Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  The show continued downstairs, and like a choreographer, the general instructed his crew where to stand, their spacing, and the direction in which their weapons should be pointing. Qadar had arrived to operate the camera, accompanied by a lighting technician, the same portly, bearded man Craig had punched in the face hours ago. His tattooed counterpart was nowhere to be seen. The man had a bandage over his nose and bruises under his eyes. He looked at Craig with a contemptuous smile.

  “Yassif, make sure the lights are positioned correctly,” Qadar said, from his position behind the digital camcorder. The camcorder was to record their many takes and capture the best one for posterity. Everyone was getting into position: three masked fighters stood in front of a black ISIS flag, brandishing AK-47 rifles pointed in the air. The rope around Craig’s ankles had been cut, but his hands remained bound. They led him in front of the camera and put him on his knees, directly front and center of the three masked men. Craig sobbed the entire time, pleading with them not to do anything to his family.

  “Please, just let them go. They’re innocent.”

  “Stop your sniveling,” Qadar said, framing the shot from behind the camera.

  The men in the room marveled at the supposedly “unbreakable” FBI agent Ma’mun had told them about. Watching Craig, the general turned to Yassif and spoke in Arabic.

  Yassif laughed and then went stone-faced at the sight of Ma’mun walking down the stairs observing everything. He signaled to the general, who turned.

  “Ah, Ma’mun! So glad you could finally make it,” the general said. “Everything is going according to schedule so far.”

  Ma’mun walked forward, out of the shadows, and examined Craig with suspicion. He motioned to the general, walked toward him and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I would like a quick word with our prisoner. Take a break.”

  The general looked at his watch. “We have a time schedule here.”

  Ma’mun lost patience. “And who do you think makes the schedule around here, you oaf?”

  The general stared back, unblinking, then looked at his crew. “Ma’mun wants to have a word with this sniveling crybaby. Give him a minute.”

  The men walked away from the set, went to the other side of the room, and exchanged glances. The three masked fighters all took their ski masks off and set their weapons down. The general remained in his same spot, biting his tongue as Ma’mun approached Craig.

  Ma’mun stared down at the kneeling FBI agent before him, examining him carefully. Craig looked distraught, sleep deprived, and defeated.

  “Husein is upstairs waiting,” Ma’mun said. “Says he has some information for me and wants to speak one on one. Do you know anything about this?”

  “No,” Craig said. “I only heard him just mention it.”

  “You two are enemies now? That’s strange.”

  Craig maintained eye contact. “Words were said. He insulted me, and I insulted him.”

  “You’re worse than children.”

  “What have you done to my family?” Craig said. “I have to know that they are safe.”

  “They told me you’ve been going on about them the past hour, nonstop.”

  Craig choked up. His voice trembled as he spoke. “It’s my fault. I did this to them. Don’t blame them for my actions.”

  Ma’mun seemed to revel in Craig’s breakdown. “You have forgotten something in our message. You are all guilty of the same crimes. Whether it’s one individual or several thousand, there are no innocents. However, if you pull yourself together and read what we want you to read, I will ensure that nothing happens to them.” In his hand Ma’mun held the paper. “I want you to memorize this. Every word of it. It has to look natural and from the heart.”

  “You expect me to read this with no guarantees on my life and my family’s?”

  “You’re far too valuable a prisoner to simply discard, Agent Davis. For now, this is all practice. You will be doing multiple takes until you get it right. Until it’s perfect.”

  “I suppose I have no other option than to take you at your word.”

  “You don’t,” Ma’mun said, turning away. He took a step, stopped, and turned back to Craig. “Husein, the boy.”

  “What about him?”

  “I want you to know that after he tells me this supposed information, I’m going to cut his neck from here to there.” Ma’mun mimed a line across his neck with his finger. “Wipe out the Surkov bloodline for good.”

  “Why do you hate them? Aren’t they one of you?” Craig asked.

