Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction

by Roger Hayden

  “Wait!” Brooke said. “I don’t have a thousand in cash, but I have this.”

  Brooke poked her hand through the fence, pinching her wedding ring. The sunlight caught the diamond, and it shimmered. The trucker’s face changed as he walked back over to her. When his hand went out to grab the ring, she pulled it back through her side of the fence.

  “Three hundred now, and then you get the ring once we’re there,” Brooke said.

  “All right. I leave in twenty minutes. I’ll pick you up on that street corner there when I come out,” he said then disappeared.

  A thin circle of pale flesh was now exposed on her left ring finger. The small, circular golden band resting in Brooke’s palm felt foreign to her. Of all the memories that could have flooded her mind—from her wedding day or when Jason had asked her to marry him to their first date together—the only one that came to mind was Jason’s funeral. The sound of the guns firing. The lowering of the casket. Emily and John crying. The finely pressed uniforms. All of it came rushing back to her, and she felt disgusted with herself. She felt disgusted with the trucker, with the city surrounding her, with everything. This was what the world would cost her now. She had to give up pieces of her life that she would never get back.

  The barrel of Brooke’s 9mm Ruger LCR double-action revolver wobbled slightly on the hot metal hood of the cruiser. John squinted his left eye shut and peered through the gun’s sight. Orange plugs filled his ears, and Eric stood right behind him, hunched over and making sure John was on target.

  “Keep it steady. Just line up the sight and squeeze the trigger,” Eric said.

  John’s finger rested on the trigger and, in one quick motion, pulled it back. The pistol bucked upward, and the 9mm shell ejected and clinked against the cruiser’s roof. A spray of sand flew into the air next to an empty bean can. John let out a sigh, and Eric patted him on the back.

  “It’s all right. Just try it again,” Eric said.

  “Yeah, John! You can do it!” Emily said, watching from inside the cruiser. Pieces of two similar orange plugs filled her smaller ears. Her hair flopped up and down as she bounced on the front seat.

  John realigned the bean can in the pistol’s sights. He tried to keep the revolver steady, but the sight would slowly waver back and forth from the target. He tightened his arms and shoulders, attempting to stabilize his stance. The bean can finally rested permanently along the tip of the revolver’s barrel. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet made contact, sending the can flying backward into the desert.

  “Nice shot!” Eric said.

  John smiled. He could feel the strain of his shoulders and arms from the recoil. He wiped the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and handed the gun back to Eric like he’d showed him, with the barrel pointed away from anyone and his finger off the trigger.

  “Good job. You’ve got your dad’s eye for shooting,” Eric said.

  “Really?” John asked

  “Yeah, just be thankful you didn’t get his back hair. Gross.”

  John had always been told he looked like his dad. The similarities grew along with his age. He’d once seen a picture of his father in high school, and even he had to admit the resemblance was unmistakable. A sense of pride rushed through him whenever someone told him he did things like his father. It made him feel like his dad wasn’t completely gone.

  “What was my dad like when he was younger? Back when he first joined the Marines?” John asked.

  “He was one of the toughest… Emily do you still have your ear plugs in?” Eric asked.

  “What?” Emily asked.

  Eric turned back to John. “One of the toughest sons of bitches I’d ever seen. He’d be real proud of you for helping take care of the family and making it this far.”

  The smile across John’s face started to fade. Proud of what? He hadn’t done anything to help. His mother was the one who had saved Emily. Eric was the one who had rescued his mom in Phoenix. All John had done was tag along for the ride.

  “I haven’t done much,” John said.

  “Whoa, hey. What are you talking about? You being here, watching over your sister, that’s a big job. One that I know your dad would be glad you’re doing.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  John desperately wanted to make his father proud. He’d heard the stories of how Jason had saved people, facing death fearlessly. He knew his dad had saved Eric in Iraq a long time ago. Would I be able to do that? Would I be able to face death and save the people around me?

  “Is it scary?” John asked.

  “Is what scary?” Eric replied.

  “Knowing you might die.”

  “Hey, that’s not something you have to worry about for a long time.”

  The trucker picked Brooke up from the corner, and she climbed inside the cab. She handed him the three hundred in cash. He counted it and shoved the money into his back pocket, and the semi jolted forward as he shifted into first gear.

  The road construction up ahead was still bad, and it took them thirty minutes just to move a few blocks. Once they made it past the construction site, the roads opened up a bit.

  “So where am I heading?” the trucker asked.

  “Get on I-20 and head west. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close,” Brooke answered.

  The sound of the jackhammers faded behind them and was replaced by honking horns and rumbling engines. Brooke wiped the smudge from her window to get a better look at the city. A layer of smog filtered the sunlight that came down in broken rays.

  “So what did you do?” the trucker asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you’re willing to pay a lot of money to fill up one gas tank. You’re hiding from somebody.”

  “Just drive.”

  “I’m just trying to make conversation. What happened to your husband?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You leave him? That why you’re hiding? So he won’t find you.”

  “He was killed in action in Afghanistan last year.”

