Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  Reports recounted the swift militarization of the three major cities in question. Other reports claimed that martial law had effectively been declared, though Craig knew nothing about that. The number of state and federal agents, police, and military personnel involved seemed overwhelming. But there was a reason for their presence, and it didn’t take long for the media to catch on; the headlines on TV changed from “Mass Transit Shutdown” to “Terror Attack Warning Has Officials in Panic.”

  Malaka Surkov and Husein sat in a different room from before—one less confined and more comfortable. There was a couch, mini-fridge, television, and magazine rack. Whether it was primarily a breakroom or waiting room, they weren’t sure, but they didn’t complain. Husein woke up on the couch to find his aunt staring up at the wall-mounted TV. He wondered if she had even tried to get any sleep.

  “You okay, Aunt Mal?” he said, lifting his head. His black hair was matted and his eyes bloodshot.

  Malaka simply made an “mmm” sound and kept her eyes on the screen. The frantic coverage of the terror threats consumed the news. The latest banner headline read, “Major Cities under Siege.” Husein could hardly believe the coverage once his eyes focused on what his aunt was watching.

  “What happened?” he asked, rising from the couch. “It looks like they took your warnings seriously enough.”

  Malaka was seated on one of four upholstered chairs situated around a small circular table.

  “Yes, the American government is on the move,” she answered.

  Husein walked over. “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes.”

  There were no windows in the room, and the door was locked from the outside. They had been told that it was for their own safety. In the back of the room was a single bathroom and shower.

  Husein looked around the room, trying to refamiliarize himself with their surroundings. “Are we prisoners?” he asked. “Why haven’t they let us go? We need to see Rasheed!”

  Malaka urged restraint. “Patience. I told the FBI we would give them our full cooperation. This is the price of that cooperation.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No. That is the way it is.” She turned to Husein and examined him with her wide, black eyes. “I just want you to be ready.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For anything.”

  The city streets of both Chicago’s east and west side were crowded with angry commuters and residents alike wandering along the streets in aimless defiance of the newly placed lockdown. Without the transit system, the city seemed to have come to a halt.

  The police and military presence was overwhelming. The scene was being captured on video from above by news helicopters. A light fog had rolled in, blanketing a restless city that had been given little information and no warning of an impending attack. Mixed messages proliferated, and none of the residents knew exactly where the attack, if there was one, was supposed to happen.

  Officials had effectively cordoned off the entire hundred-mile stretch of the elevated transit system. All stations had been blocked off from public access and given extensive searches for bombs and explosives. Police had been instructed to round up suspicious-looking individuals—primarily Middle Eastern men. And within an hour’s time, they had two police vans full of people who fit the bill. By nine a.m., however, nothing had been found.

  In New York, the situation was getting nearly impossible to contain. The NYPD had its hands full trying to keep order as angry commuters mobbed the streets in protest at being turned away from the subways. The atmosphere was loud and chaotic. Legions of helicopters flew overhead. Traffic from the Brooklyn Bridge to Times Square to the Jersey Turnpike was at a dead halt. From early morning, the city had been shut down. Not a single New Yorker or tourist had ever seen anything like it.

  The military was out in full force. Arrests were being made left and right of young people defying police and trespassing in newly restricted zones. The police had arrested so many people, they were running out of room to hold them at the precincts. The NYPD police chief, Ronald Dyson, couldn’t believe it. At the corner of Fifth Avenue, surrounded by other officers, he explained to the FBI director on the phone that they were nearing a potential war zone.

  “I don’t know about no bombs, but we got a lot of pissed-off people around here!”

  “You just need to maintain control for the next hour or so. Can you do that?” McMillian told him.

  Dyson looked up just as more officers tackled a man to the ground. Everyone was a suspect. The police had no idea who they were dealing with. As the chief looked into the endless crowds on the street being pushed back, his vision blurred. The task was overwhelming. Police in riot gear joined the National Guard, who had been dispatched to block subway entrances. One soldier had just clubbed a bearded Muslim man in the head with his rifle after the man tried to run away from police. There was little distinction anymore. Anyone who looked the part could be ISIS.

  The situation was just as chaotic in D.C., but they had the advantage of nearby federal agencies easily at their disposal. The Metro transit system had long come to a halt. Train stations had been evacuated, and residents from all over the area were advised to stay indoors. Schools were closed. Business shut their doors. The district and the areas that surrounded it had simply stopped dead.

  Despite the mass presence of emergency personnel and counterterrorism units, investigators failed to produce any evidence of a pending attack. No bombs had been recovered and no suspects found. Explosive ordinance teams swept the area with mine detectors, along with K-9 units, as drones flew overhead, scouring the area with the latest infrared surveillance technology. The presence of military and law enforcement personnel grew by the hour. They were a force in numbers unseen in the district’s entire history. Capitol Hill was shut down. Closure of the National Mall and all the monuments soon followed, creating a militarized ghost town. If the daily activity in D.C. had a power source, someone had just pulled the plug.

