Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  James uncovered a brassiere snagged on the side of the stream’s banks. Hoisted on a stick, he presented it to Harper with an inquisitive expression. Its white color had faded orange and, by its placement in the water, there was no way it fell from the clothing line.

  “You think Brandy went through here?” James asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harper said while heading to one of the cabins. She didn’t want to imagine how the stripped article got there or what happened to its owner.

  Stepping into one of the dusty cabins, Harper’s boot got stuck on a pool of blood that stained the plank floors. The shelves were pushed over and the mattress had been pulled from the frame, as if someone held on desperately before being dragged away. No body. No new leads.

  After reconvening in the center of the camp, Harper and the two men charted their next course of action. Their legs ached from the walk and yesterday’s fight. Her shoulder cramped under the rifle’s weight

  “There are multiple trails branched out from this campsite,” Harper explained.

  “A greater possibility to choose the wrong one.” James said bitterly.

  “Hey,” Dustin lightened the mood. “We’ll get ‘em.”

  Harper and James didn’t reply.

  Night would be upon them soon, and they’d have nothing to show for the day’s journey. Looping back to the Humvee would take half a day. But right now, there weren’t any other options.

  James closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Dustin kept chewing seeds. Harper’s hope held on by a tattered thread. If that man hadn’t taken his own life, she could’ve been on her way to Eli right now. She felt anger more than anything else.

  The wind picked up around the abandoned campsite. She watched the tree branches sway back and forth to calm herself. She needed to keep her level head and exercise the possibility that the search could take weeks. Taking a breath, she moved her eyes from the clouds, down the neck of trees and to a mysterious figure below.

  Harper squinted, trying to process if it was a real person, when the stranger twisted around and sprinted into the woods.

  4

  Ambush

  Harper shouted a warning to the other two men and took off into the tree line. The mysterious spectator had a serious lead, but Harper wasn’t going to let that stop her. Thickets and branches slapped against her flesh as she gained on the figure. Cracked leaves and barbed seedlings latched onto her faded jeans, wrinkled white tee, and her auburn hair. A root tugged at her ankle. She stumbled, catching herself on a thick tree. The stranger glanced back, his face distorted by distance and the clustered environment. Harper pushed herself off the ridged bark and kept up the pursuit.

  “Hey!” she shouted as she leaped over a felled oak.

  The shouts of James and Dustin sounded behind her, but she didn’t let her eyes off the target. Birds fled from a tree, forming ominous silhouettes across the darkening indigo sky. The stranger reached a stony stream and, without losing momentum, skipped from one slippery green rock to another. He landed on the other side of the bank, scurried up its muddy wall, and darted into the woods.

  Harper arrived at the flowing stream dotted with mossy rocks and white rapids. Though only a few yards across, the current took the water down a rigid slope that probably re-joined the larger body of water on the opposite side of the campsite. It was a setback Harper couldn’t afford.

  A feeling of uncertainty sparked inside, but Harper’s laced army boots bounced from the first stone to the second. The green moss and slippery smooth surface unbalanced her, forcing her into a disgraceful dance of shoddy footwork until she was across the water.

  Long tracks ruined the smooth orange surface of the muddy bank that were left behind by the stranger’s small feet. Harper’s fingers sank into the dirt as she pulled herself up, rubbing her front up the moist dirt.

  The wet muck stained her shirt and pants and weighed her down as she ran into the second expanse of trees. The target had vanished. Harper slowed her sprint into a speedy jog, gulping air.

  With a perturbed look, she wiped off the coat of mud from her front and took notice of the small muddy tracks leading her north. She unslung her rifle.

  Reinvigorated, Harper followed the tracks, moving her vision from the freckled path to the surrounding woods. Remembering her Army training, she steadied her breathing and silenced her steps. The faintest noise snatched her attention. Dustin and James could no longer be heard behind her.

  The footprints shrank with every step until the orange globs became fading smears across the drying leaves and broken twigs. It ended at a busted tree trunk, dressed in fungi and filled with insect grub. Harper slowed to a creep and arced around the side of the jagged wooden remnant, her rifle held high but her finger off the trigger.

  “I know you’re there,” Harper said as she maintained full control of her predatory movement. “Step out. Nice and slow.”

  Two tiny hands appeared out from behind the desolate trunk, waving in surrender.

  “Don’t hurt me, okay?” a sheepish, high-pitch voice bargained.

  Harper kept the gun up until she saw the little boy step out. Leaf fragments sprinkled his disheveled mop of hazel hair, and freckles painted his pasty skin. A colorful, plastic children’s backpack sloped down the back of his hoodie while strap-laced Sketchers held snugly to his feet.

  Almost instantly, Harper felt disgusted aiming her weapon at the child and lowered it to her belt.

  “What are you doing out here?” Harper said emphatically.

  The kid looked at his toes and fumbled with his hands. “Um, uh, w-watching…” He turned his baby blues up to her. “You’re not going to hurt me, right?”

  “Of course not.” Harper knelt and put on her motherly face while masking her anxiety. “I’m Harper. What’s your name?”

  “Jared.”

  “That’s a strong name,” replied Harper. “Was that your family’s camp back there?”

