Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by J. S. Donovan

  The cowboy let go of Dave’s hair and removed the blade from his neck. But the swift action was followed by a blow to the side of Dave’s head, knocking both him and the chair over. A loud crack of bone greeted him when he hit the floor.

  “AAGH!”

  Dave’s body trembled. The snap had felt like it was his collarbone. The pain was slowly replaced by numbness. He started to feel tired until the cowboy lifted him back up, causing the broken bone to shift underneath his skin.

  The cowboy placed his finger on Dave’s broken bone and pushed. Pop and cracks sounded from the pressure as the break in Dave’s bone worsened.

  “Think hard,” the cowboy said.

  Dave’s answer was a shot of spit on the cowboy’s forehead. The pressure against Dave’s shoulder stopped. The cowboy wiped the saliva off his face. Dave gasped for breath. Even with the pressure gone, the pain remained.

  The cowboy punched Dave in the nose. Another crunch accompanied by a spray of blood. His head flew backward. Another blow hit him. Then another. Each thump of pain caused the room to blur and spin until everything finally went black.

  The gas station Brooke found was deep in the Alabama back country. She hadn’t seen a single soul for almost fifteen miles, and the tank was running dangerously low. She didn’t want to risk pushing it much farther.

  Both John and Emily had passed out from the rush of excitement from earlier. She wrapped her shemagh around her head, barely exposing her face. The gas attendant inside gave her an odd look but didn’t hesitate in taking the cash for her to fill up.

  Brooke unscrewed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle inside and squeezed the trigger. The chug of the gas pump filled the air, and Brooke leaned back against the car’s side. She looked through the side window into the back seat and watched the steady rise and fall of her children’s chests.

  A smile crept onto her face through the shemagh, but her attention was soon turned to a pair of headlights coming down the road. She eyed the fuel gauge, which was only half full. As the car moved closer, she noticed the red-and-blue lights on the top and the familiar black-and-white paint of a police vehicle.

  Brooke immediately turned her back to the cop car. She closed her eyes. “Just pass by. Just pass by. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  The police car’s engine grew louder. Brooke’s hand started aching, and when she looked down, she realized the pressure she was applying might crush the pump with her bare hand. She loosened her grip.

  The crunch of the police car’s wheels on the fuel station’s gravel caused her heart to skip a beat. The squeak of the brakes brought the policeman to a stop. The gas tank was three quarters full now. She turned her head to see the police officer step out of the vehicle.

  The officer eyed the car, taking in the bullet holes and broken rear window. The fuel pump continued to chug. The officer pulled his radio to his mouth.

  “Can I get a check on a blue Toyota Land Cruiser? License plate number Echo, Foxtrot, Charlie, Niner, X-ray, Seven.”

  The pump clicked off, signaling that the tank was full. Brooke quickly set the pump back on its holder and jumped back into the driver’s seat. She looked over to see Eric with the revolver in his hand. Brooke shook her head at him, and he set it down.

  Brooke looked into the rearview mirror and checked for the officer, who made eye contact with her as she peeled out of the gas station. She kept the cruiser at a normal speed until the curve of the road caused the station to disappear. Then she floored it.

  “You think he’ll follow us?” Eric asked.

  “He radioed the plate. Once it comes back that it was stolen, he’ll be on us fast. Stay on the lookout for any paths we can jump off on,” Brooke answered.

  The cruiser fishtailed a bit as Brooke increased the speed. She kept checking the rearview mirror for the police cruiser. Maybe he would let her go. Maybe he was off duty. But the flash of red-and-blue lights that appeared a few hundred yards behind them dashed those hopes just as quickly as they had arisen. The police officer’s sirens wailed as the car gained on them.

  “I need a path, Eric!” Brooke yelled.

  John and Emily awoke in the back seat. Both of them had the groggy-eyed look of panic. “Mom?” Emily asked.

  “It’s all right, honey,” Brooke answered.

  “There!” Eric yelled.

  A narrow dirt road opened up thirty yards ahead on the right. Brooke veered to the left for the turn, and just before they came up to the road access, she turned right sharply. The tires kicked up a spray of gravel behind them.

  The road was in bad shape. The cruiser bounced over the terrain, its shocks absorbing the violent dips and mounds along the way.

  The police car made the same sharp turn onto the road, but it wasn’t designed to handle the harsh terrain like Brooke’s cruiser was. After the first major bump it came across, the front bumper bent upward and crumpled the hood. Once that happened, the officer ceased his pursuit, but Brooke didn’t let up on the gas.

  “Where’s this thing take us?” Brooke asked.

  Eric was scanning the map frantically, running his fingers up and down, trying to find out where they were.

  “Eric!” Brooke repeated.

  “I’m trying!” Eric’s finger landed harshly on the portion of the map. “It turns into some farmland about a mile from here. After that it’s nothing but fields.”

  “Are there any other major roads that lead into that area?”

  “No.”

  “They’ll have to call the choppers out if they want to catch us, then.”

  Brooke wasn’t sure if the police would waste the resources of putting a bird in the air to find them. She was leaning toward no, but then again, catching an illegal who had made it as far as she had would make someone’s career look very good and help establish the precedent that the authorities had a hold on the border. That would be some positive press she knew Congress could use.

