Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  “Together,” Harper said.

  James and Eli supported each other. Harper fetched her assault rifle. They kept their eyes on the Humvee as they stormed across the street. Another truck pulled in, but its occupants were too preoccupied with the soldiers to gun Harper and her family down. On the opposing end of the bridge, a handful of civilians charged back up.

  “What are they doing?” James asked hoarsely. “Safety is the other way!”

  More and more bullets ripped past the Murphys. They stayed low. A couple of soldiers fired off their guns at the trucks, taking out two of the gunners before being riddled with bullets themselves. Harper smashed into the Humvee and yanked open the door. “Inside. Now!”

  As James and Eli huddled inside, Harper opened fire at an insurgent climbing onto a truck’s turret. Bullets pelted him, and he sunk to the truck’s bed. More gunmen come into view. Harper mowed them down. She turned about, realizing that she was the only one on her side still shooting. She was the only one still left. She unloaded on the enemy until her magazine went dry and hopped into the driver seat.

  The door slammed in time to get pinged by bullets. Harper flipped the car into reverse, turned 180 degrees, and sent it back into drive. Her wheels screeched against the blood and concrete and then shot forward.

  James sat in the front seat. Eli rested in the back. Harper kept her eyes ahead. Pedestrians ran past them to where the barricade was. Harper didn’t have to ask what they were running from. She could see the horizontal line of insurgents’ trucks blocking the bridge’s end.

  “What’s our play?” James grasped the armrests.

  Harper gave him and Eli a final look. Her boot stomped the gas. The truck gunners ahead opened fire. Bullets bashed against Harper’s Humvee, cracking the windshield. She could feel her escape. Feel her freedom. The flames of DC burned brightly into the starry sky.

  The attackers kept shooting. Harper would not relent. The accelerator hit the floor. Her bloody hands stained the steering wheel red. The trucks got closer, closer, closer until she could hear shouts in an unknown tongue. Bullets penetrated the Hummer’s glass and through seat cushions. Metal crushed metal as the Hummer’s nose rammed through the blockage.

  Gunfire, shouting, and the great city blaze all vanished behind Harper as the bullet-riddled Humvee roared into the black of night.

  EMP No Power Book 1

  Night of Fire

  Congressman Henry Goodwin loomed above the smooth mahogany windowsill. A chilly breeze and orange firelight lapped against his aged cheeks and tired eyes. He watched with firm silence as the hooded man lifted a tire iron and struck the navy-blue Bentley below. The window shattered easily and gave the robber ample time to unlock the door and scour the dash. Yards away, a police officer hobbled down the sidewalk. He was a hardened man with a wide jaw and buzz cut, the unforgiving type you didn’t want collecting your traffic ticket. The officer put one foot in front of the other with brash determination. Clenching his stomach, he paid no mind to the criminal before him and kept moving forward. A nearby flame caused the trail of blood behind him to shimmer like crimson coins.

  Goodwin’s gaze bounced to another vile act down the street. A gang of masked individuals swarmed around a suited man like hounds on prey and beat him viciously. His woman screamed in horror until one of the masked men yanked the pearl necklace from her throat and sent her running in the opposite direction. They stripped the man of his possessions and suit, leaving his swollen and broken body to rest on the street.

  All up and down Independence Avenue, vandals had set vehicles ablaze. Goodwin knew the culprits because he had watched them douse the government vehicles with bourbon and toss the match an hour ago.

  The robber pulled his head out of the ravaged Bentley with a victorious grin. He shoved the fistful of items into his hoodie pocket and twisted around. Facing the officer, the thug swore loudly and pulled a gun from the back of his pants. Pop! The congressman jumped at the harsh sound. The robber took off down an alley. The officer lay facedown on the hard sidewalk, a pool of blood blooming beneath his tarnished uniform.

  A rattling.

  Goodwin turned back in time to see his office door smack against the inner wall. Shrouded in darkness, Anton Craton panted in the doorway. His veiny forehead glistened with sweat at the slightest contact with light. His open black blazer revealed a pressed white button-down, shiny red tie, and holstered Beretta pistol tucked against his rib.

