Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  “Christ, David. How did we get here? Secret meetings, treason, exile. All of it is inconceivable.”

  Smith wished he had an answer, but it was buried under miles of bureaucracy. The nation’s troubles went back farther than before either of them took office. What had happened over the past week had been decades in the making.

  “It’s not over yet,” Smith said. The words sounded desperate and hollow.

  A figure came walking toward them, and Smith recognized it as Dr. Carlson. He rolled down his window.

  “Congressmen, so nice of you to join us. Can I interest you in a bottle of water?” Dr. Carlson asked while pulling out two bottles from his coat.

  “Is the facility up and running already?” Edwards asked.

  “No, but these were from the smaller-scaled model I created yesterday,” Dr. Carlson answered.

  “Where’d you get the water for the process?” Smith asked.

  “Right out there,” Dr. Carlson said, pointing to the Atlantic.

  Edwards took a sip then set the bottle down. “This is seawater?”

  “It was. Now, it’s the cleanest, purest, freshest water you’ll find this side of the Mississippi. Or at least what’s left of the Mississippi.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Smith said.

  “Yeah, well, let’s just hope your construction team can get everything up and running sooner rather than later. I’ve got to head back in and meet with the contractor.”

  Smith rolled the window back up as Dr. Carlson walked away. He squeezed the water bottle in his hands, and the plastic crinkled. He smiled. Maybe they could pull this off after all. He had just signaled for his driver to take Edwards and him back to the Capitol when police cars surrounded them.

  “What the hell?” Edwards asked.

  Both congressmen exited the car and were greeted with drawn pistols.

  “Congressman Smith? Congressman Edwards?” one of the officers asked.

  “What is going on here?” Smith asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to need the both of you to turn around and place your hands on the vehicle.”

  Four other officers began approaching Smith and Edwards, their pistols still aimed with their fingers on the triggers. One of the officers spun Smith around and slammed him into the side of the car. Smith’s chin banged against the sedan’s roof, and he felt the tight steel of handcuffs restrain his arms behind his back.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say will be held against you in a court of law.”

  Smith tried listening to the officer, but all he could see were the dozens of other police officers raiding the factory. The officer continued his speech as he pushed Smith’s head under the roof of his police cruiser and closed the door.

  The moment Dr. Carlson saw the red and blue lights flashing in the distance, he sprinted into the factory. He was looking for one person. Beth. He found her speaking to the contractor, and without any warning or explanation, he yanked her arm and started pulling her toward the back door.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Beth screamed, trying to wrench her arm away from his grip.

  “We need to go,” Dr. Carlson answered.

  Cops burst into the factory and arrested anyone within arm’s reach. Beth’s jaw dropped as Dr. Carlson pulled her out the back door and into the shipyard behind the factory.

  Despite having heels on, Beth flew past Dr. Carlson and at points needed to slow down for him to catch up.

  “For Christ’s sake, will you hurry up?” Beth asked.

  Dr. Carlson leaned up against the side of an old fishing boat hull. Barnacles lined the bottom of the boat, and he pressed his hand to the side of his stomach. It felt as though a knife was stabbing him in the ribs.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any whiskey on you, would you?” he asked.

  Beth grabbed his hand and yanked him forward. The two of them continued their trek until they managed to make it to the small town about a mile inland from the coast. There they hid inside a diner so Dr. Carlson could rest and Beth could make a phone call.

  “C’mon, pick up. Pick up,” Beth said.

  Dr. Carlson gulped down a glass of water, and Beth slammed the phone on the table, shaking the condiments and tipping over the ketchup.

  “Damn it!” she said.

  Dr. Carlson looked around. The place only had four other people inside it, but every single one looked over at them.

  “Tourette's. Sorry,” Dr. Carlson said, then leaned into Beth, who was still cursing under her breath. “So what are we going to do?”

  “I’ll make a few calls, see how the police found the facility, and find out the charges filed against David.”