  “They weren’t real ISIS. They were pretenders. We differed on a lot of things, small stuff mainly. We used them to get this far. Malaka devised the plan to attack the FBI building. With vengeance in her heart, she lured you in. Our plan was to eradicate the entire building, but something went wrong and she survived. With her in FBI custody, we knew she had to go. The sensitivity of phase three is such that if any word gets out prior to the attack, it will ruin everything.”

  Just by hearing Ma’mun reveal such things, Craig knew he was marked for death. They were never going to allow him to leave that basement, let alone the warehouse, with his head intact. They’d had their minds made up the minute they took him prisoner. His only hope was that Husein would follow through with his side of the plan.

  “Will Abu Allawi be making an appearance?” Craig asked.

  “No,” Ma’mun said.

  “Does he even exist?”

  Ma’mun grimaced. “Of course he exists. Just as our struggle is real.” Ma’mun shifted gears. “So little Husein will soon go the way of the knife. Does that satisfy you?”

  Craig shrugged. “I don’t care either way.”

  Footsteps came down the stairs and another person emerged, enraging Craig the minute he stepped into the light. It was the tattooed man, looking as cocky as ever. He approached them smiling, missing tooth exposed. Ma’mun put his arm around him and looked at Craig.

  “You’ve met my cousin, Adam. He’s American like you. I heard you two hit it off earlier.”

  Craig said nothing. The pain in his jaw was still fresh.

  “Too bad I had to check you like that, but you asked for it,” Adam said.

  Ma’mun spoke proudly. “Adam here is one of our proudest success stories. After a rough life of foster homes and trouble with the law, he discovered Islam in prison and turned his life around.”

  “Adam? What kind of name is that for a jihadist?” Craig asked.

  “It just fits him. He’s an Adam!” The two men laughed as Craig looked on. While pretending to be engaged in the banter, Craig was searching for something, anything that might help him. He lit on a nearby electrical cord that led to one of the floodlights. The thought of delaying the production by any means possible was his modus operandi.

  Ma’mun’s laughter subsided, and he looked down at Craig. “Since you two have already been acquainted, I’m going to give him the honor of holding the knife to your throat.”

  Craig’s heart seized, but he tried to remain calm.

  Ma’mun laughed again. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to actually do it. This is make believe, Agent Davis. Propaganda.”

  Adam shrugged. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”

  Ma’mun slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Quiet. You don’t want to scare our prisoner, do you?” He looked between Craig and Adam. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Remember your lines, Agent Davis. I’ll be back momentarily.”

  Ma’mun waved and walked away. He shouted for the crew to get back to work. The general dropped his cigarette to the ground and put it out under his boot. Adam’s attention was elsewhere when Craig arched forward, dug his knees into the ground, and pushed himself closer to the power cord with his bound hands. He bounced back and pulled the cord as fast as he could. The tripod light tilted to the side just as Craig dropped the cord and Adam turned back around. It fell to the ground with a thunderous crash of sparks and flying glass, gaining the attentio
n of everyone in the room.

  Halfway up the stairs, Ma’mun stopped and turned around. “What was that?”

  The crash caused Adam to jump. When he turned to look, he saw that one of the light sets had fallen over and shattered on the ground. Glass shards had flown everywhere. An exceptionally sharp piece slid directly underneath Craig’s knees. He grabbed and concealed the piece in his bound hands.

  “Yassif! You idiot, what did you do?” Qadar shouted, looking at the broken light. “You have one job and you screwed it up.”

  “I didn’t do that. Those lights were locked in and standing fine just a moment ago.”

  “Quit your bickering and get back to work,” Ma’mun shouted. He then went back up the stairs. Craig looked around. The men were at each other’s throats about who was going to clean up the mess. Naturally Yassif took the blame, but he wasn’t without his share of defensive remarks. No one had suspected Craig of a thing.

