Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  Church silenced the people’s clapping. “Like everything in this world, success can only be achieved through sacrifice. In this case, that is a man named Charles--”

  The mayor went on for a moment, explaining that he hadn’t known Charles for too long. He’d been on his way to Alexandra to visit his brother when the EMP went off. Ever since, he’d been helping out around Brighton as a farmhand. Charles had been divorced but wanted to start over with his Californian wife after the power came back. Like many others, he died before his time.

  Some of the residents teared up, but Church’s voice didn’t show signs of even the slightest fluctuation. He was a survivor type, and the people knew it. Even if he weren’t the mayor, they would’ve made him their leader. Harper thought about the way he gunned down the highwaymen, how he threatened Harper’s family on their first encounter, and how he inducted her into his community. She couldn’t burn the image from her mind, but because of his “proposal,” her son was safe.

  “… Harper Murphy, Eli Murphy, and Dustin Crawford,” Church called. “Come up here.”

  All eyes turned to Harper. The three of them exchanged looks, pushed through crowd, and hiked up the stairs to Church. Hands folded behind her back, Harper gave a curt nod to the people.

  “These are the individuals that saved this family,” said Church.

  The crowd clapped and whistled.

  Church turned to Harper. “I’d like to personally recognize Mrs. Murphy for her role in this operation. She went behind enemy lines to rescue a member of our council. Moreover, she and her son are credited for the retrieval and extraction of these goods. They might not have been born in Brighton, but they are as much a family to me as the rest of you. To celebrate their success and to honor the sacrifices made, we’ll be hosting Brighton’s first post-blackout celebration tomorrow night. I expect everyone to pitch in. Be on your way.”

  With an extended arm, Church locked his saggy eyes on Harper. She shook his large, leathery hand. “I’d like to speak to you about something,” he told her. “After the celebration.”

  Trudy took the stand and dictated who would do what for the massive feast. Harper moseyed on back to her husband and son.

  “What did he say?” James asked.

  “Nothing really… He wants to talk.”

  James scratched his beard. “Huh. Well, stay safe, and remember, this man is a killer.”

  Harper thought of the people at Briersville. What am I?

  The festivities ran the length of the straight road. Ferris, in his large straw hat, had zigzagged line banners between telephone poles yesterday. They boasted snowflakes and jolly snowmen that danced high above the propane grills, homemade wood-fed hearths, and picnic tables that spotted the main street. Though it was the beginning of a hot summer, his wife claimed that the Christmas theme would lighten the mood. Ferris revealed that they couldn’t find the others. His wife slapped him for that.

  The Doyles, who managed Finley’s pub, had donated a number of boozes and liquors for the occasion, while Pastor Bruce offered up communion “wine” for all of the grape-juice connoisseurs.

  Trudy took charge of the kids’ section, consisting of twelve children from the ages of six to sixteen. She set up corn hole, squirt guns, and other carnival games. Adults overtook all the activities ten minutes into the celebration. Grills and hearths blessed the air with the smell of sizzling meats, cooked vegetables, and smoke. The meal consisted of boiled squash, canned beans, venison and potato stew, squirrel meat, rabbit, and charred rat on a stick on china plates wiped of dust. With the recent boom in supplies, why not splurge?

  Pastor Bruce called everyone into a circle and blessed the meal. Afterward, everyone dug in. Drinks were drunk, and songs were sung. Loud laughter and roast-worthy jokes filled up the street. James wheeled out Levi, who sat in a wheelchair next to Dr. Hanson. The injured carpenter laughed so hard at one of James’s jokes that he nearly choked on his grilled rabbit. The doctor took Levi back inside the abandoned-Laundromat-turned-clinic, where the injured man stayed the rest of the night.

  Harper accompanied James, Church, Eli, Hanson, Trudy, and Dustin at their table. With a beaming smile, Dustin suggested they shoot off his illegal stash of fireworks and m80s. The mayor’s face turned into a round, red tomato. In a bout of anger, he preached about village security, how the blast would alert danger, and how darn stupid Dustin had to be. After the lecture, the young country boy sulked away until one of the farmers’ daughters called him over. After their extensive hike, he returned with a smile from ear to ear. She had requested a hairbrush.