  The trucker was silent for a moment. Brooke crossed her arms and retreated farther into her seat.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the trucker said.

  Brooke didn’t say anything. Of all the people she wanted to discuss her dead husband with, some greasy trucker was at the very bottom of her list.

  “Marines?” the trucker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I lost my brother in Iraq back in ’04. It’s funny, isn’t it? We go over there to stop the desert from spreading and then low and behold, our own goes and decides that it’s time to take over.”

  “The war didn’t have anything to do with the drought.”

  “I know. I’m just saying it’s ironic. You got kids?”

  “Look. If you need conversation, then turn on the radio.”

  “All right. Geesh.”

  The radio scrambled as the trucker turned the dial, trying to find a station. He finally settled on a talk show that was discussing the issue of the United States declaring war on Mexico.

  “Look, Tom. We did not declare war on Mexico. They did that themselves when they attacked our border. All we’re doing now is defending what’s ours.”

  “You really think we can afford this war, Frank? Water has become so scarce that we exiled the entire Southwest to save ourselves. More farmland is drying up every year, and we have China knocking on our door demanding that we pay up our debt. Retaliating against the Mexican army isn’t just foolish.

  It’s suicide.”

  “Oh, so you don’t think we can’t beat them? Is that it?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. The resources used in war are incredibly costly, and it’s just not a check we can afford to cash right now.”.

  The two men continued their debate over the radio waves. All of it seemed too surreal to Brooke. A week ago, she was at work, repairing solar panels. Her kids were in school
, and she’d been wondering what she would be cooking for dinner. Could that be right? Only a week? It all seemed so long ago.

  Signs for I-20 began to appear, and the trucker flicked his turn signal on and merged onto the east ramp. Traffic was flowing steadily now. Brooke figured it would take about thirty minutes to reach the cruiser. Once they were refueled, they’d keep along the desert until they made it out of Texas and into Louisiana. From there, her plan was to stay along back roads all the way to North Carolina. She knew it would take longer, but staying out of police custody was more important at the moment.

  Once out of the city, the traffic began to lighten. Only a few cars surrounded them when another sign for road construction appeared ahead. Orange lights flashed on a barricade, which was only big enough for smaller vehicles to squeeze through. One of the workers flagged the trucker down, and he pulled over.

  “I swear they’re never going to get this road fixed,” the trucker said.

  The bustling noise that had accompanied the construction crew in the city wasn’t echoed here. Brooke placed her hands on the cab’s cracked dash, leaning to get a better look out the window. Aside from the signs and barricades, there was nothing else. Only a few of them had safety vests on, and almost none of them wore hard hats.

  “Where’s the equipment?” Brooke asked.

  The air brakes squeaked as the tanker came to a stop. Brooke checked the side mirror and saw two men walking up the side of the tanker, hands behind their backs.

  “Drive,” Brooke said.

  “Lady, I can’t. It’s a road block.”

  “They’re hijackers!”

  Brooke could see the trucker scan the area, putting two and two together. He shifted into first and powered forward. The semi crawled a few feet, and Brooke watched the two men on the side of the tanker run for her door, the pistols they had hidden behind their backs now out in the open.

  “Do you have a gun?” Brooke asked.

  “Glove box.”

  The semi was still hovering below ten miles per hour. Inside the glove compartment was a 9mm Glock with a fully loaded magazine next to it. Brooke loaded the gun and pushed the door open. She aimed the Glock at the two men, who quickly fired at her before she could squeeze a round off.

  Brooke ducked back inside the truck’s cabin. After a lull in gunfire, she swung her torso out and fired six shots. Bullets peppered the sand in front of the two men chasing after them, and they quickly backed off. Brooke slammed the door shut.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Brooke asked.

  “It’s not a stock car!”

  Gunshots rang out behind them. Bullets thumped into the metal tank, leaking fuel onto the road. The side mirror shattered into jagged shards as the bullets continued to rain down on them. Brooke could still see the figures running after them through the remaining broken glass on the mirror.

  Brooke opened the door again and fired a few more rounds. The wind and sand whipped her face now that the tanker was gaining speed. She pulled the trigger until the thundering boom of gunshots was replaced by the quiet click of the firing pin. She pulled the door shut again. The force caused the rest of the mirror to fall to the ground, and Brooke set the emptied clip and gun on the floorboard.

  “Holy shit!” the trucker said.

  The trucker’s door suddenly opened, and one of the hijackers grabbed him. The hijacker aimed his gun, and Brooke leapt across the seat to intercept him. She grabbed hold of the man’s wrist, shoving the pistol into the ceiling and slamming the hijacker’s hand in the process.

  In the struggle, the trucker’s foot came off the gas, and the semi slowed. Brooke continued to slam the hijacker’s hand into the ceiling until his grip went limp on the pistol. It dropped to the seat, and the moment Brooke aimed it at the hijacker, he jumped from the cabin.

  The trucker slammed his door shut and slammed his foot back on the gas. Brooke checked outside her door and saw the same men from before regaining their ground. She took aim and squeezed the trigger, narrowly missing one of them, and again they backed off.