  Orchestra music played lightly in the background of the bar. The polished wood bar reflected the dim glow of the lights and the solemn faces of the patrons. Daniel rested his chin on his forearm. The glass next to him was nothing but ice with a thin layer of whiskey at the bottom. Daniel circled the rim of the glass with the tip of his finger.

  The barkeep wiped a dirty rag across the wooden table top then flung it over his shoulder and started cleaning empty glasses. Daniel flagged him down and pointed at his drink. The barkeep nodded.

  “And make this one a double,” Daniel added.

  He wanted to make sure he couldn’t remember the next few hours. A small television sat just above the bar, and a news update flashed across the screen. Images of Smith and Edwards in handcuffs as they were escorted to a police station appeared.

  The bartender placed the double whiskey in front of Daniel and took the empty glass. He looked up at the screen and shook his head.

  “Can you believe those guys?” the bartender asked.

  “Do me a favor and turn that off, will you?” Daniel asked.

  “Sure.”

  The screen went black, and the bartender headed down to the other end to tend to another refill. Daniel pulled the drink to his mouth, his chin still resting on his arm. He extended his lips and gently tipped the glass of liquor into his mouth. After a few sips, he set it down and licked his upper lip to grab the droplets that had gathered there.

  Daniel wasn’t going to feel sorry for Smith and Edwards. They had taken a risk, just like he had, and it didn’t pay out. Such was life. His pocket started buzzing. The phone’s screen read “Amy.”

  “Hey, baby,” Daniel said.

  “Daniel, are you okay? I just saw the news.”

  “Yeah, I’m great. How’s your day?”

  Daniel’s words came out slow. He could feel the numbness of his tongue. He swayed on the barstool a bit and grabbed the wooden bar top’s edge to steady himself. There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Are you drunk?” Amy asked.

  “Yeah, you wanna come join me?”

  “Daniel. What happened?”

  He picked up the glass of whiskey and drained the rest of its contents. A piece of ice slid into his mouth, and he started chewing it.

  “Daniel,” Amy repeated.

  “Don’t worry, honey. We’re fine.”

  The photographers outnumbered the policemen escorting Smith ten to one. Smith tried shielding his face and eyes from the flashing lights and the camera lenses shoved inches from his face. The officers pushed their way through the crowd, and Smith bumped along the reporters itching to get an exclusive.

  “Congressman, what charges are you being brought up on?”

  “Congressman, why have you been arrested?”

  “Congressman, does this have to do with the new bill that was passed last week?”

  Smith didn’t make any comments. His mind still swirled with unanswered questions. He knew Jones was behind it, but he wasn’t sure how far he was going to take it. All of it could just be a media circus to further damage his credibility, but he wasn’t sure how desperate Jones was.

  The officer led him inside and took his fingerprints on a digital scanner, snapped his picture in a mug shot, and locked the door
to his cell. They separated him from Edwards, who was taken to another part of the station. The police didn’t want to give them any opportunity to speak to one another. Smith knew Edwards was smart enough to request a lawyer. Now wasn’t the time to put his foot in his mouth.

  What really troubled him was what had happened to Beth and Dr. Carlson. He had no idea whether they had been arrested or if they had managed to get out in time. During the commotion at the factory, he had searched desperately to try and find either of them but came up short.

  Smith took off his jacket and tossed it on the cot. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He could already feel the heat of the cell. Police stations ran A/C to every part of their building except the jail cells. It was part of a bill he had voted yes on years ago.

  After a few hours of letting him roast in the cell, one of the officers unlocked his door.

  “You have a visitor.”

  The officer escorted Smith to the visitors’ room. Cubicles with thick, bulletproof glass formed a grid that separated the inmates from the people coming to see them. Sitting by herself in one of the cubicles in the middle of the room with her hair pulled back in a bun was Beth. Smith was the first to pick up the phone.

  “I see they let you keep your clothes,” Beth said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I heard about what happened while I was at the office.”