  Sawyer and Karla spent the night at a faraway table. They chatted quietly amongst themselves. Harper grabbed her plate and scooted her chair back, ready to join them. The elderly owner of Brighton’s Books, Mitchell, sat down next to Sawyer and had a chat about books and business. After resting on her elbow and twirling her fork through her squash, Karla wandered up to Eli.

  With a flat expression, she said, “Let’s shoot each other,”

  Eli obliged, and they headed for the squirt guns together.

  The meal came to an end, and the middle section of tables was pushed to the gutters of the street. Levi’s bluegrass band, barring Levi, set up their authentic acoustic guitars, cello, and violin and played lively folk music that conjured bittersweet memories of Harper’s father.

  As planned, Ferris and his wife started dancing. It started out as a slow number but then moved to some line dancing, river dancing, and do-si-doing. Soon, more couples joined in while others clapped in tempo. Chewing on squirrel bits and clapping, Harper was pulled out of her seat by James. Her husband danced before her, making funny faces and stupid moves to compensate for his lack of skill. Harper giggled. James took her hand and spun her around, landing Harper in the bow of his arm like the cover of some cheesy romance novel. She twirled away, still holding his hand, and together they began to dance. They both lacked grace, but somehow that made it better. Harper pulled out her ponytail, letting her auburn hair sway back and forth to the motion of her body. The people around them blurred while the music stole them away. The music slowed, and the mood grew lighter.

  “I could get used to this.” Harper caught her breath.

  “Dancing?” James guided her as they slow danced. Sweat glued his bangs to his forehead, and a smile snuck from beneath his beard. “I learned all I know from Grease and low-quality YouTube videos.”

  “I could tell,” Harper joked. “But what I really mean is music, community, and family. Back when we were working, it doesn’t seem like we had any of that.”

  James smiled. He brushed his finger over her cheek scar. “It’s not too late. My offer still stands if you want to hide away in the Smokies and be my forest wife.”

  “Tempting.” She rose to her toes. “But I think we’re fine right here.”

  Only an inch of air separated them. “If you are, so am I.”

  Their lips met, and for a moment, it seemed like the world crumbled around them, vanishing into nothing along with its troubles. Harper didn’t know how long it lasted or who pulled away first, but the kiss came to a perfect end, and they were once again in the midst of dancers.

  “Looks like you’re not the only one adapting to our new home,” said James.

  Harper’s attention shifted to their son, Eli, Karla, and Kimmy, the cute waitress from the diner, drenched from the squirt-gun fight and chasing after each other.

  “Sometimes, I forget he’s only sixteen,” Harper admitted.

  “Let him enjoy it,” James replied. “Youth is in short supply these days.”

  When the somber slow dance came on, Harper found Church and Trudy beside her. They danced in perfect stride, putting the rest of the participants to shame with their seamless transitions. Harper stepped to the side, watching the grizzled man and hardy woman get lost in the moment. Church shut his haggard eyes and let the wind sooth his rough skin. He let passion drive him, dipping Trudy, who welcomed direction. As the song
came to a close, Trudy craned forward for a kiss, but Church pulled gently away. He turned to the silent crowd of spectators. His cheeks flushed red when he realized they were the only ones still dancing. In a chant of claps and whistles, the crowd cheered. Church and Trudy bowed, exiting separately to the tables.

  The music played on, but the couples dispersed into small chitchat groups and romantic walkers. Kimmy dried her sandy-colored hair with a towel and collected plates, scooping the sparse leftovers into Tupperware containers.

  Church shook hands with a farmer, who thanked him. After pulling away, the mayor wiped his forehead down with a handkerchief and started toward Harper.

  “Hey,” James said with his arm wrapped around Harper’s shoulder. “Thanks for putting this together.”

