Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  “It’s nice to see you, but I don’t think it’s right for you to be up and moving around like this. I’m surprised the doctors let you leave.”

  “I had to. It wasn’t an option.” Patterson flashed an exhausted smile. “I told them that it was a matter of national security.”

  “Whatever it is, I hope it’s worth all the trouble.” Craig paused. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

  “For what?” Patterson asked. The lights hummed above.

  “For getting you into this mess in the first place. For leaving you with that kid—that armed psychopath.”

  Patterson leaned forward some as his chair squeaked. His face was stern and serious. “You didn’t get me into anything. I got myself into that. We were caught off guard, that’s it. Much like this country is now.”

  Craig gave him a knowing nod. “Why did you come here, Josh? I know it wasn’t just to give me a hug.”

  “Because I know what’s going on,” Patterson answered. “And I can’t lie in a hospital bed and let this country burn to the ground. And I can’t let you do it alone.”

  Craig shook his head. “You’re clearly in no condition—”

  “I know that I’m limited physically in what I can do. But that’s not why I’m here.” Patterson leaned in even closer—his eyes burning with conviction. “I woke up, just yesterday. I could barely move.” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a small colostomy bag with liquid in it. “And never in my life did I think I’d have to lug around one of these. But that’s okay. I’m fine with it. What I can’t stand to do is watch these ISIS bastards make demands of us. You’ve got to stop this, Craig. All this bureaucratic infighting I’ve been hearing about has got to stop.”

  Patterson suddenly clutched his side in pain.

  “Are you okay?” Craig asked, rising.

  “Yeah,” Patterson said in a tired voice. “Pain meds are starting to wear off.”

  Craig slowly sat back down. “I agree,” he said. “The agencies are dysfunctional. ISIS is messing with us big time, exposing our divisions and hitting us randomly in intervals. I’ve asked for a team, and so far, nothing has been authorized.”

  “You’re going to have to go it alone,” Patterson said.

  Craig gave him a surprised, wide-eyed look of uncertainty.

  His partner clarified. “What I mean is, you’re going to have to go outside the FBI on this. Outside the government, period.”

  Patterson was aware Craig still wasn’t fully following. “Mercenaries… That’s what I’m talking about.”

  There was a gleam in Patterson’s eye that made it clear he had given the plan considerable thought. Initially, Craig took it as a joke, but he didn’t think that Patterson would have gone through so much trouble just for a laugh.

  “How did you get here?” Craig asked. “How do you know about this place?”

  “Contacts,” Patterson answered. “I’ve been communicating with Agent Thomas. He tells me it’s a real shit-show down here. You, of course, don’t answer your phone.”

  “It was… I lost it,” Craig said.

  “Whatever the case, Thomas agrees with me. We both think you’re the best man to lead the team. I heard about this water plant and the VX poison. It’s horrific, Craig. And it has to be stopped.”

  Craig stared ahead, quietly reserved. He agreed, but wasn’t sure how such an operation could be pulled off without large government and military support.

  “I just don’t think we can go in there, guns blazing, alone.”

  “I heard the message from that ISIS leader on the radio. They’re gearing up for something big. Maybe even worse than poisoning our water. Our only chance is to stop them now.”

  Patterson pulled out a piece of paper from inside his suit jacket, placed it flat on the table, and pushed it toward Craig. “These are the names,” he said as Craig took the paper. “Most of them retired. Field agents. Some Navy Seals. Some Special Forces. They’re armed to the teeth, and they’ve formed a pact to defend this country in times of peril. All you need to do is give them a call and then set a time and place to meet. They’ll be there, no questions asked.”

  Craig skimmed down the list and then looked up at Patterson. “There’s over thirty names on this list. I don’t have time to make all these calls.” Patterson pulled out two cell phones from his pocket, placed one in front of himself, and then slid the other one to Craig. “I’ve got Kat’s phone, you’ve got mine. We’ll do this together.”