  Miles away at the FBI building, the countdown clock was nearing oh nine hundred hours. Craig remained on the radio, receiving updates from the field agents on the ground at each location. The TV was reporting more of the same, declaring each city in question “on lockdown.”

  “The president’s going to have no choice but to declare martial law!” Calderon shouted out on his phone. He was apparently in an argument with someone on the White House staff. “I don’t care what political fallout he gets. They’re already saying it on TV anyway. It’s chaos out there, and it doesn’t help our efforts to stop this thing.”

  Calderon hung up his phone and punched a nearby wall. Most everyone in the room was too distracted to notice. Calderon shook his limp hand and winced. Craig would have laughed if things weren’t so serious.

  “Five minutes, people!” Holloway announced. All eyes went to the red digital countdown clock in the center of the room. The president was no longer on the teleconference line, as he was tied up with Pentagon. When Craig expressed his concern over the president’s absence to Walker, his supervisor just laughed. “Maybe he’s preparing for nuclear war.”

  They had three minutes left. All agents were placed on high alert. The moment was approaching that would determine so much of their futures, and it was hard to focus on anything else. With one minute left, Craig thought of Rachael and Nick.

  “Ten seconds!” McMillian shouted.

  “Hey, does anyone know where the president is?” Calderon said, rubbing his injured knuckles.

  They were down to five seconds when the room went quiet. Each passing digit seemed like a lifetime. At exactly oh nine hundred hours, a pin drop could have been heard in the room even as the phones were buzzing.

  McMillian looked at his watch and the countdown clock. “What’s our status?”

  Craig got immediately on the line with D.C. officials. There had been no change. No attack. No bomb. Nothing. He looked at the TV and it showed the same aerial images of New York, Chicago, and
D.C. that it had been showing for the past hour.

  “Statuses now!” McMillian shouted.

  “I’ve got nothing, sir,” Craig said. The other agents responded in turn; none reported any change or activity. Five more minutes passed and it was all the same. No attacks. A general consensus in the room began to grow: their action had most likely prevented the attacks. How could they believe anything else?

  Calderon stood up on a chair to speak to the room. “I don’t want to pat ourselves on the back too early, but it looks like we may have prevented this thing after all.”

  They were tired, overworked federal agents who wanted to believe, at least for a moment, that they had made a significant difference.

  Craig, however, felt it too early to applaud. The sleeper cell had most likely remained in the shadows, and just because they hadn’t hit their intended targets didn’t mean they weren’t going to strike somewhere else. More time soon passed. By nine fifty, it seemed likely that they had won, and saved countless American lives in the process.

  At five minutes past ten, all locations reported no signs of terror threats or attacks. The president suddenly came back on the teleconference screen, apologizing for his absence and demanding an update. He was no longer in the Situation Room. He explained that the Secret Service had moved him and key cabinet members to an undisclosed location but then got right to the point.

  “The news media is all over this thing!” he protested. “Any thoughts?”

  “Mr. President, so far no attacks have been reported across any intended targets. However, I would recommend keeping a high alert through the remainder of the day just to ensure public safety,” McMillian said.

  The president looked perturbed. “I don’t know how that’s possible,” he scoffed. “We can’t keep these cities under indefinite lockdown. It’s unconscionable!”

  McMillian stepped forward, closer to the screen. “I understand that, sir, but—”

  Suddenly the teleconference screen went black. The president disappeared.

  “Mr. President?” McMillian said. He then looked around the room in confusion. No one had any answers to give him.

  A flickering glitch came over the teleconference screen and all other computer monitors in the room. Then suddenly there appeared on every screen the black flag of ISIS.

  The surreal image sent shivers down Craig’s spine.

  “What the hell?” Calderon said. “What the hell is that?”

  Port of New Orleans, Louisiana

  Security had been heightened all over the country, but with most national resources concentrated in three specific areas, no one seemed to notice an unmarked eighteen-wheeler semi-truck parked near the shipping and loading docks of the Port of New Orleans.

  The forty-foot container on the truck bed matched the hundreds of other blue, red, and yellow containers in the rail yard. Operations were moving at a steady pace under the bright-blue sky, with container ships docking, loaders moving in all directions, and cruise ships pulling into the terminal. It was business as usual at one of the busiest ports in the country—just another loud and busy day when news of the terror threats reached the shipyard.

  The driver of the unmarked semi hopped out of the driver’s seat and landed on the rock-covered ground. Pebbles crunched under his boots as he casually walked alongside the truck bed to the rear, clutching a cell phone in his hand. His tan face and thick, short beard were normal for the area. Under his skullcap, his eyes were concealed by sunglasses. He wore a T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, resembling a local longshoreman.

  He made a call on his phone while opening up the heavy rear doors of the forty-foot container. A voice answered.

  “Yes, it’s Ali. I’m ready.”

  He immediately hung up and looked into the container. The truck was completely full, loaded from back to front with blue, five-gallon drums. At the top of each drum was an electronic receiver with wiring protruding from its side. Ali looked at his work and smiled. He dug into his pocket and pulled out an older-model flip-top cell phone. For him, everything was in order.