  “It’s ready, Congressman, but we need to leave. Right now,” the bodyguard commanded.

  Goodwin had always liked Craton. Hardworking, skilled, and selfless, all one can ever ask for in a bodyguard. He’d stayed by Sherry’s side when she was fighting her battle. The congressman had invited him to the townhouse monthly so the three could share a meal. But after cancer stole Sherry, Goodwin’s table became barren. He had been meaning to invite Craton for dinner, even made plans. That was six months ago.

  “Are you sure there is no other solution?” asked Goodwin.

  A familiar sobering look overtook Craton’s long face. “None, Congressman. Right now, your security is paramount.”

  Goodwin held his tongue for a moment while he looked at the picture on his mahogany desk. God, he missed Sherry. The way she smiled. The way she kissed him. The forty-four years they spent together.

  “Congressman?”

  “I understand,” Goodwin replied stoically.

  He stole a final glance out the window and at the Capitol. Flaming trees obscured the marvelous but now vacant structure. Without another wasted moment, he was out the door.

  The second-story hall of the Rayburn House Office Building was dark and littered with important documents discarded and abandoned over the course of the last hour. In every office, amber flames bounced off the honorary-plaque-covered walls, cast from mini-trash-cans-turned-pyres. Highly classified documents were stuffed haphazardly into the tiny cans. Years of work condemned to fire, with its only crime being the thickness of the file. Henry’s heart ached as he sped past. The mere idea of what vital information had been incinerated threatened an ulcer.

  Craton led on with hasty steps, and the congressman felt his true age through his tender legs. He lagged behind a few paces, too old and too stubborn to tell Craton to let up. Appearing out of an adjacent office, Duncan Grey joined their parade with a dense pile of files hugged to his chest.

  “How’s it looking?” Goodwin asked his bookish assistant.

  The mouselike man adjusted his circular glasses with a finger and matched Goodwin’s pace. “Well, law enforcement has either disbanded or retreated, causing crime to run rampant throughout the District of Columbia. A few local militias have risen up, but it appears their mob justice is only adding to the body count.”

  “Far from pleasant, then?” replied Goodwin. “The insurgents. Any word?”

  Grey nodded. Sweat glued his few stringy gray hairs to his scalp. “They have infiltrated a number of key locales throughout the city, and their bombings have grown progressively worse. The National Guard and local Army Reserves have merged to combat the threat and are currently maintaining a multitude of barricades around the city’s perimeter. However, they lack the assets needed to properly extinguish the threat.”

  Craton shoved open the emergency-stairwell door, and they started down the twisting flight of stairs.

  “What about the president?” Goodwin let the handrail and bulky bodyguard be his eyes.

  Grey caught a file slipping from his grasp. A paper dropped from it. No time to stop. “MIA. The White House went black forty-five minutes ago, or so says my contact.”

  The congressman continued down the steps with urgency. “Honestly, Grey. Do you think we have a chance?”

  The sound of their footsteps filled the void of silence. Grey spoke. “Only if… only if we can get out of the EMP blast zone, take inventory of the remaining leaders, and figure out who's left and who’s in charge.”

  Goodwin’s heart felt like a hard bri
ck in his chest. “Who is in charge?”

  “Maybe the VP. Secretary of State.” Grey chuckled hopelessly. “You.”

  Meditating on the discouraging thought, Goodwin pushed through the exit door. The night sky was brilliant with thousands of stars no longer snuffed out by artificial light. Sherry would’ve loved this. Goodwin remembered that passionate night on his North Carolina vacation ranch. The memory swiftly vanished as he neared his escort.

  In the horseshoe-shaped parking area, a soldier stood sentry beside the military Humvee, a massive metal beast amidst the disabled cars. The soldier’s keen eyes surveyed the surroundings. His fingers drummed on his assault rifle’s tactical grip. Ammo clips and other gizmos were attached tightly to his belt.

  Goodwin did some surveying himself, half-expecting bullets to rain down on him from the rooftops. All around, the everyday world felt and sounded foreign. Gunfire echoed in the distance. Smoke curled into the sky. The power of the city was completely defeated. He took a breath and approached the soldier.

