Defending Hope: An EMP Survival Story (Surviving The Shock Book 1)

by Connor Mccoy

  He still had his eyes, with his right one sunken in deep, thanks in part to puffed flesh around the socket, but they didn’t look human. They were dead, cold. No anger, no passion. His gaze regarded the world as if it was his personal domain.

  “What are you doing?”

  A shiver ran down Criver’s back. That never happened. The Coach didn’t sound angry. He was annoyed.

  “Heard there was a sale. New personal computers are half off. It’s the Apocalypse Sale.” Okay, it was a pretty lame reply, but Criver’s senses had been rattled by The Coach’s presence.

  The Coach took a step closer. “What are you doing…with my child?”

  “What?” Criver smirked. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think you two are closely related.”

  The Coach had cut the gap between them in half. Sweat poured down Criver’s scalp. “Every child is my child,” The Coach said.

  Criver stepped back, gripping Amir. The kid stood back, but he was like steel, his eyes focused on The Coach.

  Criver brandished a knife. “Let’s get real here for a sec. I took out your men. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor, and you probably have better things to do than fight over one boy.”

  Now The Coach blocked the direct sunlight from the doors. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “What, you want to go on a first name basis? Why not tell me your name first?” Criver backed toward the hall, but The Coach followed his movements. “I’m sure your parents didn’t name you ‘Coach.’ More like ‘Johnny,’ right?”

  “My parents?” The Coach’s eyes seemed to spark with…something, if just for a moment. Anger? Rage? Or perhaps it was just a simple acknowledgment of fact.

  The walking behemoth then ran a finger down the right side of his face. “Do you know what this is? This was a gift, from my father. I was different than everyone else. My own father couldn’t stand the sight of me. I was probably not much older than that kid when he tried to burn me alive. Unfortunately for him, he failed.”

  The Coach took one big step closer. He was way too close for Criver’s comfort. “When I’ve already been to Hell and back, you think you can hurt me with your toys? So, like I said, who are you?”

  Criver got it. This wasn’t a “Who are you?” to find out the identity of a fellow human being. This was more like a “Who are you, you little peon? You bug? You insect?” The Coach saw Criver as something less than his equal.

  Damn, this guy’s a psycho.

  “You know something? I think we got off on the wrong foot. So, why don’t we just sit down, pop a few beers, and relax—”

  As soon as Criver got to “relax,” he threw a hard, fast jump kick at The Coach’s head. The good news was the blow connected. The bad news was it didn’t do more than move The Coach slightly off kilter.

  Criver hurried to press his attack. He drew one of his knives, but The Coach acted as if he only had been grazed. He seized Criver by the arm and tossed him like a champion wrestler, flinging him onto the floor.

  Criver let out a grunt of pain. Thankfully, the Coach didn’t smash him into a table. Since he had learned to take a fall, he wasn’t in too bad shape.

  “Amir, run for it!” Criver sprang to his feet. He didn’t see the boy, only The Coach’s bulk as he approached. Hopefully, the kid would heed Criver and get away.

  The Coach’s boots made small rumbling noises in the floor with each step. Criver jumped out of the way, only narrowly missing The Coach’s large fist, which would have smashed his nose in had Criver let it and, worse, possibly flattened his brain.

  Criver was no fool. He knew he was built bigger than many men, but according to the law of the jungle, there was always a bigger predator. The Coach had been hardened into a killing machine by forces Criver couldn’t dream of, and didn’t want to. Criver’s best bet was avoiding any direct hits from this guy, and perhaps sidelining him so he could get Amir and escape.

  But The Coach wasn’t making it easy. He moved more quickly than Criver figured a guy with his bulk could, cutting off Criver from the main entrance doors. Faced with no choice, Criver headed back to the hall to the showroom.

  But as Criver closed in on the doors, Mr. Kung Fu and the first knifeman barged out of the showroom. “Shit!” Criver now had assailants on two sides. Even though these two lowlifes weren’t experienced fighters, they were still obstacles to a quick escape, if one ever presented itself.