  The boy shook his head. “My family is far away. They needed some alone time.”

  Harper slung her rifle over her shoulder. “Did they send you out here all by yourself?”

  Jared shook his head again. “If I’m not in trouble, can I go?”

  “Jared, answer the question please.”

  The boy twiddled his thumbs and looked around nervously. “I’m not allowed to.”

  “Is that what your parents said?” Harper asked, staying alert of her surroundings, half-expecting an ambush.

  “No. It’s what the Medicine Man said. He helps mommy and daddy stay calm.”

  Harper crinkled her brow. “Medicine Man?”

  The boy took a step back, looking back to the woods. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  Dustin and James caught up, soaked to their knees and visibly annoyed.

  “Little rascal,” James said to the boy. “You’re quite the runner, you know that?”

  Jared looked frantically at the three strangers. His lips quivered and his eyes turned crystal. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Don’t make me talk anymore.”

  “Just a few more questions.” Harper’s tone was kind but firm. “The Medicine Man will never know. I promise.”

  Jared pursed his lips. He paused, then nodded.

  “If your family is far away, why are you watching us?”

  “The Medicine Man told me to. He has Jenna and Mark and Billy watching. He says it’s a game, but,” he leaned close, “I know it’s more than that.”

  James and Harper traded looks. She returned her attention to the child. “This Medicine Man, where can I find him?”

  “He’s with mommy and daddy. Far away,” the boy averted his eyes. “I’m camping with Francis. I don’t like him. He’s mean. He hurt the lady who lived here. I watched her for a long time. She didn’t deserve it.”

  “Does Francis work for the Medicine Man?” James asked.

  Jared nodded. “He took the lady and her friends far away. He takes everyone around here.”

 
“What does the Medicine Man look like?” James asked.

  Jared twiddled his thumbs again. “He has yellow hair and… and a big scary knife.”

  Harper froze. That was all the conformation she needed. Of course, it could’ve been anyone with blond hair and a crude knife, but she knew only one. She wanted to vomit at the notion that he made children into scouts and also at the signs of brutality at the nearby camps. When she thought of Eli and how the monster might treat his POWs, stress crushed Harper like a two-ton boulder. If Church never built the Fence around Brighton, who knows how long the town would’ve lasted. Harper, James, and everyone else could’ve been taken and used for whatever Brandy had planned, which was about as mysterious and foreboding as the surrounding woods. Harper wished Church was here. He would’ve helped her, she knew that.

  Harper withdrew a bottle of Brighton well water and dried fruit from her pack. She handed them to Jared. “Could you take us to Francis?”

  The boy went stark white but, after taking a few bites, nodded.

  Jared didn’t speak after that, no matter what question they asked about his parents, Francis, or how he came to meet Brandy. He led them up a scrawny game trail until the sun had slipped behind the Smokies and the stars and moon blanketed the black, critter-filled night. Bugs nibbled them with tiny pincers as they climbed a hill and hacked through the prickly branches. James and Dustin would follow behind, stomping down freshly shredded sticks and swatting away chiggers with frustrated slaps.

  Eventually, an amber glow grabbed their attention and Jared ducked down low. With his tiny Band-Aid wrapped finger, he pointed toward the small camp alive with murmurs and faint laughter. The near-full moon blazed high above, sending strips of lunar light across Harper’s sweaty brow and shifty eyes.

  “There,” Jared whispered through chattering teeth. “That’s Francis.”

  A few people sat around the healthy fire. Triangular tents pointed to the star-speckled heavens next to a cluster of mountain bicycles chained to a tree. Between two tall but malformed trees, a hammock swayed as a sleeper rolled over, facing Harper and others. The man’s eyes were closed and his mouth wobbled with every dream-induced word.

  James lightly grabbed Harper’s arm as he lowered himself beside her. “What’s the plan?”

  Tucked behind a bush, Harper squinted at the campsite, recalling her old Army Reserves manual. “No noise. Hit him hard and fast. They shouldn’t be expecting us.”

  Dustin scooted next to her other side. “The boy shouldn’t be part of this.”

  “I know,” Harper admitted, trying to clear her mind for the forthcoming ambush. She swiveled to Jared. “Stay hidden, okay? Don’t come out until we tell you.”

  The child looked to the camp with distraught. “Okay,” he said with mouse-like audibility.

  After stealthily circling the perimeter, Harper formulated a solid survey. Five hostiles total: three men warming themselves by the fire, one sleeping in the hammock, and the final tucked away inside a tent. They were armed with mostly melee weapons, but any one of them could have a gun. Harper positioned the rifle so the strap ran diagonal across her chest, then unsheathed the nineteen-inch machete. She grabbed three fingers worth of dirt and smeared it over her face, creating camouflage accents on her white skin.

  Much to James’s behest, he would wait for her cue before storming in. He was even more doubtful when she told him what the signal would be.

  “I’ll be fine,” Harper whispered with recurrence.

  “Babe, I’m not doubting your talent, but these guys… they could be animals. What if it doesn’t deter them?”

  “It will.” Her words were more for herself than her husband.

  “Then let me do it.”

  Harper gripped the machete’s tattered handle. “Don’t fight me on this.”