  “Congressman Goodwin?” the young soldier asked, keeping his gun low but ready. “I’m Corporal Bennett. I’ve been tasked with your extraction. Please get inside.”

  “Is it functional?” Goodwin asked while he climbed into the spacious backseat.

  “Yes, sir. These Hummers are built to withstand an electromagnetic pulse. You can thank the army for that,” the soldier said proudly.

  Grey joined Goodwin in the backseat while Craton took the front beside the soldier.

  The soldier twisted back to him. “We’ve cracked a barricade up in Woodridge. I’ll be frank with you, sir. It won’t be an easy drive.”

  “Is that where the others went?”

  Goodwin had sacrificed his seat in the previous, much larger convoy. Bickering in a cramped car all night wouldn’t do anyone good. However, when he waved his political allies and enemies good-bye, their party affiliations didn’t seem to matter anymore. Those who were once subject to slander were now the focus of prayers.

  “The others were ambushed along the way, sir,” Bennett said, unblinking. “Their current status is unknown. Regardless, my commander has ordered that I focus on you at the moment.”

  Goodwin gave Craton a look that didn’t downplay his dread.

  “It’s our best shot,” his bodyguard stated.

  “All right,” Goodwin finally said, looking out the window.

  The dark and secure Rayburn House Office Building loomed over him. With a hungry roar, the Humvee rumbled to life. Grey thumbed through the files with trembling hands, mouthing his count. They bumped against a curb and sped down South Capitol Street. Goodwin’s lifework vanished in the distance.

  Just this morning, the buildings around him had been busy with people talking on their cell phones, checking their electronic watches, laughing, and making small talk. Now, deathly silence lingered, and the occasional trampled body plagued the curb and street. There’s still hope, Goodwin forcefully reminded himself as they swerved onto Independence Avenue. With his face buried in the concrete, the dead cop continued leaking across the sidewalk.

  As the Hummer screamed up the street, more horrors crippled Goodwin. Window glass and unhinged doors were scattered on the sidewalk, revealing the stripped inners of the roadside office buildings and stores. A pair of sweaty and swearing police officers ran from a violent mob that wore soot- and blood-covered clothes. A family of three appeared from a gas station and chased the Humvee for a time. Their cries were drowned out by the powerful engine, and soon they disappeared in the rearview. Up ahead, a mass of mad-eyed people hoisted up a dead insurgent to the burning stars and moon. They carried the foreign man’s stripped corpse through the trash-littered street, with crimson-stained knives raised high, shouting a unified chant. “This is our city, and you can’t have it!”

  Brutal slashes on the terrorist’s bare chest spilled blood down the bystanders’ hands, and they seemed to care little. The congressman couldn’t pull his eyes away. Barbarians, he thought, wanting to confine them all to a cell.

  Avoiding the crowd, the Hummer turned onto Second Street. Down the straight road, a hunched squadron of shadowy figures darted from the back of the Supreme Court Building and into an opposing, shadow-shrouded alley.

  Goodwin’s boney fingers coiled around his door’s handle as he stared out the windshield. Anxiety bubbled inside him. His mind raced. Tomorrow he’d change things, he promised. He’d get to work on gluing together the fragments of a fallen civilization. Not enough, an inner voice contested. We’re losing the battle now.

  “After the extraction, what’s next?” Goodwin finally asked.

  “You help us rebuild,” replied the corporal.

  “Grey,” Goodwin said, sick of being useless. “Grab a pen. We should get started.”

  A smile appeared on Grey’s bulbous face, and he retrieved a pen clipped to a folder.

  Outside the side window, something caught Goodwin’s eye. It took him a moment to realize what the black box strategically placed on the Supreme Court Building was. He reared his head, spotting the culprits ducked in darkness. His mouth went dry, and his heart burst.

  “Henry?” he heard someone ask, and then…

  Boom!

  The explosion sent bricks, fire, and death against the Humvee. Heat struck Goodwin’s frail body as the vehicle took flight. His insides twisted. The vehicle rolled. He thought of Sherry. Her smile. Her quirky laugh. Her deathbed. The Hummer’s top smashed and scraped across the street with a metallic scream.