  The first knifeman raised his short blade. “I’m going to cut your throat.”

  However, Mr. Kung Fu spotted The Coach and slowed his advance. His face twitched. A little hesitation. Good. If these guys were spooked by The Coach, too, Criver could take advantage of that. Two sharp kicks took out Mr. Kung Fu. The first knifeman got too close, intending to stab Criver’s eye but only getting the wall by Criver’s ear.

  “Damn.” Criver grabbed the first knifeman by his upper back and threw him into The Coach.

  Unfortunately, the first knifeman wasn’t tall enough or bulky enough to budge The Coach even an inch. The tall brute just peered down at the thug with dispassionate annoyance. Then he seized the first knifeman by the throat and flung him through the showroom doors. The sickening crack told Criver that the man’s neck was broken almost instantly.

  But the distraction gave Criver time to dash into the showroom. There were no signs of any more active goons—yet.

  The Coach’s fist broke the left showroom door off its hinges. Criver retreated deeper into the room, not allowing any of the wrecked kiosks to slow him down. He even stepped right on the chest of the second knifeman, who still was lying where Criver had planted him through the table earlier. The loud crunch told Criver if the thug wasn’t dead before, he was now.

  Criver looked for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. He finally found something, a piece of broken pipe from a display that had been shattered in the earlier fight. It didn’t feel very heavy, but it would have to do.

  The Coach turned to Criver, his eyes still as dead as ever. “Give me the child and I will break only half your bones.”

  “You have one hell of a way to offer an incentive!” Criver jumped and swung. The Coach caught the pipe, but Criver hoped to take advantage by quickly yanking backward. Then he threw a kick to The Coach’s right leg.

  That had its desired effect. The Coach lost some of his balance and bent forward. Criver tried for the gold. He dropped down and performed a sweep kick to the back of The Coach’s knees, hoping to take out The Coach and plant him on his back.

  He did get the giant to trip, but The Coach caught a wall pillar and part of a display table, stopping his fall. Worse, Mr. Kung Fu arrived and slammed a kick into Criver’s stomach. The blow flipped Criver onto his back.

  Blood flowed from the side of the thug’s head, and he seemed unsteady but, damn, he was persistent. “So, you think you’re hot shit, huh?” He slammed Criver again. Criver tried rolling over to spring back up, but this fight had been sapping his strength and stamina. He was headed down to zero if this lasted too much longer. “C’mon, you son of a bitch!” he bellowed. Even this amateur could take him out if he didn’t do something soon.

  But whatever plan Criver could make to get out of this fix went out the window as a big hairy mass slammed into Mr. Kung Fu and smashed him against a wall pillar. The animal was biting and clawing at the goon wildly. “Dammit, get him off me! Get him off me!”

  Criver blinked his eyes. With the help of a small sunbeam through a nearby window, he saw it wasn’t an animal. It was Amir!

  Mr. Kung Fu tumbled onto the ground, screaming obscenities and pleading for aid. “Amir!” Criver called, but he wasn’t sure he could get too close to the boy. He was out of control—way out of control.

  Only The Coach’s boot slamming down onto the floor next to the thug and Amir stopped the boy’s rampage. Amir sprang away from his victim and backed up, near Criver. He crouched, his hands hanging down, his fingertips curled like claws. Thin blood trails trickled from his arms and face.
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br />   “Damn,” Criver said softly. This kid was acting like a total savage.

  As for Mr. Kung Fu, he was in bad shape. His face was clawed and torn, with blood pouring out of several gashes. His right eye was swollen shut. A few teeth lay near his arm.

  The Coach looked down at him with his dead eyes. Then he seized the man by the collar of his ripped shirt. He thrust the thug right up into the ceiling with such force that Mr. Kung Fu broke through the ceiling tile. The Coach released him, leaving the man to just hang there, like a piñata. The only consolation was that Criver and Amir would be spared the sight of their assailant’s head, as his skull likely was crushed in by the impact.