  Staring down at the smart phone at his fingertips, Craig remained apprehensive. “I want to get Omar more than anyone. I just don’t know if this is the right way to go about it.”

  “When Omar’s dead or captured, does it really matter how it happened? Will it matter the next day or fifty years from then? No.”

  Craig nodded as he looked at his partner, weighing his decision. He picked up the phone and glanced at the list lying between them. “I’m game.” Josh smiled and leaned back in the chair. “But,” said Craig, “there’s one thing I want us to do before you leave here.”

  “What’s that?” Patterson asked.

  Craig rose from the chair. “Come with me real quick first. We’re going to talk with someone. It’ll be just like old times.”

  Patterson tried to stand, pushing against the cane. Craig helped him up and then led him out of the meeting room. There was a person of interest he wanted very much to introduce his partner to.

  Ghazi lay in a hospital bed in a small, empty room with both his wrists strapped to the side railing. A machine with a dozen different screens was beeping in the corner near him, monitoring his vital signs. He was alive, that much he knew. But he no longer knew if he wished to be. Paralyzed from the waist down he was helpless. A metal brace encased his entire body, holding his neck in place and making it difficult for him to move even slightly.

  This is it, he thought. They’ve got you now.

  He could never go back. He had been operating as an unofficial informant for Homeland Security for over a year. But in that time, he was actually sniffing out those in the US. government who he felt sympathized with the cause of disenfranchised refugees from the Middle East. Ghazi’s secret goal was to get as many young fighters flown into the United States as possible and increase their numbers by thousands.

  In return for access to information, even some it top secret, he threw the government some information—crumbs—on lower-level rival factions: gang members from South America. Radical Muslims leaders he didn’t like. And anything else that drew attention away from the ISIS sleeper cells. It was Ghazi’s plan and his plan alone. If Omar had gotten so much as a hint that Ghazi had been talking to officials within the US government, retribution would be swift and brutal, even though his intentions had been entirely loyal to ISIS, if not to Omar.

  Ultimately, he believed Omar lacked the ambition and skill it would take to turn ISIS into the equivalent of the Taliban in Afghanistan. ISIS was indeed growing in America, but they weren’t gaining footing as a mainstream faction. Years prior, when he had heard US officials discuss moderating their stance on the Taliban to win the war, his plan had been formed.

  He would work to have ISIS recognized as an official organization; one the US would have to negotiate with, not out of strength but out of weakness and capitulation. Omar would never understand. He was too driven by prophecy like some mad cleric. It was all up to Ghazi. At least, until he was shot and captured. Now everything had changed, and he was going to have to strike a deal of his own.

  The door creaked open, and his eyes went to the figure stepping inside the room. It wasn’t the two armed guards from outside, but someone else. When he took a few steps closer, Ghazi was able to identify him. The sight of his dirty-blond hair, five o’clock shadow and bruised face infuriated him: Agent Davis.

  Craig stepped into the room with another man, who hobbled with a cane. He then stuck his head outside to assure the guards that everything would be okay. The door slowly closed. As Craig walke
d closer to him, Ghazi wanted to hop up from the bed and tear him to pieces. The murderer of his good friend Ma’mun. The man who wouldn’t stop interfering with their plans. The person who represented everything that he hated about Americans. The man who had condemned him to this bed. But he could do nothing. He couldn’t even move his legs.

  Craig walked to the corner of the room and pulled over a chair for his partner to sit in. Ghazi’s eyes followed him the whole way, even being unable to move his head in its metal brace, he was determined to miss nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in a dry, quiet voice. “I have protection, and I don’t wish to speak to you.”

  Patterson adjusted his chair and stared Ghazi down as Craig approached the foot of his bed.

  “You’re a very popular man downstairs,” Craig said. He began counting on his fingers. “I mean everyone wants to talk with you. The FBI. The CIA. Homeland Security. You must feel very special.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Ghazi said, looking away. “I only wish I had shot your wife and child when I had the chance.”