  “We burned through a lot of resources tonight. We’ll have to ration for the next few weeks,” said Church. “Do you mind if I speak to Harper?”

  “I have to switch out watchtower guards anyway. I’m sure Sawyer is dying to walk the Fence.” James kissed Harper on the cheek. His beard tickled her cheek. “See you tonight. Good night, Church.”

  Under his bushy brows, Church watched James vanish beyond the tin trash-cans-turned-hearths. He stepped in the opposite direction. “Follow me.”

  A group of countrymen laughed. Night crickets chirped, while an elderly couple enjoyed a midnight stroll. Trudy and a few others started stacking chairs and moving tables. Laughter and playful screams erupted from the kids’ section. Eli and Karla joined Kimmy in clearing the plates. Church led Harper down the sidewalk.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll catalogue the rest of the supplies and take a census of the farmers’ crops. There were quite a few seed packets we can divvy out and get planted,” explained Harper.

  Church guided her farther down the main street until the festive area was nothing but lights and indistinguishable murmurs. “We can talk inside. Do you drink?”

  “Occasionally,” Harper said suspiciously.

  “In here.” Church bounded up the steps to a two-story colonial home.

  An American flag stuck out from a porch column. A rustic metal barn star decorated the white outside wall. He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. Harper followed him into the dark living room. A sheet-covered couch looked on to an even dustier television box. A natty recliner with chew marks at its base sat next to the couch, its seat cushion depressed into a faded crater of fabric. Folded covers, a neck pillow, and leaning towers of books rested beside it. Church slid out a match and ignited the wick of an oil lantern hinged on the inner wall, just above the light switch.

  His boots clapped on the wooden floor and up the staircase. Harper shut the door behind her and followed him. Her gaze switched from the clean but neglected kitchen to the living room with book-filled shelves and a mounted buck’s head. Moving up the stairwell, she noticed chipped nail holes and rectangles a different shade of paint that ran the length of the wall. Whatever pictures rested there were long gone.

  The upstairs was a single hall with three doors: one on the left, one on the right, and one in the back. The frame of the left one had small, multicolored marker dashes and numbers etched up the side. Pink carpeting inched out from under the door.

  Stopping at the final door, Church fished out his keys. After fiddling for moment, Church opened the door to a small office. A rug with a distinctly Native American design spread across the floor, while a United States Marine Corps flag was tacked to the wall behind the desk faced by two chairs. Whiskey, water bottles, and clear glasses were displayed on a nearby stand. One side of the room had a gun cabinet. The other had a balcony door.

  Church placed the lantern on the desk and opened the balcony door, allowing the room to breathe away musk and dust.

  “You’ll drink it neat,” he said while he poured two glasses of whiskey. “There’s no ice.”

  After handing her a glass, Church sat in his desk chair and gestured. Harper placed herself in the seat facing him. Soft wind and light voices drifted through the open balcony door. Harper wiggled in the wooden chair, trying to get comfortable. They didn’t drink.

  Church studied the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid as it spun. “I was married once.”

  Wind.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Gentle… Fierce, at times. She wasn’t like me. Her heart was… She was compassionate. It’s where the girls got it from.”

  Light sent its glow through the amber liquid.

  “What happened?” Harper asked, unsure of why Church was confiding in her but wholly invested in hearing the man out.

  “I was in Kuwait at the time. Desert Storm. One day, we were talking about Angie's birthday. The next, I’m making funeral arrangements for the three of them.” Church frowned and put his glass on the desk. “Car accident. Sarah and our firstborn, Dana, were killed on impact. That’s some mercy, but Angie… She was projected through the windshield. Bled out on the street before the paramedics arrived. Just a few more weeks, and she’d be celebrating her sixth birthday.”

  Harper looked at her lap. “Sorry.”

  It felt like the only thing to say.

