Geostorm The Collapse: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The Geostorm Series Book 3)

by Bobby Akart

“I’m not walking,” said Kristi with a chuckle. She examined the canisters of protein powder and read the nutritional information. She shrugged and set them on the counter.

  Tommy explained, “My father owned a vintage Mustang that he left me in his will. It’s a sixty-seven, two plus two.”

  “I’m not into cars,” Kristi said with a sly grin. “What’s all that mean?”

  “It means this car is sixty years old and fast as hell. It won’t hold much in the way of supplies, but its fuel mileage coupled with the twenty-two-gallon fuel tank conversion my dad installed will get us to the farm. Plus, she’ll outrun just about anything that chases us.”

  “Is it an old beater?” she asked.

  Tommy gave her a disapproving look. “No, it’s not a beater. In fact, it’s in pristine condition. I only drive it once in a while, on Sundays. You’ll like it. Blue, white interior, with racing stripes.”

  She laughed. “Zoom-zoom. Carroll Shelby would be proud.”

  Tommy had a puzzled look on his face. “Wait, I thought you weren’t into cars.”

  “I lied, sort of. I saw that Ford versus Ferrari movie with Christian Bale and Matt Damon. A couple of real hotties.”

  Tommy laughed as he opened the refrigerator door and quickly shut it. The food was starting to spoil. “I think you have a thing for movie actors.”

  Kristi smiled. She playfully punched Tommy. “And hunky zoologists. Hurry up and pack the car. Let’s go before those idiots come back.”

  Chapter 12

  Ontario Province, Canada

  Levi walked several miles south on Ontario Highway 631 toward the U.S. border before stopping to take a break. The paramedics had been gracious in their treatment, unlike the skeptical and somewhat hostile reception he’d received from the OPP. The paramedics also did an incredible job of bandaging his wounds. More than once he was reminded by them of how fortunate he was that his knife’s sheath had stood between the wolverine’s jaws and his femoral artery. They equipped him with sufficient first aid supplies to change his bandages several times, as well as medications to ease pain, swelling, and to avoid infection. All in all, Levi felt like a new man.

  Until he was told it was three hundred miles to the border and likely another seven hundred miles to southern Indiana. Levi tried to look on the bright side, constantly reminding himself that he was still alive despite his injuries. Several times in the last hour of walking, he’d tried to calculate the time it would take to get home.

  A thousand miles.

  Three miles an hour on this gimp leg.

  That was forty miles a day if he pushed it.

  Twenty-five days.

  Over three weeks on this leg, he thought to himself, which prompted him to stop in the middle of the highway and have a conversation with himself.

  He was surrounded by pine trees and a narrow stretch of highway that was deserted and uninhabited. He hadn’t seen an operating vehicle since the patrol car had dropped him off hours ago. There wasn’t the sound of machinery. No signs of fireplaces burning in the distance, since it was fairly warm that day. Not a sign of life except for the occasional crazy-sounding laugh of a male loon.

  It would’ve been easy for Levi to become overcome with despair. However, after the wolverine attack, he’d snapped out of the wilderness-survival mindset he’d adopted following the plane crash. Now he was just another stranded traveler desperate to get home to his family. Visions of Carly, Jesse, and Rachel filled his mind. He began to well up with tears as he recalled how he’d cheated death over the last week.

  He imagined how worried and distraught Carly must be because she hadn’t heard anything. Then he visualized how they’d greet one another. Excited and joyful coupled with solemn promises never to be apart again. He’d tell her half-truths about what he’d been through, reserving the rest for that part of his memory where harsh life’s experiences stayed tucked away.

  The vision of their reunion gave him a newfound sense of purpose, and it also caused his mind to wander to what-if scenarios.

  Levi began walking again, still using the hickory stick, which had been given back to him by the police officers. As he did, he tried to put out of his mind the distance he would be traveling and tried to focus on the means of transportation.

  Planes, trains, and automobiles—the modern triumvirate of transportation used by humans every day. Taken for granted and unappreciated until you had to do without. Based upon what he’d learned in Hearst, the planes were grounded, and the trains couldn’t operate without electricity. Cars worked just fine, but fuel was scarce and impossible to get out of the gas pumps without a generator.

  That was until the projected geostorm generated by the sun arrived. Nobody seemed to know when that would occur, but the paramedics seemed confident that it would be at some point. Levi chuckled as he thought about his brother. He used to make fun of Chapman the weatherman until he saw raw footage of his storm-chasing antics. He’d found a newfound respect for his brother after that.

  He also respected Chapman for his dedication to his field. He would surely understand what all this geostorm business was about, not that it helped Levi at the moment.

