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

by Connor Mccoy

  “It’s supposed to be round, and it’s white with black spots.”

  Criver almost dropped the ball. “Wait! You mean a soccer ball?”

  Amir sat up. “Soccer?”

  “Okay, culture misunderstanding here.” Cheryl stuck her head in the door. “In Europe, soccer actually is called ‘football.’ Amir’s just probably familiar with the European football, not the American one.”

  Criver shook his head. “Well, I guess all I can say is ‘cricket.’”

  “That’s Australian,” Cheryl piped in.

  “Okay!” Criver chuckled. Even Amir laughed at the back and forth. “Everyone here knows more about the world than I do.” He tossed the ball up and down. “Well, if you don’t know anything about American football, you are in for a treat.”

  Amir’s big smile showed off his teeth. “That ball looks funny.”

  “Maybe.” He held it up. “But you’ve never seen it spin through the air, it’s amazing.”

  “So, I get to throw it?”

  “Absolutely.” Criver tossed it to Amir. The boy caught it. His smile was the biggest Criver had seen yet from him.

  Cheryl’s bedroom door was wide open. Criver walked in, clutching the football. “Amir’s out. I was halfway through explaining the rules before he dropped off.” He narrowed his eyes. “I almost feel insulted.”

  “I don’t think you’re boring. He’s just been through hell.”

  Criver looked at the ball. “So, in addition to blowing off heads with an AK-47, you throw footballs?”

  “No. That was my brother’s.”

  “Oh.” Criver’s countenance fell. Damn, he had forgotten that this was originally Rory Dennis’ house. “Sorry, guess I should have asked first.” He offered it to Cheryl.

  She brushed it aside. “You can hang on to that. I think he’d really appreciate it.”

  Criver wanted to change the subject. “So, almost packed?” He hadn’t noticed any bags in Cheryl’s room.

  “It’s all by the front door.”

  “I hope we find some nice streams to wash my underwear. I don’t dare try sneaking back home to grab anything.”

  “Don’t worry. I went through my brother’s closet. I put some of his old clothes in a bag. I think they’ll be okay, but some of his shirts may be a little short.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I mean, this is your brother’s stuff.”

  Cheryl turned and looked at him. “It’s not like he’s going to wear it ever again.”

  “I just don’t want to take stuff that belonged to someone you loved. It feels like grave robbing to me.”

  “My brother was the kind of person who’d give you the shirt off his back.” Cheryl looked past Criver. “I already have all the mementos I need. Trust me, he’d want this.”

  “Okay. If you’re fine, I’m fine.” Criver rubbed his neck.

  “Damn.” The day’s exhaustion finally was catching up to him. “I got to hit the hay. I don’t think I asked, you got another bedroom?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “Amir’s got one, the other is filled with boxes and crates. That just leaves here. I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t plan on taking guests.”

  Criver eyed the room. “So, this is it?”

  Cheryl swallowed. “Yeah.”

  The idea of sharing a bed with Cheryl was out the window. “Well, um, I could hit the floor. I mean, we have sleeping bags. You take your bed, and I’ll take the floor.”

  Cheryl smiled awkwardly. “This room is too small for a mat.”

  Criver looked down. He had forgotten how small this house was. The bags he had seen did look too small for the floor space between the bed and the door. That didn’t leave many options. The mat wouldn’t fit in Amir’s room either. The bathtub was out, it was too small to fit Criver. The living room likely was packed with bags, plus the sofa wasn’t long enough for Criver’s six-foot, five-inch frame.

  He snapped his fingers. “Ah. The garage. I’ll sleep in there.”

  Cheryl grimaced. “But the garage is freezing.”

  “Hey, I can handle it. The garage is the man cave. So, I, being a man, should feel at home there.”

  Cheryl bit her lip. “The man cave?”

  Criver clasped his hands together. “One of the mats can fit in there. It’s perfect. The garage is man’s natural habitat.”

  Criver clutched the inside of the mat’s covering. Cheryl was right, the garage was freezing. If it wasn’t for the down in this sleeping bag, he’d be a popsicle.