  Eric was right about the path. One mile later, they were in farm country. Nothing but open fields and barns. The last time she had been in Alabama, she was just a little girl. A tractor plowed one of the fields in the distance, but Brooke didn’t think any of the farmers around here would be trouble. As long as she didn’t mess with any of their crops, they would most likely be able to pass through untouched.

  Once they were past the farms, the terrain before them just opened up into grass fields. Brooke waited in the cover of the trees for a minute while they could still use it. She listened for the hum of any helicopters or planes overhead that the police might have sent out, but the only sound she heard was the tractor at the farm behind them.

  Brooke pulled the cruiser into the open fields, and the grass flattened under the tires. They’d continue until it was dark and then camp for the night. She knew they’d still have to stop for gas at least one more time, but until then they’d be staying off the roads. The police might not have wanted to pursue her enough to put a plane in the air, but there was no doubt the officer who had called them in had alerted the authorities in the neighboring states. Brooke’s picture was now in front of every police officer in a two-hundred-mile radius.

  9

  The phone in Jones’s office wouldn’t stop ringing. Ever since the speech Smith made after his trial, the media wanted a comment on whether Jones would accept the debate. After the first hour, he just told his secretary not to disturb him for the rest of the afternoon. He even had lunch delivered so he wouldn’t have to face the hordes of reporters waiting for him on the steps of his office building.

  Jones gave a smug smile, cutting into the grilled fish filet. He knew Smith was just baiting him, trying to lure him out, but Jones was patient. The media frenzy would peter out. He just had to keep himself busy with other matters, which, in the current climate, weren’t hard to find.

  A knock on the door broke Jones’s faint concentration on his lunch, and Cindy poked her head inside the office, breaking the seal of quiet from the noisy anteroom where her desk sat. />
  “Cindy, I told you I did not want to be disturbed,” Smith said.

  “I’m sorry, Congressman, but there’s a man here who has been incredibly insistent to see you.”

  “Then call security and escort him out.”

  “I did, sir… They wouldn’t move him.”

  The piece of filet that Jones was cutting through hung open and exposed as steam escaped. Jones set the fork down. “Send him in.”

  Cindy nodded, and a few moments later, a man, completely bald and wearing a fine tailored suit, stepped inside. He wore no flag pin on his lapel, but Jones already knew he wasn’t a politician. There was only one reason security hadn’t escorted him out when Cindy called them. This man was from Strydent.

  “We need an update,” the man said.

  “You need to leave. Now,” Jones answered.

  “My client wants progress. They’re not seeing it.”

  “You have the audacity to come here? To my office! You tell your client that I will contact them when I am ready. Understand?”

  The distance between himself and the man was what prompted the courage, but after the first few steps the unwanted guest took, Jones found the foundation of courage shrinking in proportion to his proximity.

  “Do you know who I am?” Jones asked. “Did they even tell you?”

  The man reached into an inside jacket pocket, and Jones flinched as he pulled out an envelope. He dropped it on Jones’s desk on top of the plate of fish.

  “What is this?” Jones asked.

  “A push. If my client doesn’t have an update by the end of the week, then I’ll be back. And the next time, it won’t be an envelope I give you.”

  Finally, after it seemed that the fish under the envelope had gone cold, the man disappeared, closing the door behind him. The envelope felt thin. Jones tore the top open, and a plane ticket slid out. It bore a departure time of this afternoon to Mexico City.

  “Christ.”

  Jones tucked the ticket inside his jacket and picked up his phone. “Cindy, I need to speak with the president immediately. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  Before Cindy could respond, he hung up. He fell back into his chair and looked at the half-covered salmon on his plate. The knife still rested in the fillet, splitting it in half. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk, staring at his uneaten lunch.

  The flight was in three hours. Jones knew that he wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything without the president’s support now. The country was screaming for justice for the attacks by Mexico, and the president had inked the declaration of war to appease its appetite.

  Jones caught his knee bouncing nervously. He chewed the nail on the end of his thumb. If he were to make the flight by four, then he would have to meet with the president within the hour.

  He reached for the receiver hastily and dialed Cindy again. “Cindy… Well, keep trying. I know he’s in town this week for the war meetings…. Good, well, keep me updated. And I also need to speak with Congressman Hunter. Get him on the line for me immediately, but if the president’s office calls back, that takes priority.”

  His thumbnail found his teeth once more. A few moments later, the phone rang, and the haggard voice of Congressman Hunter sounded on the other end of the line.

  “What is it?” Daniel asked.

  “I need you to come with me to Mexico this afternoon. Our flight leaves at four p.m. Be ready. I’ll have a car come and pick you up.”

  “I told you we’re done.”

  “Listen to me, you sniveling hypocrite. You will be on that plane!”

  Jones slammed the receiver back onto its cradle. The ruckus made Cindy peek inside. “Sir?”

  “Don’t bother me unless it’s about the president!” Jones said.

