."

  Craig stared at her with anger. Her blank face and utter indifference told him all he needed to know. She pushed past the FBI men and walked toward the door.

  "Husein. Now!"

  Husein hesitated then took slow steps to follow her.

  "Ma'am," the heavyset agent said.

  Craig watched her walking away. He thought of all the death and destruction on the television. He thought of his family. He thought of the terrorists on TV, celebrating in some far-away place. This triggered something in him. He balled his fist and felt himself shake inside.

  "Get back here!" he shouted, sprinting forward. He grabbed Malaka by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. He spun her around and gripped her neck tightly with both hands.

  Husein screamed for help. He ran at Craig, desperately pleading with him. "Stop it! Stop it, you'll kill her!"

  Craig squeezed as Malaka's eyes bulged and watered. Her face went red and she gasped for air, clawing at him.

  The three FBI agents locked their arms around Craig and tried to pull him away.

  "Stop!" Husein yelled again. "Please!"

  Malaka gagged, kicked, and thrashed. Craig's thick hands squeezed even tighter as her arms went limp and fell to her sides. Before Craig could finish the job, the heavyset agent punched him in the kidneys.

  Craig fell to the ground, clutching his side in pain. Malaka gasped. A tremendous coughing fit followed as she panted for air and turned to her side. Husein rushed to her aid, stepping over Craig.

  "Aunt Malaka, are you okay?"

  She was too occupied with coughing to respond.

  As Craig struggled to get up, the FBI agents surrounded him.

  "What the hell is your problem?" Agent Hicks asked.

  Craig offered only grunts.

  "He's crazy," Husein said. "Please keep him away from us. This is the second time he’s assaulted us."

  The agents gently helped Malaka stand as she continued to cough and wheeze.

  "Are you okay, ma'am?" the bald agent asked.

  "I do not know. My English is bad," she said faintly.

  She then spoke Chechen to Husein in a raspy voice as she struggled to catch her breath.

  "My aunt says she wants to file charges against Agent Davis for assault," Husein said.

  Craig was on all fours. A puddle of drool was on the tile. He could hear Malaka trying to leave. With the last ounce of strength he had left, he rose to his feet and spoke.

  "She's a terrorist!"

  The room went silent. The FBI agents around Malaka examined her with sudden curiosity. Husein looked worried. Malaka remained defiant, her stony expression not revealing her emotions.

  Craig hobbled over to them, catching his breath. "This woman is a part of the very terrorist network that just launched attacks against our ports. She has to be taken into custody immediately."

  Agent Hicks looked at Craig’s ID badge. "You've been saying that, Agent Davis, but do you have any proof?"

  Husein interjected. "Please, she's old and needs help," he said. "She's distraught over the death of her sons. That is all. It's not her fault that the information was wrong."

  "Bullshit," Craig said. "She’s a liar. Just like her worthless sons."

  Malaka's eyes widened. She looked at Craig as if she wanted to claw his eyes out. Her English suddenly became more fluent. And her eyes exposed the malice behind her every intention.

  "You killed Darion. You!” Her bony finger pointed at his face. “You will pay for what you’ve done!”

  The FBI agents looked at her, confused.

  "Ma'am?" Agent Hicks said.

  She flashed them a wild-eyed glare and turned to Craig. "ISIS will burn this country to the ground and then, and only then, will I have my justice.”

  "I knew it," Craig said, closing in on her.

  The larger FBI agent held his arm out, blocking Craig. "That's far enough!"

  With all eyes on her, she continued. "I am Malaka Varlmout Surkov. Chechen Muslim and devoted fighter for the Islamic State. I am the Black Widow, and you will remember my name."

  "Aunt Malaka," Husein said, visibly distressed. "Why are you saying this?"

  The curly-haired agent immediately pulled Malaka’s hands behind her back and handcuffed her.

  Craig took a step back and faced the FBI men. “Next time, don’t interfere with my business," he said.

  The FBI agents looked flummoxed.

  "None of you will escape!” she shouted. "You will all die! All of you!”

  They pushed her out of the room as Craig grabbed Husein by the arms and moved out into the hall.

  Her shrieking tirade continued. “I am the Black Widow, soldier for ISIS against the infidels. And I curse every single American to die!" Her lips curled as her eyebrows shifted downward in a vengeful angle. "I curse this country to drown in blood for eternity!"

  As they led her down the hall, Craig knew that words weren't just the ravings of a fanatical lunatic. There was truth to what she was saying. Something was headed their way. He could feel it.

  Deceit

  It could have been another false alarm, as Malaka’s credibility was already in question. But Craig saw something in her eyes different from her formerly vapid gaze, as if she whole-heartedly anticipated another attack.

  The three FBI agents followed Craig to a separate brightly lit interrogation room, where they brought in Malaka and sat her down, handcuffed. The room itself was bugged with microphones and a single security camera in the ceiling. After she was seated, Craig pulled Husein into the next room over and sat him down at the squar
e table in the middle of a white-tiled floor. Husein shook with nervousness as Craig slapped a pair of handcuffs around one of his wrists and then cuffed him to the table.

  “What have I done?” the boy asked, nervously.

  Craig seemed distracted, his mind racing. He looked down at Husein and got right to the point. “Five minutes. I’m giving your aunt five minutes to talk, and if you think you’ve seen the worst of me, don’t count on it.”

  He walked out of the room and closed the door, leaving Husein alone to ponder his fate. The boy looked up and saw a large mirror on the wall in front of him. He assumed there was a room on the other side where they were watching him. He pulled at the handcuffs, but it was useless. The small table he sat at was bolted to the ground. He wondered what they were going to do with him.

  Between Malaka’s room and her nephew’s was a narrow observation room where the FBI could watch both suspects without being seen. The three agents stood huddled together as Craig entered the room. The curly-haired man, Agent Donaldson, was on his cell phone, as was his heavyset partner, Agent Rivers.

  “The building is on high alert,” Agent Hicks said to Craig. “Just about every government facility is, given the circumstances.”

  Craig pointed toward the one-way window facing the room where Malaka was sitting. Her eyes drifted onto the table in front of her. “That woman is out for blood, and while she may be delusional, we can’t take her threats for granted. We have to move this up the chain.”

  “What do you plan to do with her?” Agent Hicks asked.

  Craig walked close to the window, keeping his eyes on her. “I don’t know yet.”

  Agents Donaldson and Rivers talked rapidly into their phones, trying to get the latest updates on the attacks. The computer server shutdown had brought the entire building to a standstill.