  “Man cave,” he mumbled. It suddenly struck him how silly that sounded. He had said similar things to Jessica. She took them with good humor, such as when he proclaimed the bathroom the “man office.” She replied that that was fitting, since it could hold so much crap.

  Ouch. Score one for the ladies’ side.

  His eyes felt heavy. The day had started out fighting with a gang and their psychotic, deformed warlord, only to give way to playing in the backyard with an eight-year-old boy, and then spending quality time with a young woman. It was like he had managed to escape the mad world around him and vanish into a pocket of normalcy.

  But would it last? What awaited them once they left this house?

  He turned to his side. Perhaps he shouldn’t worry. They were leaving to find some refuge out there, to get away from the savages who ran this city. Perhaps he could provide, in some way, a better life for Amir.

  In her bedroom, Cheryl lay under the covers, eyes half-closed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Man cave?” she repeated.

  She burst out laughing. It took a short while for her to stop. “Oh God.” It was something she’d expect Rory to say.

  Before she finally fell asleep, it occurred to her that she hadn’t laughed that much in a long time, even before the Darkness hit.

  Thomas Criver ran through the hallway of his house. He was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his bare feet pounding the hall floor with every step. The sounds of laughter up ahead led him, the hunter, toward his prey—his wife Jessica.

  She stopped at the open door of their bedroom. Time slowed so much that her golden hair swished in the air, as if she was swimming in the ocean. She was a picture of perfection, with her sparkling blue eyes, her painted-on blue jeans that hugged her every curve, her white blouse unbuttoned at the top to permit her cleavage to peek out, her feet clad in tall brown heels and, finally, her lips, painted with bright beige gloss.

  “You’ll never catch me, Thomas Criver,” she said, slowly, seductively. She pivoted around on her right heel, her left leg kicked up.

  Criver picked up the pace even as the scene seemed to slow down even further. “Don’t be so sure,” he said amid his panting.

  Laughing, she turned and fled into the room. Everything continued to play in slow motion. He leaped across the door threshold. She backed up against the bed, not able to turn or run anywhere. He caught her, and the pair fell backward onto their bed, he on top of her. She squirmed, struggled, but it was all in play. The pair locked in a passionate kiss. He then pulled open her blouse, exposing her cleavage sheathed in her white bra.

  “I love you,” Jessica whispered in between kisses. She stopped squirming and allowed Criver to have his way with her.

  “Everything is so perfect,” Criver said as he unzipped Jessica’s jeans.

  “You, our family,” he whispered while his hands continued the important work of unveiling Jessica’s feminine form.

  “Check on Michael first,” Jessica finally whispered, her eyes closed, as their lips parted, “Your son needs you.” She brought up her hand to touch his face. “He needs his hero.”

  Criver gazed down at his wife’s mostly nude form. “Absolutely.” He kissed Jessica’s forehead, then turned and left her.

  He hurried into his son’s room. Michael Christian Criver lay in his crib, dressed in a green onesie. A slowly turning mobile hung over the crib. When the infant saw Criver, he smiled, kicked his legs and started cooing.

  “H
ey little man,” Tom Criver said. He took one of his son’s feet and gently tickled it. Michael giggled.

  But soon Michael’s laughs turned to gasping. Something was wrong. He was having trouble breathing.

  “Michael…Michael!” Criver cried.

  His son, his baby son, turned and wheezed, fighting for air. His skin started turning blue.

  “Michael, breathe!”

  Then, Michael’s blondish hair changed to dark. His face was morphing, expanding, his skin darkening, and his hair lengthening. Michael’s face was changing into Amir. But he still was choking to death.

  “Amir.” Criver shook his head. “No!”

  Amir’s gasp turned to a horrible gurgle, the sound of death.

  “No!”

  Criver thrashed hard, but the sleeping bag held him tight. “Dammit! Dammit!” he screamed. It took him a moment to realize he had been dreaming.

  He finally stopped. A loud crash came from within the house. No, that was the second crash. His dream hadn’t woken him up.

  “Criver!” called Cheryl. Someone had broken into the house!

