Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  The door then creaked open. Several shadowed figures stood in the light of the hall. It was the first time she had actually seen their captors since arriving. They looked to be all men—big, tall, and bulky. They had beards, and some of them had shaved heads. Chassity counted five in all.

  “Where’s my dad?” she asked defiantly.

  One of the men held up a flashlight and shone it into her face, blinding her. Chassity squinted but did not look away.

  “Your father isn’t here, little one,” the man answered.

  He had an accent—Middle Eastern, she presumed. Were they the drug dealers she was worried about? Chassity wasn’t sure.

  She recoiled against the wall as the flashlight man stepped closer. He turned the flashlight away and signaled the other men to come inside. They came forward slowly and began talking to each other in Arabic, not so much interested in Chassity or Lisa as their own conversations.

  The flashlight man pointed the light at Chassity, and then the men began nodding and talking over each other with rising intensity. Lisa raised her head to see what the commotion was about. The flashlight suddenly went on her, and the men began talking even louder and more enthusiastically.

  “Gentlemen, please!” the flashlight man said in English. “We’ll work out all the details soon.”

  Quiet for a moment, the group then launched into louder bickering and fast, raucous banter.

  “What do they want?” Lisa kept asking her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re talking about letting us go,” she said, struggling with some better explanation.

  “That’s enough,” the bearded flashlight man said, holding up his arms. He then signaled to the door, and the men reluctantly quieted down and began to shuffle outside the cell. The flashlight man followed without so much as a word to Chassity or her sister. As he reached the door, ready to close it behind him, Chassity boldly called out to him. Surprised, he stopped, keeping his hand on the door.

  “Where’s my dad?” Chassity asked for what she felt was the hundredth time.

  The man nodded, staring directly at her. She knew his eyes. They were the eyes of the man who had been watching them throughout the day, distinctively dark and intense.

  “Your father is dead,” the man said frankly. “You will not see him again.”

  Chassity gasped, not wanting to believe such a thing was possible. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Chassity?” Lisa said, tugging on her shirt. “What is he talking about?”

  “Believe what you want, little one,” the man said. “He is dead.” He went to leave but stopped again, turning his head with a look of amusement. “Oh, and those men, by the way. They were bidding on the best one. They want to take you home with them. Problem solved. You will have a new father soon enough.”

  And with that, he closed the door and locked the dead bolts, leaving the girls trembling with confusion and fear.

  8

  Teamwork

  Angela’s nerves were shot as she sat in the passenger seat of a black four-door Ford Fusion, Special Agent Burke’s very own government-leased vehicle. His look and demeanor had changed, almost as though he were another person. Gone were his suit and tie and G-man aura, replaced with the covert attire of a black ops ranger: black shirt and jeans, gray tactical vest, and black boots.

  When Angela had asked him what she should wear, he simply told her nothing that would draw attention. Burke had his reasons. He also had brought with him startling and impressive firepower. In the trunk was an M240 7.62mm fully automatic machine gun, and a M500 pump-action shotgun. Angela was certain the weapons weren’t government issued but of Burke’s own collection. She didn’t ask.

  Burke had a pistol at his side, as did Angela. And resting upright against the steering wheel was an M4 carbine-action rifle. Angela had never encountered someone with so many weapons. And though she knew little of his past, she did know that he was in his mid-forties and had led a fairly quiet, normal life for years, working as a counterterrorist agent for the CIA.

  At some point he had lost his family—where and how he had not said. Angela didn’t want to admit it, but she felt she was beginning to feel a connection with him. He was the only person who seemed absolutely determined to rescue her daughters.

  As they sat in a vacant lot under the evening sky, Burke held a pair of thermal binoculars to his eyes, scoping out a house of interest from far across the street. The old two-story home in question was wedged among several other low-rent homes on the busy neighborhood block.

  For the past hour, Burke’s interest in the house had only grown despite their seeing little activity beyond cars passing them by. The house, Burke had revealed, was their starting point. Closed curtains covered every window with a faint glow of light behind some of them.

  “How did you find out about this place?” Angela asked. Her wardrobe was simpler than his—a short-sleeve fitted T-shirt, black jeans, and boots. Her hair was tied back in a bun, and her pistol fit snugly in its side holster. In the backseat, Burke had two bulletproof jackets. Angela knew how important it was to have them. One bullet could do a lot of damage to a careless person as she had learned the past couple of days.

  Burke was as vague as always with his answer. “This house has been on my radar for some time. A guy in the agency put me onto it.”

  “Who lives there?”

  Burke set his binoculars down and turned to her as an eighteen-wheeler roared past them. “Supposedly a family. Omar and Samirah Khan and their five children.”

  Angela turned to him, confused. “A family? What do you plan on doing?”

  “The truth is, Omar’s family is back in Pakistan. The only people living in that house are Omar and about five of his buddies. Maybe more.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “As sure as I can be about any of this. Ol’ Omar has been pretty quiet lately. But he’s been making a lot of trips down south. Back and forth to multiple locations.” Burke paused and ran a hand across his clean-shaven face. “He’s a supply runner, Agent Gannon.”