  Cindy sheepishly closed the door. Jones picked up the plate of fish and flung it across the room, where it splattered on his bookcase. All Jones wanted to do at that moment was rip everything apart. But then he closed his eyes. He drew in three deep, heavy breaths. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart. There was still a chance. He wasn’t done yet. The phone on his desk rang. “Yes?”

  “Sir, the president can meet with you in one hour.”

  Jones said nothing. He hung up the phone and walked to the office door but stopped with his hand around the doorknob. The press was still waiting for him outside, and there was no way he could get past the media without any comment.

  When he showed his face on the other side of his office door, all of the interns grew quiet. He buttoned the jacket of his suit and brushed past them without a word.

  The rush of reporters that swarmed him the moment he stepped out of the building stopped him dead in his tracks. They weren’t going to let him pass without something.

  “Congressman! What are you going to do about the debate?”

  “Do you have any comment?”

  “There has been strong speculation about your relationship with Strydent Chemical. What do you have to say about that?”

  Jones raised his hands. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. The comments made by Congressman Smith are nothing more than wounded lashes from someone trying to salvage his career. However, the notion that any of my actions have not been in the best interest of the country are outrageous, and I would happily defend them in any platform that Congressman Smith would like.”

  Another explosion of questions bombarded him, but Jones’s comment was enough to grant him passage through the blockade of bodies. He ignored the microphones and cameras jammed in his face and headed straight for his car, which his driver had ready on the side of the road.

  Jones knew that the airwaves and social media outlets were going wild with his comments. He just hoped that the president would see them before Jones made it to the White House to meet him. It could buy him some credibility—and some leverage to try and pull the president out of the war.

  The dark circles under the president’s eyes were a product of his sleepless week. Jones could feel his weariness. The president sat behind the desk with a slight hunch.

  “They made the first move, Jones,” the president said.

  “I understand, sir. And no one doubts your retaliation.”

  “They left me no choice.”

  Jones noticed the president seemed to be talking to himself more than to anyone else. If the president was this war weary, then now was the time to strike.

  “Sir, perhaps I could help,” Jones said.

  The president’s eyes found him on the couch. He was broken, a wounded animal looking for an escape. The president might as well just have broken down and begged on his hands and knees right then and there.

  “Let me go to Mexico. Before all of this happened, I had been in talks with General Gallo for the purposes of establishing an alliance,” Jones said.

  “Well, it didn’t work.” The words were harsh. The president’s face twisted in anger and doubt.

  “I know, Mr. President. However, both we and the Mexican government know that this war isn’t one either side can afford. Let me finish what I started.”

  “And what if the outcome isn’t desirable?”

  “Then the blame is on me, Mr. President. I will take full responsibility for what happened. You’ll have your scapegoat if I fail.”

  It was all on the line now. This was the only way Jones could convince the president to back his visit. And if he had the power of the Oval Office behind him for his talk with Gallo, it could shift the weight of negotiations back in his favor.

  “It’s on you, Jones. Everything.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “I’ll phone the Mexican president that you’ll be there this evening.”

  Jones said nothing else. He was hanging on by a thread. There wasn’t any room for error now. Everything was riding on this trip. The execution had to be flawless. Mistakes wouldn’t just mean the end of his career, they meant the end of his life.

  Daniel slammed the empty liquor bottle down next to its peers and almost s
lid out of the airline chair. Jones kept yelling something at him, but he just ignored him. If Jones wanted him here, then there wasn’t any way he was going sober.

  “Don’t let him have any more,” Jones said, motioning to one of his security detail.

  “I don’t think you have the majority vote for that proposition, Congressman,” Daniel replied.

  “And get him some coffee.”

  The guard cleared off Daniel’s tray, and when he went to remove the rest of the unopened bottles, Daniel grabbed the guard’s wrist.

  “Don’t. Touch. It,” Daniel said.

  His teeth were gritted, the liquid courage the four tiny bottles of whiskey had given him on prime display. The security guard looked over to Jones, who shook his head. Daniel felt the guard pull back his arm slightly, and he released him.

  “Run along now, little doggy,” Daniel said.

  “It’s easy to act brave when you don’t have the coherence to zip up your fly,” Jones said.

  Daniel twisted the cap off another one of the whiskeys but paused before putting it to his lips. The smell was starting to get to him. He’d never been much of a drinker, but the past few days had caused him to swim in it.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Jones asked.

  “What? Don’t like your handiwork?”

  “I didn’t do this to you, Daniel. You did.”

  Daniel snatched the rest of the whiskey bottles and moved to the back of the plane, away from Jones. He didn’t have to sit there and listen to Jones, of all people, berate him about morals. Who was he to judge? Jones had done more backstabbing vile actions in one year than Daniel had done in his entire life. And if drinking was what Daniel needed to do in order to get past all the shit pilling up around him, then so be it.

  But when Daniel twisted off the cap to the next bottle of whiskey he was about to down, it stopped abruptly a few inches before reaching his lips. The sharp, oaky smell flew into his nostrils, beckoning him to drink it, but he couldn’t. Not now. Because for some reason, his son popped into his mind, and in his liquor-soaked state, he couldn’t remember the boy’s birthday.