  Criver struggled to get up, but the weakness in his legs overtook him. What the hell kind of freak show was this? He was surrounded by human beings that didn’t act a thing like humans. Even this small boy practically had clawed a man nearly to death.

  The Coach cracked his knuckles. “Now,” he said, “My child.”

  Criver got into a sitting position. The fire exit was nearby, but it also just so happened to be behind The Coach. He was spent. He didn’t have anything left to fight this brute. His only chance was a kamikaze run. Let The Coach deal with him while Amir fled.

  Why not? Criver thought. What do I have to live for? To trade his life for a boy was fair. If the world was fair, it would have taken his life, and not Michael’s.

  The Coach raised his right fist. At the same time, the shadows behind him seemed to move on their own accord. Criver checked beside him. No, Amir was there. Then who—“

  With a loud crunch, someone leaped from the shadows and brought down a long stick right into The Coach’s foot. The behemoth roared loudly and stumbled backward. The newcomer from the shadows then sent a karate kick into The Coach’s midsection, which sent him crashing down into the kiosk wreckage.

  Chapter Four

  Criver blinked his eyes. He was so winded, unsteady, and stinging from the fight with The Coach that he wasn’t sure what the hell had happened.

  The newcomer spun around, pivoting with great timing and grace. Red eyes gazed down at Criver, matching the long hair pulled through a hair tie into a ponytail. Criver’s savior was a woman.

  “Hey,” she said, “Can you walk?”

  Criver slapped himself once on the cheek to kick up his alertness. “Yeah.”

  Besides Criver, Amir shrank back, his arms out, as if anticipating an attack.

  “Easy,” Criver said to him, “I think she’s on our side.” Criver rose to his full height. “At least you’re not on The Coach’s.”

  Maybe not, but Criver’s instincts were to remain on-guard. This woman, dressed in a black T-shirt, brown khaki pants and dark boots, looked like a militant, someone prepared, no, looking for a fight. The fire that burned in her eyes seemed familiar, much like his own when he looked in the mirror. She was a hunter, and Criver hoped he’d learn what her prey was soon.

  “We’ll talk later,” she said. “Move.” She dashed out the open doorway. At the same time, The Coach rose to crouched height, his blood-curdling moans all the incentive Criver needed to bail out of this place.

  Criver patted Amir’s shoulder. “Let’s make tracks.” He hurried out into the open air, making sure Amir was by his side. Their savior already had crossed the parking lot and was dashing alongside a nearby building. She stopped at a gap between buildings and motioned to them.

  Criver was a little shaky, and he had to keep from tripping. Fortunately, the boy stuck to him like glue. Damn, I need to rest. No, keep going. God knows if The Coach has more goons in the area.

  Criver and Amir tracked her down a maze of alleys, until the female warrior slowed her pace. Criver had caught enough glimpses of her in action, her prowess with the baton, her pivoting, her running, all to realize this lady had had some serious training, likely before the Darkness had come, perhaps as a policewoman. Yet, in the light of the day, seeing her movements, her clothes, plus the red band around her forehead, suggested something else, a military woman. She was likely a soldier.

  Criver fought for breath as he pondered this situation. Was she alone? How could she have burst into the computer building like a superhero coming to save the day? Was she tailing him to begin with? Was she part of a secret army? Criver had heard of bands of vigilantes or gangs out there, so called “liberation armies.” She may have saved him and Amir from The Coach, but that didn’t mean altruism was on her mind. She could have sought to conscript them as part of a fighting force.

  Some of his strength was returning, now that he no longer had to fight for his life or Amir’s. Perhaps he could ditch her, but would Amir cooperate? It occurred to him that Amir had been staring at this woman with growing intensity. She fascinated the boy, but as a possible friend, or perhaps something else? Criver didn’t know what was going in inside this kid’s head.

  After one last turn at a fence post, the female warrior had come to a stop at a reinforced steel garage door. Now slowing to a walk, Criver got a good look around. They had emerged in a neighborhood somewhere out of the business district from which they had fled. Criver’s savior had led him and Amir to a brick one-story house that looked sealed up like a safe. Both the garage and front door were locked with outside bolts, and bars covered all the windows.