  He walked around the truck and surveyed the bustling port, seeing hundreds of people working, thousands of pieces of equipment moving each hour. It was a lot to take in. In the distance, away from the port and on a nearby side road, he could see a van approaching.

  He looked the other way and saw a Port Authority police car coming in his direction. Ali grew nervous and began to sweat under his clothes. He didn’t know who was going to get him first. The van passed through a gate, where the driver flashed a security badge at the guard, and made its way in. The police car wasn’t much farther away and seemed to be zeroing in on the semi-truck, parked all by itself in an open dirt lot.

  “Come on, come on,” he said under his breath.

  The van finally made it, and he jumped inside. They drove off just as the police car pulled up next to the semi-truck. The officer, a man who looked to be close to retirement, radioed it in and said he was going to check out the abandoned vehicle.

  He got out and looked for a driver but couldn’t find anyone. He walked to the back and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the rows of blue barrels. He clutched his radio and called for immediate assistance but could barely talk as his heart raced.

  The van drove off beyond the gate exit as Ali was thrown from side to side in the back. Two Middle Eastern men up front asked him when he was going to make the call.

  “We’re still in range,” Ali said. “I measured it perfectly.”

  They pushed him some more, causing him to lash out. “You want to die too, you fools? I told you, I know when to make the call.”

  They had reached the third intersection out of the port, roughly a half mile away. When the light turned green, Ali knew it was time. He held up his flip-top phone and pressed send. Seconds later, the sky behind them erupted in a fiery orange blaze. The van shook and the driver swerved, nearly losing control.

  They pressed on at top speed until they were safely out of range. The explosion engulfed more than a mile of the port like a ferocious wave of hellfire, obliterating any person or thing in its path.

  The barrels had been carefully loaded with advanced radioactive materials with added high dosages of chlorine, ball bearings, and fertilizer added for good measure. The combination had done its job and turned the Port of New Orleans into an inferno. The radioactive fallout was soon to come. It was a dirty bomb of the highest order. And it was only the first of many.

  Sleeper Cell: A New Age of Terror

  A New Age of Terror

  To restore our world to its rightful place, we have to destroy theirs... - Abu Omar Allawi, Terror Leader

  Tuesday, July 7, 2016

  With all attention focused on terror threats elsewhere, a fishing boat about one hundred feet long trolled the calm waters of the Port of Long Beach, California. The unmanned vessel gained no immediate attention or suspicion from authorities, but soon drew the interest of the Coast Guard who were patrolling the area. It was early morning and the port was abuzz with industrious activity.

  Dock loaders, just starting their day, lifted forty-foot containers off ships, stacking them throughout the cargo yard. Forklifts transported pallets of goods from ships to trucks, reverse beeping in concert.

  The port transferred billions of dollars of goods, imported daily from around the world. Cruise lines arrived and departed. Hard hat-wearing union supervisors marched the loading docks calling out orders and directing incoming marine traffic. The bulbous morning sun was shining bright as tourists lined up at charter boats to fish or spend a day out at sea. With all the movement throughout the port, no one saw it coming. Los Angeles wasn't far from the area—roughly twenty-five miles away. And it was as much a target as the port itself.

  Ahmed sat on the hood of his car watching the pier from a nearby hill. In his lap was the controller he had been using to guide the fishing boat into one of the busiest loading docks the port had to offer. A vital place for imported goo
ds, the south Long Beach port was an ideal spot for an attack—something that could cripple the Great Satan, leaving it stunned and disoriented. "How did this happen?" they would say.

  Ahmed looked up into the sky to stretch his neck. He closed his eyes and let the morning rays warm his face. The air was crisp and clean, but not for long. Once he got the signal, the boat would unleash toxic chemicals into the air that would kill anything or anyone within one to two hundred feet of the explosion. The initial range and casualties of the chemical attack weren’t as important as shutting the entire port down.

  A protective mask, purchased from military surplus, rested near Ahmed's lap. In front of his red '95 Datsun he’d placed a high-definition digital camcorder, resting on a tripod with its record light flashing. Ahmed had been instructed to capture the attack so it could be used in his group’s next video. Only this time, the video wouldn't be used for propaganda. It would offer the enemy a choice—a choice to meet demands that in reality, could never be met.

  The Americans are weak, Ahmed thought. They'll capitulate to anything, if only to save their own skin.

  Originally from Pakistan, Ahmed had been recruited by Al Qaeda in the early 1990s to immigrate to America to join a sleeper cell. He had done exactly as he was told. He applied for immigration status, kept a clean record, and got a job with the port authority.

  It had taken years of dedication and hard work to get where he was at. He’d purchased a home in the suburbs in a welcoming neighborhood of Pakistani immigrants. He had since adjusted to his "normal life," and attended a mosque regularly while mostly keeping to himself. But his hatred for the enemy never waned.

  The disgust in his heart for "Westernized" Muslims never wavered either. They were even worse than the enemy. For years he heard nothing from his contacts. Not before, during, or after September 11, 2001. Not during the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Then came the rise of the Islamic State, or ISIS, split from the very factions of Al Qaeda.