  “You clear on your side?” Brooke asked, still scanning her side of the tanker.

  “Yeah, I-I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  The trucker nodded, panting. Brooke could see his arms shaking, his knuckles turned white from his tight grip on the steering wheel.

  Brooke clicked the safety back on the pistol she had stolen from the hijacker, and her chest rose and fell as she drew in deep breaths. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. The rapid beats started to slow in pace with her steady breathing. Her skin was coated in a sheen of sweat.

  “Thanks, lady,” the trucker said.

  The tanker made the rest of the trip without incident, although it did take a little longer than expected because they had to take back roads, away from the interstate. A leaking fuel tanker heading down the road was bound to raise some concerns, and Brooke couldn’t risk getting caught by the police.

  Eric, John, and Emily waved enthusiastically as the tanker made its way onto the old desert road they were stuck on. The desert terrain was slowly turning into dried, rocky dirt, which allowed the tanker to make the journey. Brooke stepped down from the semi’s cab and wrapped Emily and John in a hug.

  “Wow, when you get gas. You. Get. Gas,” Eric said, admiring the tanker. When he noticed the shattered side mirror and bullet-sized holes leaking fuel, he raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Brooke said.

  The trucker hooked up the fuel line from the tanker to the cruiser and started pumping. After a few minutes, the pump clicked off, signaling a full tank. Brooke walked over, extending the rest of the cash and the wedding ring. The trucker waved her off.

  “On the house,” the trucker said.

  Brooke stuffed the money back into her pocket and put her ring back on. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Besides, I can just say that all the fuel leaked out on my way to the station,” the trucker said, winking.

  The trucker climbed back into the cabin and returned to his journey to the highway. Brooke, Eric, John, and Emily piled into the cruiser. Brooke checked the map, her finger cutting a path from their location outside of Dallas to north Louisiana.

  3

  Beth set her phone down and drew a small X over a town in Pennsylvania. It joined a cluster of other Xs that covered the northeast. A pop sounded in the corner of the room, followed by some light chewing. A few strands of blond hair had escaped Beth’s tight bun, and she rubbed her temples.

  Beth turned back to her computer for the next listing of factory spaces for sale and clicked on a property in Maine. Another pop sounded. Beth winced. She clicked the link, and it expanded into details of the amenities and size of the land. It was big enough but too close to local police authorities. Another pop.

  “Will you stop that?”

  Dr. Carlson was leaned back in a chair with his feet propped up on an ottoman. He peeled away the pink piece of bubblegum that was plastered to his left cheek and stuffed it back into his mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Their small hotel room was starting to feel cramped. Beth didn’t like the fact that she couldn’t go home, and it was compounded by the fact that she was stuck with Dr. Carlson, whose personal habits had given her a strong dislike of the man.

  “Find anything?” Dr. Carlson asked.

  “No,” Beth answered.

  She’d been at it for hours, calling, researching, and trying to find any piece of property that met Dr. Carlson’s needs to continue his work. It seemed the only factories that would have worked had already been seized by the authorities, and each of those places had the familiar fingerprints of Jones all over them.

  “Why don’t we broaden our search?” Dr. Carlson asked.

  “To where? The Northeast is the only place left with any type of solid infrastructure.”

  “What about Canada?”

  “Canada dislikes us almost
as much as Mexico right now. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to declare war.”

  “I’m serious. I have some colleagues in Halifax who could help. And I’m sure they’d be more than interested in learning about my designs.”

  “Can you trust them?”

  “Of course. They’re scientists, not politicians.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Smith. Speaking of which, I have to go and meet with him.”

  Beth gathered the papers on the desk and piled them into her briefcase. Before she reached the door, she turned back to Dr. Carlson. “Call your friends. See if they’d be willing to help. Make sure you do it on the cell I gave you. Jake will be by this evening to check on you.” She had one foot out the door before she turned back again. “And I counted the liquor bottles in the minibar.”

  “Thanks, Warden,” Dr. Carlson replied.

  The cell block buzzed, and Smith’s door opened. He stepped out, a ring of sweat around the collar of his state-issued orange jumpsuit. The correctional officer chained his wrists and ankles. Smith shuffled forward, struggling to keep up with the officer’s pace and tripping a few times. The physical restriction was what made prison the worst. The food was terrible, the crowd was a rough sort, but the limited mobility trumped everything else.

  Fellow inmates, degenerates charged with murder and rape, watched Smith parade down the cellblock. The rumors had spread about the congressman charged with treason, a man from the body of government responsible for writing the very laws each of them were charged with. There wasn’t a single face that Smith passed that wasn’t smiling.

  The correctional officer hit the buzzer. The iron gate rolled along its tracks and opened on a false pretense of freedom into the visitor’s area. Smith’s thoughts had been jumbled over the past twenty-four hours. But earlier this morning, he had finally managed to find his own light at the end of the tunnel. It gave him something to steady himself in the raging storm bellowing within. He found it comforting that the shape the light took was Jones.