  Husein waited patiently at the table in an otherwise empty room while two guards waited outside. It was some kind of unoccupied office that reminded him of being back at the FBI building. His hands and legs had been freed, and only minutes earlier he had been led through the warehouse, examining the terrorists’ activities as they brought him into the room to speak with Ma’mun. He felt sick, more nervous than he had been since being captured. He would be speaking face to face with the man who had killed and decapitated his aunt.

  Craig had insisted that Husein get a weapon at the first chance available. But details of what came next were vague. They, in fact, had not been discussed at all. As the guards had pushed through the warehouse floor, past a table of assorted weapons, he had managed to swipe a retractable pocket knife. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  In the empty room, he sat in silence when it hit him that Ma’mun would be expecting information from him. His mind raced with people he knew from Chechnya. Younger men, who had been friends with Rasheed and Darion.

  Five names, he thought to himself. If I can come up with at least five. That’s a good number.

  He went over it in his head a dozen times, saying the first five names he could think of again and again: Eldar, Imran, Yusuf, Salman, and Varg. They were real people. They existed. But would any harm come to them once he gave up their names? Would Ma’mun be content with just five? What if Ma’mun had armed guards with him? Husein was in too deep. Even with his doubts, it was too late to turn back. He had to remind himself of the purpose of the entire plan: kill or be killed.

  He had a knife and had to be ready to use it. There was a small windowpane on the closed door of the room and he could see someone walking down the hall toward him, alone. It looked to be the man himself—the one man Husein truly hated above all.

  Ma’mun opened the door and walked inside. He had a pistol holstered at his side and a large knife resting in its sheath on his other side. Like many of the others, he was in military fatigues, different from the all-black tactical clothes he had worn during the convoy assault.

  He said nothing as he entered the room, not even making eye contact. He pulled a chair out from under the table and sat across from Husein. As their eyes met, Husein quickly looked away. He could feel his heart beating on overdrive. Sweat formed on his forehead. Ma’mun examined him in silence and then spoke.

  “I don’t have much time. As you can see, running operations is a very busy task.” He folded his arms together on the table and leaned forward. “We’re moving on to greener pastures, young Husein. As a Muslim, you should be proud of us.”

  Husein flashed a look of incredulity. “If I don’t know what you’re doing, how can I be proud of it?”

  Ma’mun leaned back and tapped his head. “You’re a smart one. Already probing me for information.”

  “No, it’s just—”

  Ma’mun raised his hand. “No, no. It’s quite all right. You’re curious. The truth is that ISIS is on the move, and for our organization to be successful, we must constantly move across the country or risk of being caught. Two weeks at this warehouse, two weeks somewhere else. By the time we’ve completed each and every phase of our jihad, there’ll be nothing left of this country. And then the next battle begins.” He looked at Husein and could see confusion.

  “The next battle will be erasing the very history of America’s existence—over two hundred thirty years of history wiped out. The black flag of ISIS raised in place of the oppressors’ red, white, and blue. Think about it.” Ma’mun tapped his fingers against the table. “That is what we’re after. Complete annihilation of the enemy. And ISIS will win, Allah willing.”

  Husein wasn’t sure what to say. He just kept repeating the names in his head. Ma’mun took notice of his distracted appearance. “I’m sorry, sometimes I get carried away. You said you had some information you wanted to share with me.”

  “Yes,” Husein said, trying to maintain a calm, confident tone. “But I only trust you with the information. No one else.”

  Ma’mun nodded, waiting.

  Husein pointed to the door. “I fear that the guards outside may hear.”

  Ma’mun turned his head slightly to the door then back to Husein. “Don’t worry about them. They can’t hear a thing.”

  Husein fidgeted, staring at the table. “I would really feel more comfortable if they weren’t there.”

  Ma’mun rose from his chair as it squeaked against the tile floor. He looked angry. “You make plenty of demands for a boy in your position.” He walked to the door shaking his head and muttering, “And I thought I was paranoid.”

  He opened the door a crack and told the guards to go back to the operations. As he closed the door, Ma’mun came back to the table and slumped down in his chair. “There, happy? Now quit wasting my time and tell me what information you have.”