  Chapter Six

  Gun in hand, Criver tore out of the garage, through the hallway, racing to Amir’s room. “Amir!” A quick look in the room told the story. Amir’s blankets and pillow were on the floor, the sheets torn as if they had been clawed through by an animal, or by a boy trying to cling to the bed in defiance of kidnappers. No movement. Amir wasn’t in there.

  Screams and shouts came from the living room up ahead. Then, a gunshot. Criver rushed. The few bits of candlelight kept the room visible enough to see what was happening. A tall, bald man had Amir over his shoulder. The boy writhed around and snarled but was bound up in chains. If he had been able to move, he would have sunk his teeth into his kidnapper’s neck.

  Another assailant, a brute with a red beard, and balding hair to match, was firing bullets at Cheryl. The female soldier was ducking behind the kitchen counter, only daring to squeeze off one shot in return.

  Criver turned and fired, but in the darkness of the room he wasn’t sure if he had hit Cheryl’s attacker. He didn’t dare try shooting the other man with Amir hanging from his back. “Amir!” Criver shouted, trying to move in quickly in the hope of punching out his captor and getting the boy free.

  But Red Beard turned and fired another shot to provide cover while the goon with Amir headed for the front door. Criver jumped and ducked down, hitting the floor by the couch. The bullet sailed by. Evidently, the living room was too dark for these goons to get good shots at them, either.

  The front door lay open. The man with Amir jumped over a set of crowbars and heavy mauls on the ground. Cheryl’s deadbolts had been broken off and discarded on the front lawn. Amir’s kidnapper made it over the door’s threshold as Red Beard fired off one more shot before retreating.

  “Come back here!” Criver trembled. No, this couldn’t be happening. He just had watched Amir dying in his dream, and now these sons of bitches were ripping him away from him in real life!

  He rushed out of the doorway. Dawn just barely was breaking, pouring out enough light to see down the road. Amir’s kidnapper ran in spite of the boy struggling, but the chains dug in and soon kept him from moving at all. His accomplice stayed slightly back and squeezed off another shot, too far from Criver or Cheryl, who had joined the chase, but it was enough to make them hesitate.

  And in this pursuit, hesitation could cost them a chance to catch up with Amir.

  Criver kept going. No, he had to push the fear away. No hesitation. He could not fail again. His feet pounded the pavement with every step.

  They made it to the edge of the neighborhood. Amir’s kidnappers had made it to an open alley between two brick buildings. Cheryl made it there first, with Criver just a step behind.

  As Amir’s kidnapper rounded a corner, his fellow henchman turned and fired again. But Cheryl was just as fast. The henchman’s round zinged past Criver’s ear, making him fear he’d been hit. Cheryl’s bullet, however, didn’t miss. The accomplice’s right shoulder jerked back. Still, Cheryl’s shot didn’t drop him. He turned and ducked into the alley.

  Cheryl and Criver followed. The alley ran until it split into two adjoining alleys, one running to the, left, the other to the right.

  “You take left!” Cheryl cried out. “I’ll go right!”

  Criver was thinking the same thing. They hadn’t seen which way Amir’s captor had gone, or if the two men had split up. This way, one of them should catch up with Amir. So Criver turned, separating from Cheryl.

  Nobody was down this alley. For a moment, he feared he had taken the wrong path, but Amir’s kidnapper already could have reached the end. “Amir!” he shouted. He arrived at the alley’s exit, which spat him out on a concrete street near a parking lot packed with vehicles frozen in place since the pulse hit.

  Pat-pat!

  Two gunshots pelted the concrete around him. Criver ducked and rolled. On his side, he spotted Amir’s kidnapper, aiming a pistol at him. So, his and Cheryl’s instincts were right on the money. But he was in the parking lot, and with all the cars he couldn’t see Amir.

  Finally, Criver jumped up and swung his pistol around.

  “I wouldn’t do that!” The man stepped into the open, the sun washing over his ebony skin and muscular tone. He held up a chain, but with a car in the way, Criver couldn’t see if Amir was bundled on the end.

  “Let him go!” Criver shouted.