  “Yeah.” Church’s dark eyes moved from his whiskey glass to Harper. “It was because of them I could pull the trigger. After they left, it was because of them.” He reared his head to the balcony and small town outside. “This would’ve been my last year as mayor. Admittedly, I didn’t get much done. These people were self-sufficient and didn’t need reform. Until the blackout, I was just a prepper enthusiast. Now I’m their leader.”

  Harper fumbled with words, unsure what Church needed. She chose silence.

  “You’re wondering why you’re here.” Church cleared his throat. “You’ve proven yourself to this community. To me. I want you on my council. You will influence decisions in Brighton and hold an air of authority over these people. You will treat them as you treat your own family. You will sacrifice time, effort, and perhaps your life to keep them safe. Their needs will come before your own in any circumstance.”

  He raised a hand to keep her from speaking, and continued.

  “If you accept, there is a two-bedroom house down the street that was abandoned by its owners after the EMP. Dustin had it renovated recently. That will be yours. Lastly, the duffels that you donated upon entering will be returned to you. Some of the gear has been given to Brighton’s cause, but you will find that a large portion of the weapons and medical supplies are still there.”

  “I-I...” Harper stammered. “I don’t know what to say. I was just doing my job.”

  She couldn’t hide her smile. Finally, peace.

  Church locked his fingers on the table. “Do you accept?”

  “Yes.”

  Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong!

  Harper nearly leapt from her chair. Her heart bashed against her chest.

  The harsh chapel bells tolled. Their low, clanging noise burst into the room.

  Wide eyed, Church pulled himself from his seat and rushed to the balcony.

  Harper heard a muffled voice from down below. Church quickly returned and headed for the gun cabinet.

  “What’s happening?” Harper asked, rising from her seat.

  The cabinet doors swung open. With grasping hands, Church reached in and pulled out his glossy black tactical rifle. With a motion, he cocked the rifle. “Intruders.”

  He yanked out a fine wood-stocked rifle with scope and tossed it to Harper. The weapon landed in her hands. Without another wasted breath, they were out the door and into the street.

  The farmers, laborers, women, and children swarmed onto the road, their previous excitement morphed into panic. Trudy and Dustin met them halfway to the wall.

  “They just showed up,” Dustin explained as they darted to the Fence. “No warning or nothin’.”

  A woman screamed, “Should we hide the children?”

  “Are they insurgents?” another man asked.

  Church growled at Trudy. “Calm them
down.”

  She nodded firmly. Her gray ponytail swirled as she turned back to the crowd. “Group up. Get your weapons. And absolutely no one is allowed outside the Fence!”

  Her voice faded as they neared the wall. James, Sawyer, and the other guards stood on the watchtower, binoculars in hand. Three strong men slid a large rectangular log into two wooden hangers, one on the massive swinging door and the other on the inner wall, to lock the gate in place.

  Church hiked up the rickety stairs that ended at the flat wall-walk and two front watchtowers. Harper and the others followed.

  About two football fields away, dozens of figures lingered in a crooked line. Their shadowy silhouettes expanded across the rolling ridge of a green hill, the cracked asphalt road, and a growing hayfield spotted with a distant ranch.

  “It’s too dark.” James cursed and put down the binoculars. “I can’t see how many or if they are armed.”

  Sawyer bit his nail. “Is this a normal occurrence?”

  “First time,” Dustin replied, taking the binoculars from James.

  “Ah. Not very reassuring.”

  Church moved into the watchtower. “Stop standing there like idiots and take cover.”

  They crouched behind the four-foot battlement on the wall-walk. Church rested the rifle on the wooden railing of the watchtower. Choosing a target, he aimed through the scope. “What have they been doing?”

  “Just standing there, mostly,” James replied, peeking his head up from the cover. “It started with just one guy, and then more showed up.”

  “Have they advanced forward? Any signs of hostility?” asked Harper.

  James shook his head. “No and no.”

  “A few have weapons,” Church said. His rifle probed the field of strangers. “Men and women. Late teens or older. They’re scrabbling about. Some have backpacks. Harper, get your rifle ready. We’ll drop this scum before they advance.”