  “I have names,” Husein said, not giving too much away.

  Ma’mun seemed to get the picture as he leaned back in his chair. “If there’s one thing we loathe within our ranks, it’s spies. I have to be honest with you, I never trusted the Chechen ISIS faction too much. Which is one of the reasons I had to do what I did. It was nothing personal, but once trust is gone, only suspicion is left in its place.”

  Husein felt anger boiling from within. From under the table, he pulled the knife from his pocket, leaving it folded for the time being.

  “What are these names you speak of? What is your proof?”

  “Friends of my cousins, Rasheed and Darion.”

  “Ah, so your cousins were in league with traitors and spies?”

  “No,” Husein said. “They were in the process of trying to weed them out. My aunt told me their names in case anything ever happened to her. Like an insurance policy.”

  Ma’mun folded his hands. “I have to say, I’m very intrigued.” He pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and a pen and slid them across the table. “Write their names down. First and last. And any other information you can provide. Street addresses. Other family members. Employment.”

  Ma’mun stood up suddenly as Husein began to scribble. The boy’s eyes darted between the paper and Ma’mun walking around the table. He couldn’t remember all their surnames. In fact, out of five names, he only remember two. He scribbled random addresses down off the top of his head. Nothing matched. The information was flimsy, but at best, he was using it to forestall the inevitable. He could sense Ma’mun behind him.

  “The general told me that your interest in providing these names was to stay alive?”

  “That’s correct,” Husein said, writing the last address he could think of.

  “How many names do you have there?” Ma’mun asked, leaning over him and looking at the sheet.

  “Five,” Husein answered.

  “Impressive. And you’re certain they’re spies?”

  “That’s what my aunt told me.” From under the table, Husein’s free hand clutched the knife. His fingers fidgeted to unlock the blade.

  At the same moment, Ma’mun slowly pulled his Bushmaster
knife from its sheath.

  “She was wise to give you this information. You can tell her that I give my thanks.”

  The intent of the words immediately registered with Husein. He whipped around and lodged the small knife directly in Ma’mun’s gut. Ma’mun screamed and dropped his knife to the ground. Husein stood up, yanked the knife out and drove it into Ma’mun’s chest. His captor’s eyes were wide with shock. He fell back against the wall, clutching the wound, as Husein pulled the knife from his bloodied chest.

  Husein held the knife in his shaking hand. Ma’mun tried to keep his balance and breathe, despite his sudden pallor and his waning consciousness. As he slid down the wall to his knees, Husein thought the stabbings efficient enough. Just the same, something triggered in Husein—a burning rage he had suppressed against Ma’mun for the suffering he had inflicted and the future evil he intended.

  He stepped toward him, closed his eyes, and thrust the knife deep into Ma’mun’s neck. The blade slipped in easily past the skin, the deep muscles, and blood vessels. Husein opened his eyes to the sound of gurgling. So much blood had already flowed out of Ma’mun’s neck, and Husein quickly dislodged the knife, surprised. Ma’mun’s wild eyes displayed complete shock. Nothing else. Husein backed up as Ma’mun waved his arms, trying to grab him, and then he fell face-first against the floor. There was a muffled, choking sound then silence. Husein shifted his attention to the door. Miraculously, no one was around. He checked his own T-shirt and jeans for blood spots and moved his sneakers away from the growing pool of blood under Ma’mun’s face. The murder had happened so quickly and had been so surreal that Husein hardly remembered doing it.

  He knelt down next to Ma’mun, wiped the blood off his knife on the back of Ma’mun’s coat, retracted the blade, and stuffed it into his pocket. As he looked down at the pistol on Ma’mun’s belt, he remembered Craig’s words: Just get me a weapon.

  He unlatched the holster and pulled out a Desert Eagle 9mm pistol. It had some weight to it. He held it up and aimed it, just to get its feel. He then yanked the black bandana off Ma’mun’s head and put it on, hoping to blend in with the other men in the warehouse.