  “Put down the gun,” the kidnapper called, “and I will not harm the boy.”

  “How about you put down the chain and I won’t splatter your brains across this whole lot!”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t do it.” He jerked the chain hard. Criver stopped. No, the thought of Amir on the other hand gripped his insides.

  “Alright.” Criver took his hand off the trigger. “Just show me Amir.”

  “On the ground,” the man ordered.

  Criver put the pistol down. “It’s done. It’s done. Now, for the love of God, just show me Amir.”

  The man pursed his lips, almost in a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Then he pulled up the chain. It was just a few links. It was a short chain, not the one that bound Amir. Amir was gone! “At some point, I’m afraid we switched the prize.”

  Criver erupted with rage. “You son of a bitch!”

  He snatched up his gun with full fury. At the same time, Amir’s captor ducked into the lot. Criver squeezed off his last round, shattering the glass of a nearby windshield. He rushed into the lot, but couldn’t find the kidnapper. There had to be fifty vehicles in the lot. Amir’s assailant could have ducked inside any of them, or he could be hiding underneath.

  “Come on!” Criver shouted, “Dammit, come out and face me!”

  Almost every vehicle had at least one car window shattered, likely by looters looking to steal anything inside, so Criver could reach inside and open any vehicle door. But he kept coming up empty, time after time. No Amir. Nothing.

  “No. No!” After searching God knows how many cars, Criver stumbled. He fell to his knees, blinking back tears. “Amir!” The boy, his boy, had been stolen from him. And now his kidnappers had gotten clean away.

  A feminine shadow crossed his line of sight. He looked up. The fiery redhead he had known for only a day stood over him, the sunlight surrounding her like a glow. She had an additional bruise on her cheek and a cut on her arm. She must have successfully tracked down the other kidnapper, and Criver allowed himself a glimmer of hope.

  “Was he… did you find him?”

  She bowed her head. “He didn’t have Amir. I gave him quite a thrashing, but he still slipped away into an abandoned building. I-I’m sorry.”

  Criver turned to the empty lot, then to the city, no, the jungle beyond. The savage world had claimed another of the innocent.

  Criver sat on a wooden bus bench near the street, massaging his legs. The running had worn them out. “Dammit,” he kept repeating. Meanwhil
e, Cheryl slowly paced back and forth, strolling closer to Criver until she hovered over him.

  “Hey,” she said, softly, “Don’t torture yourself. I barricaded us inside my house, and it didn’t do a lick of good.”

  Criver rubbed his hands down his face. The visage of The Coach reappeared in his mind, his deathly-cold eyes staring at him with the annoyance reserved for a pestering insect.

  Who are you?

  You think you can hurt me with your toys?

  Every child is my child.

  “Piece of shit, he’s not yours,” Criver breathed.

  “What?” Cheryl leaned down.

  “The Coach. It’s him. Got to be.” Criver turned and looked Cheryl full in the face. “Cheryl, you know these guys better than I do. What’s he going to do to him?”

  Cheryl looked down. “I don’t know. I just know The Coach’s, the DIRJ’s, their movements. I don’t have a read on their leaders or how they operate.” She sat on the bench, right next to him. “They wouldn’t go through all that trouble to kidnap him if they wanted to kill him. They could have firebombed the house. I’m sure he’s still alive.”

  Criver locked eyes with this soldier. The fire in those eyes restored some of his strength. “So, Sergeant,” he said, “You know where The Coach’s headquarters is?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  “Odds are someone around here does.” Criver rose to his feet. “Let’s turn this concrete hellhole inside out until we find him.”

  The city’s surviving population was concentrated mostly inside a collection of survival camps, so Criver and Cheryl checked there first. Criver had a few acquaintances, people he had helped in the first days of the Darkness. They knew The Providers had been overthrown, but strangely could say little about The Coach, his men, or where they operated out of. Some of the responses were spoken nervously, with a quiver in the voice or a look over their shoulder or to the side.

  “My information network’s dried up,” Cheryl said as she walked out of a tent in one of the camps. “Nobody knows anything here.”