  Smith picked up on Beth’s deception. She didn’t want whoever was listening to know she had been at the factory during the raid. He knew she would have done some research before coming here. Whatever she had found made her believe that it wasn’t safe to speak the truth.

  “Tell Kathy and the girls I’m all right. I know she’s probably worried.”

  “They were my first call, David.”

  That was Beth. No matter what was happening in his life, she was always a constant. It didn’t matter what the obstacle was. She was always ready.

  “What about our… intern. Is he all right?” Smith asked.

  “He’s still incredibly difficult to deal with, but he’s fine. I have Jake looking after him.”

  Smith let out a sigh. As long as Dr. Carlson wasn’t being held by the authorities, there was still hope. He knew Beth could continue the work without him. Hell, she could easily take his seat in Congress. She was as recognizable as Smith in the Capitol. They could still make a go at another site.

  “Thank you, Beth,” Smith said.

  “Don’t thank me, David. It’s my job.”

  16

  The chill of the desert air surrounded Brooke and Eric. Both of them lay flat in the sand. Eric scanned the area about five hundred yards away. The only things standing in their way were four patrol cars roaming the Texas border, a barbed wire fence, and the patrol station just beyond the border.

  Eric had been right. The patrol and barricades were more excessive closer to the south. The cruiser was ten yards behind them, tucked behind a boulder. Eric lowered the rifle and handed it to Brooke.

  “To the left, about fifty yards, there’s a gap in the fence,” Eric said.

  Brooke peered through the rifle’s scope. It took her a few seconds to find the gap, but there it was. The only problem was that it was nowhere near big enough for the cruiser to fit through.

  “How are we supposed to drive through that?” Brooke asked.

  “Really fast.”

  The two of them scooted backward, keeping low, and headed to the cruiser. Emily was tucked in the back seat, lying down, and John was in the driver’s seat just in case they needed a quick getaway.

  “The guards will hear us break through the fence. They have patrol runs every three minutes, and it won’t give us enough time to get away after we break through,” Brooke said.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing they’ll be chasing after something else, then, isn’t it?”

  “And what exactly would they be chasing?”

  Eric pulled out an explosive from his pack and held it out in front of him. Brooke mouthed the wording on the front that read, “Front Toward Enemy.”

  “You’re going to blow the fence up?” Brooke asked.

  “No. Yes. Well, part of it. We’ll use it as a distraction. I’ll place the Claymore north. Once we set it off, all of the patrol cars will make a run for the explosion. When that happens, we make our run to the gap in the fence.”

  Brooke pointed at the Claymore in Eric’s hand. “Has this been in the back bouncing around the entire time?”

  “Um. No?”

  “Christ, Eric! What if that thing went off while we were driving through the desert?”

  “That would have been bad. We’d have been really screwed then. I only brought one.”

  Brooke punched his arm.

  “Hey! Don’t hit the guy with the bomb in his hand! What’s the matter with you? Geesh. And you say I’m crazy,” Eric said.

  Eric crept north, dashing behind boulders and rocks while the border patrol’s lights searched the now-foreign territory of New Mexico. The Claymore and M57 firing device, which would allow Eric to detonate the explosive, were stowed in his backpack. He continued for about one hundred yards and stopped. The fuse he had only ran for fifty yards, so he’d have to sprint back to the cruiser after detonation.

  After the next round of patrols had passed, he dashed to the fence, sand flying up behind him. He pulled the backpack around to his front and unzipped the pouch. He landed knee first in the sand next to the fence and placed the Claymore right next to it. The tiny, pronged legs of the Claymore dug into the earth, and Eric made sure it was snug. He connected the firing wire to the fuse well that jutted out at a forty-five degree angle.

  The firing fuse unraveled behind Eric as he ran. He didn’t stop until the length of the fuse was stretched to its limit. He pulled the M57 firing device out as the patrols made their way back toward the Claymore in the fence.