  Angela wasn’t entirely convinced. “How do you know that?”

  Burke glanced at her as though she were pushing it. “I don’t need a litany of questions. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  Angela felt upset by his dismissiveness. From experience, she knew being left out in the dark could be hazardous. “I did trust you, remember? And now my husband’s dead…” She instantly regretted the words as they came out.

  Burke turned away, silent.

  “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, holding up his binoculars. “If you must know, the NSA has been tracking Omar on his phone GPS for some time.” He paused and began watching the house again. “He’s gotten sloppy.”

  The car stereo said nine thirty. If Burke was right about the president’s absurd decision to launch drone strikes, they had eleven hours left. The worst part, for Angela, was that she couldn’t tell anyone. The government, she was told, would retaliate with fury. But what did that mean exactly?

  “You don’t know what they’re capable of,” Burke had told her. But she was already perfectly aware.

  She turned the radio up, curious to hear the latest news updates. Her cell phone had a barrage of missed calls from Chief Drake, her mother, and several extended family members. Her voice mail box was full, and she’d found herself quickly overwhelmed. The best thing she could do was to shut it off. She hated to, but it was the only way to stay focused. No one could know what they were doing, and if she ended up losing her job as a result, so be it. As Burke had said, they were now “off the grid.”

  After a brief weather forecast, the news radio station recapped the evening’s top stories. Angela froze upon hearing Doug’s name in a brief but startling report.

  “Authorities have identified Doug Gannon of Del Rio, Texas, as the man in the ISIS propaganda video, where it appears that he was murdered on
camera following the masked militant’s warning address to Americans. The video has been yanked off social media sites hundreds of times but has been viewed an estimated two million times in the past twelve hours.”

  Burke quickly moved his hand to the stereo and turned it off. Angela felt a sharp sting in her gut. The words were unreal, but they solidified the reality she had initially been in denial about. Doug was really dead—murdered on camera like an animal. She took a quick swig from a nearby bottle of water and then gasped for air.

  “You all right?” Burke asked, concerned.

  “Yeah,” she said, wiping her mouth. She moved her hand over and turned it back on.

  “You shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s a distraction,” he added.

  The announcer continued: “The president gave a brief statement on the video today by claiming that ‘justice would come to the killers’ and that his administration would do all they could to find the sleeper cell embedded within south Texas ‘to every last member of the radical extremists who take part in the murder of innocent Americans.’”

  Angela then leaned forward and turned it back off. She had heard enough.

  Burke raised his binoculars up as a few more cars passed them by, the rush of their headlights a quickened blur.

  “There’s movement,” Burke said urgently.

  Angela looked ahead. The house seemed the same as it had for the past hour. She hadn’t understood the reasoning behind their lengthy stakeout, but now that had changed. She shifted in her seat and placed her hand on the door handle, ready to move.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  “You in a rush to get shot?” he said, binoculars held against his eyes.

  “Not at all,” Angela said. “I just don’t know how long you plan to sit here, especially if you’re right about these drone strikes.”

  Burke placed his binoculars on the dashboard and grabbed his rifle. “Okay.” He opened his door then paused and looked at her as she opened hers. The interior lights had been disabled.

  “What?” she asked, noticing his stare.

  Burke shook his head. “I think it’s better if you waited here.”

  Angela narrowed her eyes. “I’m a trained border patrol agent, and I can handle myself just fine.” His potential abandonment reminded her of how the FBI had treated her during the very raid that had gotten her into this mess.

  Conflicted, Burke scratched his face. “I had reservations about this from the beginning. You knew that. Is it really worth putting yourself in danger? Let me handle this one on my own. It’s the least I can do…”

  Angela got out of the car in the middle of his speech and opened the back door to grab a vest. Burke paused, annoyed, and got out as well. With her bulletproof vest riding over her shoulders, she was already proving to be a formidable force. He swung his back door open and grabbed a vest as well another car passed by, oblivious to their presence.

  The neighborhood of low-rent homes on scrubby lots was strangely quiet beyond the distant echoes of barking dogs. As Burke slipped on his vest, Angela stood near the car, eyeing the house down the street. She wondered how much firepower he planned to bring. There was, after all, plenty of it in the trunk.

  He adjusted his tactical vest, packed with magazines, and slung his M4 rifle over his shoulder with a quick glance in her direction.

  “You follow my lead and watch my back. Easy enough?”

  She nodded and met up with him at the front of the car. The plan still wasn’t clear, but given Burke’s mysterious past, she had an idea what he was up to. “So we get Omar and make him talk? That’s the plan?”

  “Something like that,” he said, walking across the street, crouched slightly and with a careful eye on the house down the road.

  “And how many did you say were in the house?”

  His pace slowed as they reached the sidewalk, which was blanketed by a thin layer of sand and pebbles. He turned sharply to the left behind a few trash cans and continued along the way, finding concealment among cars, bushes, and whatever else was in their path.