  “It’s all right,” she said, “Odds are no one’s on our tail, not after our little run through the alleys. But we shouldn’t stay in the open. Please, let me see your weapons.”

  Criver finally had a chance to get all his breath back. “Not exactly trusting, huh?”

  “Only slightly less than fully paranoid,” she replied.

  “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” Criver managed a slight smile. He still pulled his knife anyway.

  Now Criver’s mysterious woman smiled. “Well, who could pass up an offer like that?” She pulled out her pistol, then removed the magazine.

  “If you had that on you, you could have iced The Coach.” Criver suppressed a frown.

  “I only use it when I absolutely need to do so. It’s not like gun shops are going to open up any time soon. Besides, you and the boy were too close to him, and it was too dark to see well. I couldn’t get a clear shot.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that.” Criver’s irritation vanished.

  The rustling on the grass drew their attention. Amir had planted himself on the woman’s lawn and slowly was creeping away from them.

  “You okay, kid?” Criver asked.

  “He might be reacting to these.” The female soldier raised her gun, holding it upside down. “Children who have been through war sometimes can get scared around weapons.” She holstered it. “Sorry about that. Like I said, only slightly less than fully paranoid. It’s not everyone that can go toe-to-toe with The Coach and last more than a minute. Didn’t know who you were with.”

  “I’m not with anybody. Don’t worry, it’s just me, Thomas Criver. Nobody.”

  Criver’s benefactor turned to the side of her house and started walking. “Cheryl Dennis, Sergeant First Class, U.S. Army.”

  Criver chuckled. “Damn, I was right!”

  Criver’s newly revealed savior started unbolting the side door to her house. “What gave me away?”

  “Everything.” Criver then crouched close to Amir. The boy hadn’t moved from his spot on the lawn. “You okay, kid?”

  Amir didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t worry.” Criver knelt down. “You’re with friends now.”

  The boy looked at him, but remained silent.

  Criver offered his hand. “Hey, I’m a security guard. Would you like to hire me as your personal protection?”

  “I don’t have any money,” Amir said softly.

  Criver laughed. “Money doesn’t matter any more. Besides, there’s no way I’m charging a kid for protection. It’s against the code.”

  Amir smiled. Bingo. Criver was breaking through. “Okay,” the boy said.

  The sound of a bolt sliding out caught their at
tention. Cheryl just had slid the locked bolt loose and now was opening the door. “So, gentlemen, how about a meal?”

  Criver’s mouth hung open. “Slightly less than fully paranoid, huh?” He was standing in Cheryl’s garage, which was stocked meticulously with canned food, bottled water and other rations in small, wooden cubby holes that lined each wall. Not a space on the wall was wasted. “There’s no way you could have done all this after the Darkness hit.”

  “I did all this before the pulse hit.” Cheryl slowly paced along a shelf at her torso level, where each cubby was packed with sealed cans. “There’s enough food here to last for, God, maybe a decade if you space them out enough.”

  So, this lady was a prepper. Criver had heard of such people. Preppers believed that society could be hit by a catastrophe in the near future. So, they actively got ready for the shit to hit the fan by stockpiling supplies of food, water, and possibly ammunition, in case society broke down completely.

  Unfortunately, that’s exactly what did happen. Criver just was surprised he had not encountered a prepper sooner.

  Cheryl picked out two cans. “Anyone feel like chicken tonight?”

  “Hell, yeah!” Criver said.

  “Hell, yeah!” Amir repeated.

  Criver let out a chuckle. “I think I should watch my mouth around him. I don’t want to get him in trouble with his parents.”

  Amir’s smile suddenly faded. He then looked away. Criver grimaced, wondering if he had said something wrong.

  After gathering everything she needed, including an MRE ration for herself, Cheryl led them to her dining room. Criver and Amir sat at the dining table while she prepared their meal.

  Criver scratched his neck. It felt like ages since Criver had been treated like a houseguest. It made him feel guilty. He had no right to be waited on in this new world.