  Eric waited for them to be just beyond the blast radius before firing. The objective was to escape, not cause loss of life. Once the patrol cars were close but at a safe distance, he clicked the Claymore’s firing device. A massive ball of orange and yellow flames ignited the night sky. Sand, dirt, rocks, and chunks of the fence flew into the air, accompanied by a massive ball of smoke. The explosion echoed through the night sky, and Eric could see the headlights of the patrol cars speeding toward the blast site.

  Brooke was waiting for him at the cruiser, and he jumped into the passenger seat without breaking stride. He banged the dashboard hurriedly, out of breath.

  “Let’s go!” Eric said.

  Brooke floored the accelerator. She kept the lights off, and the cruiser tore through the desert sand. The speedometer read sixty miles per hour as they approached the fence. Eric braced himself. When the cruiser made contact with the fence, the car jolted, throwing all of them against the pressure of their seatbelts. Metal scraped against metal as they broke through, taking a piece of wire mesh with them. Brooke kept her foot on the gas the entire time, and once they were clear of the fence, all four of them cheered.

  “We did it!” Brooke shouted.

  “I told you it would work,” Eric said.

  The celebration was broken by the sudden flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

  “Shit,” Eric said.

  “Hold on, guys,” Brooke said.

  Brooke kept the headlights off and swerved left. She knew driving through the dark at these speeds was dangerous, but getting caught by the Texan patrol cars would be worse.

  Everybody’s heads bobbed up and down as the cruiser’s tires bounced along the rough Texan desert terrain. The bouncy ride made it hard for Eric to load the magazine into the rifle.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke asked.

  “Just a precaution,” Eric answered.

  In the darkness, Brooke almost didn’t see the massive boulder blocking their path, but she pulled the steering wheel hard right at the last second. The left-hand side mirror smacked into the side of the rock and
was left behind. A few moments later, another pair of headlights flashed behind them.

  “They’ve already radioed their buddies. It won’t be long before they have a chopper out here,” Eric said.

  “What’s the closest town?” Brooke asked.

  Eric shuffled through the glove box. He pulled the map out. “I don’t see anything. The only city I know of is Amarillo, but that’s at least one hundred fifty miles north. And I just know that because of the country songs I’ve heard.”

  “There’s nothing closer?” Brooke asked.

  “I don’t really listen to country music that often. All I’ve ever heard them sing about is Amarillo.”

  The patrol cars’ sirens blared through the night sky. One of the patrol cars caught up to the cruiser and nudged the side. The wheel jerked out of Brooke’s grip, and the cruiser did a one-eighty. A tornado of sand whirled into the air as the other patrol car pinned the cruiser down.

  Brooke was marched forward to the patrol station with her hands cuffed behind her back. She turned around to see where they were taking her kids, but the officers had kept them in the patrol cars. She could see John holding Emily, who was crying, in the back seat. The cruiser was parked right next to the patrol car her children were in, and she watched another officer drive it into the confiscation lot and close the gate.

  She was thankful the officers had the decency not to handcuff her children, even though she and Eric were both restrained. The officer pushed her in the back and told her to keep moving. She and Eric had been separated as well once they were brought to the interrogation room. She was pulled in first.

  A tall, bald, clean-shaven sergeant stood next to Brooke in her chair. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her. Her eyes found the pistol at the sergeant’s side. She suddenly became very aware of the tightness of the cuffs.

  “How the hell did a woman with two kids get ahold of a Claymore mine?” the sergeant asked.

  Brooke remained silent. She eyed the name on his badge. Meyers. He took a seat across from her. There was no table between them. A piece of one-way glass covered half of the wall next to her. She looked slightly to the left. Under the florescent lighting of the interrogation room, she could see her reflection. Her sundrenched cheeks, wind-whipped hair, and the thin layer of sand covering every inch of her made her look as if she was coming home from work after a day in the solar fields. What she wouldn’t give for it to be the end of just another work day.