  James frowned. “I’m not. I’m… worried. Like, I can feel my heart about to tear out of my chest. When we were defending ourselves, it felt different. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “James,” Harper kissed him on the lips. His beard scuffed against her chin. She didn’t linger. “We do this for Eli. As a family.”

  Her husband took a deep breath and nodded. From behind a tree in the shape of a two-headed snake, Dustin slid on his cap, sucked in air, and gave them a thumbs up. Harper signaled him back and scurried behind the sleeper’s tent. Those around the fire sipped on their beers. One prodded the glowing embers with a straggly stick.

  Deftly, Harper glided the machete’s deadly edge down the tent’s plastic back, opening a surgical incision. The frail man inside lay on his belly, resting his muscle-less elbow on the rolled-out sleeping bag. His fuzzy chin was propped on his palm as he read a People magazine by the light of a non-electric camping lantern. It hummed softly in his left ear.

  Using both hands, Harper parted the tear, ready to flinch at any unwelcome sound. Thankfully, none were to be had. Harper swung her right leg in. Her shadow stretched over the man and up the angled wall of the tent. She lifted her other foot inside. The plastic flooring twisted beneath her boot. Instantly, she could feel the temperature change as a breeze squeezed through the recent opening. Her eyes went wide the moment she realized what happened. Confused, frightened, angry, the man rolled over on his back. He opened his mouth to shout, but Harper’s hand slammed over his slobbery lips.

  She crouched over him, holding the machete’s blade on his bulging Adam’s apple. Her other hand squeezed his mouth and jaw. His slug-like tongue and crooked teeth tried to gnaw at her palm. When the razor edge opened a paper-thin slice on his neck, the man ceased resisting.

  “Not one word,” Harper whispered and removed her hand.

  The man’s breathing turned rapid as she switched off the lantern and stood up. She commanded him with concise words. Trembling, he obeyed, pushing himself up to the tent’s zippered door. Harper hunkered behind him with the weapon primed for the kill.

  “You can have whatever you want,” the man pleaded.

  Harper got a whiff of his sewage-like aroma. “Open it.”

  In the back of the tent, the slashed gap flapped in the breeze. The man pinched the tent's front zipper and separated the plastic teeth on the egg-shaped door. Harper gave him a shove. He staggered out.

  The three men around the fire stopped and turned, all of them looking confused.

  “I tried,” the man said before Harper pressed her machete against his throat.

  The others looked at each other then back at the intruder, getting flushed with anger.

  “All of you are going to get on the ground and lock your fingers behind your heads,” Harper demanded, feeling powerful adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  “Go to hell,” a husky man spit, not leave his chair.

  Harper slammed her boot on the back of her hostage’s knee, letting him drop to a kneeling position. She held the machete close to his throat. A small trickle of blood rolled down her blade as she stood over the man. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Dustin and James burst forth from the tree line, keeping their guns up and pushing the hammock guy next to the fire. The five campers were of various shapes and sizes but were the backwoods brigand variety. Harper expected nothing less.

  “You’d be wise to listen to her,” Dustin said through a mouthful of sunflower seeds. “She’s killed for far less.”

  “On your knees,” James commanded.

  The strangers hesitated but slowly lowered themselves from their camping chairs to the dirt.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” the husky man declared as he locked his fingers on his balding scalp.

  Harper removed the machete and let the scrawny man join his partners in a straight line.

  “Must suck to be on the receiving end,” James stated as he halted in front of the two at the end of the line. “Say, how many camps did you do this to?”

  Wind fed the fire behind them, causing the flame to bloom.

  Dustin bounced his shotgun barrel between the men.
“Too many, I reckon. What should we do to ‘em, Harper?”

  Harper let her machete rest and relayed her premeditated words. “Start cutting until one talks.”

  Still silence. The husky man chuckled. His chin flapped. “Nice show. You aren’t fooling anyone though.”

  Harper approached him. “Francis, I presume.”

  “What do you know, the girl has intelligence. I wonder which one of those twerps snitched? Doesn’t matter. I’ll beat some sense into all of them.”

  Harper curved the point of her machete just under his chin. “You’re going to tell us where to find Brandy.”

  Francis looked at his allies. Their eyes were on Harper or the dirt below them. Francis craned his neck at Harper and projected a large wad of spit on her face.

  Harper’s knee slammed into his jaw. He fell next to the fire. Harper stood over him, wiping the saliva away with the top of her hand. “He has my son.” She let the machete’s curved tip press on the man’s thorax. “I’d do anything for my son. I’d start with killing your friends, then I’d move on to you.”

  The machete’s blade inched down to man’s cargo pants. “And start removing bits if it meant even a one percent chance at saving him.”

  She bent down next to him, keeping the weapon on his groin. “You thought Brandy was scary? I’m much, much worse. When your friends came to Brighton, I gunned them down without batting an eye. Your community is scattered. Your friends are dead. I did that, and I’d do it all over again.”

  The sharp blade began to cut through the fabric. A puddle formed on the front of his camo cargo pants. Francis huffed and let his eyes fall closed. His gruff voice cracked. “What do you want to know?”