  “Five, maybe six,” he said. “No cars in the driveway. All windows shut. Blinds closed. Yeah… They’re home all right.”

  As she followed closely behind, Angela’s heart raced with nervous anticipation. She’d seen a lot the past couple of days, but the adrenaline was always the same. She had crossed a line the moment she decided to do things Burke’s way. With him, at least her children had a chance.

  She pulled her pistol out and tried to keep up as his stealthy pace quickened. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. Most homes were quiet and unassuming, and Angela was grateful for that.

  Suddenly, Burke sprinted down the road, closing in.

  She ran after him just as the headlights of a car down the road neared. She ducked with Burke behind some bushes as the car passed. From their concealed position, Burke looked to their target, three houses down. They were close, and soon, Angela hoped, they would have some answers.

  Burke was off again, his movements swift and agile. Angela followed him past a few intervening houses and into the small empty driveway of the old-fashioned two-story house. Its quaint porch was bordered with a finely shaped wood railing. The window near the front door revealed only a thin sliver of interior light, escaping from between the closed curtains.

  Like most homes on the street, it didn’t have much of a yard to speak of—patches of grass among hard-packed dirt. The air was cool that evening, which was normal in the diverse desert climate she called home.

  Burke knelt as Angela stood by, keeping watch on the house. He unslung his rifle and placed it near the bushes by the front porch.

  “Can’t very well go in with guns blazing,” he said quietly. He then pulled out his pistol with its silencer attachment. “Better to not draw any attention to ourselves.”

  “What about me?” Angela asked, Beretta in hand.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” he said, distracted and looking ahead.

  “Easier said than done,” she said.

  His eyes shot upward to the second-story window where they could see the silhouette of a man peering out right above them. Burke raised his gloved index finger to his lips. He then signaled to the backyard, where a short gate divider, about three-feet high, marked the end of the cracked driveway.

  Angela was full of questions that she kept to herself. Where were their vehicles? Who was home? And what would they do if Omar was nowhere to be found?

  Burke moved toward the backyard with focused precision. Angela followed, and they stepped over the fence and into the high weeds of the neglected backyard. As he signaled to the rear of the house, Angela could see the reasoning behind his plan. Up three steps was a back door with a dim porch light above it.

  The few windows in the back were covered by curtains as well. Whoever lived there certainly didn’t want to be seen. Angela thought that normal enough, but there was something about the house that gave it a sinister vibe.

  “Stay here, and keep an eye on those windows,” Burke said, moving to the back door. He went up the steps and put his ear against the door, listening carefully. Both his hands gripped the pistol tightly, and he didn’t make a sound. Angela looked up, watching the windows, but there was no apparent movement.

  Burke placed his hand on the knob and slowly turned. It was locked. He then pulled a small multitool from his vest and went to work on the doorknob, twisting away.

  Angela was feeling more nervous with each minute that passed. How would they explain themselves if they were caught trespassing? She hadn’t thought that far ahead, and when Burke turned the doorknob and gave her a nod, she knew they were at the point of no return.

  He signaled to her while pushing the door open a crack. She moved quietly up the steps, just as he had, heart pounding, and when she reached his side he whispered, “Remember what I said. I lead, you follow. You’re the eyes in the back of my head, got it?”

  She nodded, trying to hide h
er uneasiness with the whole operation. Burke seemed to notice and took a moment to offer reassurance. “We can do this. Don’t worry.”

  Angela nodded again, not wanting to speak at all and possibly blow their cover.

  He pushed the door open further, and the hinges seemed to scream but actually made no sound. Was there an alarm? They would soon find out. They had just enough room to slip inside and were met with a washer and dryer set against the left wall and not much else. There was another door a few feet ahead. The light was off in the laundry room, and Burke took quick notice of the creaking hardwood floors. He moved at a measured, slow pace to reach the next door.

  Burke turned the knob, keeping his other hand on his pistol, and pushed the door open. There were some dim lights on inside and a wooden staircase in view. Burke went in, staying low and trying to limit the creaking of the floorboards with each careful step. There was an opening to their right that led to a dining room and kitchen.

  Footsteps from upstairs immediately put Angela on alert. Burke continued forward to where the lights were on, with his pistol steadily aimed. They came around the corner to a dining room table littered with soda bottles and empty pizza boxes. A television sounded in the other room beyond the staircase—nothing distinguishable.

  The kitchen had dishes covering one side of the counter and a collection of wires and tools covering the other. They passed through the tightly confined dining room and headed toward the kitchen to investigate, when all of a sudden, footsteps sounded from behind them.

  Angela turned just as a man came around the corner wearing a tank top and shorts. He was tan, young looking, and had a scruffy beard and a dark, shaggy head of hair. His flip-flops skidded on the floor as he halted, shocked, and cried out.

  Burke spun around, making eye contact with the man. He appeared unarmed, but Burke wasn’t taking any chances. While Angela stood there, frozen with fear at having been discovered, Burke fired two lethal shots into the man, splitting open holes on both sides of his chest.