  Darkness.

  The smell of gasoline.

  A cough.

  Warm liquid rolled into his nostrils and eyes. Congressman Goodwin returned to reality. The world was flipped. The blood running down his face originated from his mouth. I’m upside down.

  In all-around agony, he turned his craning neck to Grey. The bookish body hung limply beside him. His glasses had fallen to the ceiling, and his bulging eyes peeped lifelessly through his cracked eyelids. No one in the front seats moved either. The pistol holstered on Craton’s ribs caught Goodwin’s eye.

  He grunted, tried to move his arms, but found that his body had betrayed him… Laced boots appeared on the other side of the window, followed by voices of a foreign tongue. Goodwin tried for the gun again. No dice. The taste of copper lingered between and around his loose teeth and on his numb, bleeding tongue.

  A masked man squatted down and cocked his head next to the window as he peered inside. His eyes were dark as coal, and the mouth of his pistol opened to Goodwin’s face.

  Rage and fear twisted inside Goodwin. He struggled to fight, wishing to thrash and grab the man’s weapon, turning the tool of death against his adversary. Alas, nothing happened. His voice was all he had, and even that faded.

  “You won’t win,” Henry said spitefully. “You can’t.”

  In broken English, the man replied, “We already have.”

  The gun went off.

  Congressman Goodwin was reunited with his wife.

  1

  Endless Road

  Blood caked between Harper Murphy’s bruised fingers and smeared the steering wheel with streaks of dark maroon. Crimson lingered in the crevices of her fingernails and crusted the cuffs of her camo jacket. With a sticky click, she freed her hands from the grip and squeezed them shut to get the circulation going. The simple motion incited pain. Her bloodshot eyes returned to the road. A single headlight was her guide. A bullet had shattered the other.

  Distorted by spiderweb cracks and nickel-sized bullet holes, the windshield proved more a hazard to her than the fatigue that crippled her athletic body. Jets of wind whistled through the damage, pelting her green eyes and tousling her short auburn hair. She wanted to kick out the glass but couldn’t bring herself to stop moving.

  Just like the road around her, the day’s events melded together in a mess of disasters, deaths, and damage from which she may not recover. Washington, DC, was miles behind her now, but her duty still remained. It
tugged at her every second, nagging her constantly. Had she done enough? Her troop had been ambushed, gunned down, and crushed beneath droves of vintage trucks that had been stashed safely away for months, waiting for this day. Waiting for the attack that killed DC.

  Harper set her jaw and footed the gas pedal. The Humvee thundered as the RPM needle climbed.

  Arlington was black, too. Not yet in full-tilt chaos, but there was enough clutter that Harper avoided it. She set her trajectory southeast, or maybe it was northwest. The long day had disrupted her sense of direction. Either way, her goal was to escape the blast zone. It didn’t matter how.

  “Pull over,” a sick-sounding voice came from the seat behind her. Her mind wanted her to keep driving. Her foot, however, wasn’t as obedient. The clunking Humvee slowed to a stop on the edge of a tree-lined road. Amidst the night sounds and critters, the military vehicle boomed and clunked with the pumping of the massive engine’s cylinders. The back door opened, and her teenage son scrambled out into the darkness. The sound of retching was followed by a vomit splat.

  Harper could feel James’s sleepless eyes on her from the front seat. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Her eyes stayed on the road and her only sliver of light. Had she kissed him this night? Had he saved her life, or had she saved his? Everything was a blur. She glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting the insurgents to be on her tail. Another gag and dense splatter from outside.

  Warm pressure soothed her aching hand. She followed the hand touching her to her estranged husband’s long face and square, stubbled jaw. Purple tiredness circled his glassy hazel eyes. An expression of pity radiated from them.

  “He’ll be okay,” he whispered with a forced smile. Her husband was normally handsome, but this night, he was smeared with dirt and gore. Come to think of it, they all were. So much so that Harper’s active combat unit jacket was stiff with blood. Most of the human spillage was not her own.