  Patterson looked at Craig, concerned that he would lose his composure and lash out.

  As he leaned against the bed railing, Craig’s eyes ran down the length of Ghazi’s crippled body and then back up again to his face. “I hope they’re taking good care of you. I really do.”

  Ghazi said nothing.

  “And before you get your abundance of visitors, I’d just like to ask you some questions. Simple stuff, really.”

  Ghazi looked away from Craig, not saying a word.

  “If you answer them correctly, I’ll be a happy man. Answer them poorly, and my partner, Agent Patterson over there, is going to be very upset.”

  Craig moved over to the side of the bed and leaned down on the end of the mattress next to Ghazi. He signaled to Patterson while talking close in Ghazi’s ear. “He’s got nothing to lose. Not someone you want to mess with. His family was killed in one of those port explosions that your people are so proud of. Right off the coast of Florida.”

  Ghazi grew increasingly uncomfortable as he gripped onto the side railings and pulled on his restraints.

  Craig stood up and backed away. “Now, I’m a professional agent. I’m willing to put personal vendettas aside, and I’m not going to let him hurt you, even given your crimes.” Craig walked near Ghazi’s left leg and touched the sheet that covered it. “Even though you took my family into the woods at gunpoint. Water under the bridge, Ghazi.”

  Patterson remained silent, trying the coldest stare he could muster, even as the pain was beginning to reverberate in full force throughout his body. Walking away, Craig stopped and pivoted back to Ghazi. “Speaking of water, I want you to tell me all you know about this water plant.”

  Craig looked at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Go to hell,” Ghazi said softly. His eyes glazed over in indifference.

  “Dr. Patterson,” Craig said. “It’s time that we examined Mr. Ghazi’s reflexes. What do you say?”

  Patterson heaved himself up from his chair, shaking as he regained his balance. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  With each push of his cane, Patterson moved closer to Ghazi, staring at him. Ghazi looked away nervously and began to perspire as Patterson got closer. Stopping at his leg, Patterson leaned down and gently poked it with his finger.

  “Do you feel anything?”

  Ghazi stared ahead, unresponsive.

  Patterson pushed harder. “How about that?”

  “What is your game?” Ghazi lashed out. “You must know that I cannot move my legs. You paralyzed me!”

  Patterson held a finger to his chin like a doctor. “Hmm. Well that’s too bad.”

  He took a step back and raised his cane up in the air.

  Ghazi’s eyes widened. “Hey! Hey!”

  Patterson brought the cane down in one forceful swoop, smacking it against his leg. Ghazi screamed out of fear. His leg remained still, even after being hit. Craig ran to Patterson to keep him from falling.

  “Careful there,” he said into his partner’s ear. “Why don’t I take over?”

  “I can do this, Craig,” Patterson said. He then turned to Ghazi and brought his cane back to the floor, leaning on it.

  “I guess you really are paralyzed, Mr. Ghazi. You are what we call a paraplegic, which means you suffer from complete paralysis from your torso down. You must have taken a shot to the spinal cord.”

  “Go to hell!” Ghazi said. His eyes flared with anger.

  Craig stepped in. “Should we continue this examination, or do you want to give us some information about the water plant?”

  Ghazi closed his eyes and began singing to himself in Arabic.

  Patterson outstretched his hand. “Now I’m really curious to find out what other injuries he may be suffering from. Let’s try his abdominal reflexes.”

  Another swift smack of his cane went into Ghazi’s side. He screamed out in pain and pulled at the restraints holding his arms. Before he could even register the pain, Patterson reeled back and swung again at his other side, across his ribs, pummeling Ghazi like he was a sack of potatoes.

  Ghazi screamed in anguish. Tears streamed from his eyes. Saliva drooled from the side of his mouth. Another hit came to his chest. Ghazi choked and gasped, crying out for help.

  A knock came at the door. The doorknob turned, but it was locked.

  “Hey, you all right in there, Agent Davis?” one of the guards asked.

  Craig flashed a look at Patterson then at the door. “Just fine, Officer Winston. Our detainee was just having some back spasms.”

  Ghazi twisted and turned in agony, but couldn’t break free from the restraints.

  “Let’s move up farther,” Patterson said, raising his cane.

  “Wait!” Ghazi cried out.

  “What was that?” Craig asked as he leaned closer.

  “I said stop!”

  Patterson slowly lowered his cane, but still held it out while balancing against the bed.

  “Tell us what we want to know about the water plant. And no bullshit!” Craig said.

  “I-I will talk. Just no more…” His voice began to drift. Craig began to hope that they hadn’t gone overboard and killed him.

  “It’s in Lincoln, Nebraska,” Ghazi said, moaning.

  “I know that much. We have Ma’mun’s laptop, remember? I found an ocean of documents on it. What I want to know is what we’re dealing with. How many men? What do we face? What artillery do they have?”

  Ghazi struggled to speak between his rapid breaths. “You will never make it past the gate.”

  “Why’s that?” Craig asked.

  “At least a hundred men. All heavily armed. Twenty-four hours a day. Lookout posts that extend a mile from the plant.”

  “When are they expected to make shipment of the poison water supply? Where is it going?” Patterson asked, cutting in.

  Ghazi’s eyes opened wider. He looked at Patterson with genuine surprise. “How did you know about that?”

  “It’s all on the laptop,” Craig answered.

  Ghazi said something in Arabic under his breath, no doubt cursing.

  “Answer the question!” Patterson shouted. He lost his balance for a moment and nearly fell over. Craig caught him.

  “It’s okay. Take it easy.” He pushed Patterson up and left him leaning on his cane as he pulled the chair over for his partner to sit. They both looked at Ghazi after hearing faint laughter. The man was smiling. His eyes were closed as if he were experiencing some delirious fantasy—lost in his own world.

  “What’s so funny, Mr. Ghazi?” Craig asked.

  The laughter continued. “You…you think you can stop this?” He paused and winced as the laughter increased the pain in his sides. “It is too late…the shipments are well on their way… Five hundred FEMA sites all around the country. Military installations. Emergency shelters. You name it. By the time they realize something is in the water…
The panic… The fear… It will be beautiful.”

  Ghazi continued to laugh despite the pain as Craig looked at Patterson with deadly seriousness. “We have to get moving now.”

  Patterson nodded. “I know. Let’s make those calls.”

  Craig wasted no time helping his partner up from the chair and moving him out the door without saying another word to Ghazi. They breezed past the guards, thanking them. Once out of sight, one of the guards peeked in on Ghazi, only to see their restrained prisoner laughing to himself in an empty room.

  The Assault

  Monday, July 11, 2016

  The state capital of Lincoln, Nebraska, had seen much economic and manufacturing growth over the years. And it was within this city where the Hudson Valley Natural Spring Water manufacturing plant resided, on the outskirts of the city and largely isolated and secured.

  Lookout posts had been established miles from the plant to alert them of approaching visitors: county inspectors, law enforcement, or just people lost on the dirt roads that led to the plant. They fully expected a confrontation with the government after phase two, and security had been increased ten-fold to guard and watch the perimeter of the fifty-thousand square foot bottling plant.

  The factory was largely considered an enigma around town. No one was sure who owned it. Hiring policies were strict and selective. The entire operation was very low-key. Supplies and packaging materials would come in through the loading docks and bottled water would come out all throughout the week. The plant had been in operation for decades, but was recently purchased by investors from Dubai.

  The sleeper cell operation had been active for a little over a year. Rather than undergoing the difficulty of poisoning the nation’s water supply at various utility companies, ISIS would manufacture their own lethal dose and distribute it to FEMA camps and other emergency sites. Most of what the FBI had discovered on Ma’mun’s laptop was true. The only question was, how far along was the production schedule? How many cases had been shipped, when and where?