  He kept ticking off the miles, continuing south on the highway as the sun began to set over the horizon. He still hadn’t come across a house or business of any kind. When he did, he had planned on stopping to ask for help. Surely, he hoped, there was a Good Samaritan somewhere who’d give him something to eat or a warm bed for the night. Maybe, with a little luck, somebody might even give him a ride down the highway.

  As darkness set in and the temperature began to drop, Levi started to grow despondent. Mile after endless mile of pine-tree-filled flatland yielded nothing in the way of shelter or assistance. He’d drained his canteen an hour ago, desperately quenching his thirst as the unusual exercise began to drain his strength. Unlike the wilderness, where he was constantly coming upon a stream, he hadn’t seen any fresh water since he’d begun walking.

  Then, well off in the distance, just as the moon began to rise and illuminate the road somewhat, he caught a reflection. His pulse quickened and his adrenaline fueled his will to pick up the pace. He had no idea what had caused the brief flash of reflected light, but it had to be something more than the never-ending supply of pine trees that surrounded him.

  Thirty minutes later, Levi came upon a small vehicle that looked part pickup and part clown car found in a circus. At first, he thought it was a large toy designed after the Volkswagen Beetle.

  He held his stick like a weapon as he drew closer. He looked inside the windshield and discovered the vehicle empty. The rear compartment resembling a pickup truck bed had a wooden box full of artistic paint cans, some brushes, and an easel.

  He’d never seen a car like it before. “What the hell is it?” Levi mumbled aloud. As it turned out, it was an IT.

  Manufactured by the Dynasty Electric Vehicle company based in Pakistan, the IT electric car was produced in Canada as well. This particular IT was a utility truck, albeit a tiny one, which had run out of battery life.

  Levi looked around the dark highway and shouted, “Is anybody here? Is this your car?”

  There was no answer.

  He tried the door handles and found them locked. A chill came over his body, partly out of fatigue but also because the temperature dropped dramatically after sunset. Levi moved to the driver’s side of the car and looked around once again. He sighed.

  “Sorry, Mr. Artist, or whatever your name is.” He took the end of the hickory stick and bashed in the window. He reached inside and opened the door. After sweeping the glass onto the floor mat, he searched for a key. The fact that the interior light never illuminated confirmed his suspicions.

  Dead as a doornail.

  Levi decided to make camp that night inside the IT. He pulled out Karl’s sleeping bag, dusted off the pine needles that had embedded in the fleece lining, and unzipped it to make himself a blanket. He wedged his body into the front seat of the tiny truck a
nd curled up under the sleeping bag.

  Levi just realized he’d broken the law for the first time in his life, not counting underage drinking and taking a toke or two off a marijuana cigarette with his boys Karl and Eddie, God rest their souls. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered two things—how many more laws would he have to break before he got home and, more importantly, whether the nightmares would return.

  Chapter 13

  Riverfront Farms

  Southeast Indiana

  Chapman and Squire had a productive trip into New Amsterdam that afternoon. In addition to outlining a schedule for round-the-clock security around the farmhouse and outbuildings immediately adjacent to the residence, they’d met up with the mayor of the smallest town in Indiana, which boasted a population of thirty. The mayor promised to dispatch some of the town’s residents to the outlying farms and set a time for a town hall meeting.

  Squire dropped Chapman off at the house, and he continued out to the orchards to check on the apple harvest. Chapman entered the living area and was immediately struck with the aroma of food cooking. He made a beeline for the kitchen and found Isabella alone, standing over the sink, washing pots and pans.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said in his best French accent. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He whispered in her ear, “Are we alone?”

  “Oui, Monsieur Boone.” She turned around to him, and the two shared a kiss.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They left for the chicken coops and the gardens. I volunteered to clean up the kitchen. Your mother and Carly taught me how to can vegetables and apples.”

  “I’m impressed. Let me help.”

  Chapman grabbed a towel and immediately started drying the pots and pans. To make hot water to sanitize their cookware, they boiled it over the cast-iron stove. All of the windows in the house were open to allow the excessive heat to escape.

  When they were finished, they raced upstairs to his room and quickly undressed. They were still in the early stages of their relationship when even the apocalypse couldn’t stand in the way of their desire.

  Afterwards, Isabella roamed around Chapman’s room, looking at his things. “Your mother and father are very proud of you.”

  Chapman smiled and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it appears so. After I moved to Atlanta and hit the road for The Weather Channel, they began to collect news articles and photographs off the internet. Obviously, they preferred to display the highlights of my career.”

  Isabella turned to him with a picture of a much younger Chapman sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle that resembled an armored truck. He was giving a thumbs-up to the photographer, as was the driver.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  Chapman rolled his head around his neck, causing negative pressure on the synovial fluid in his joints, generating tiny bubbles and a popping sound. His voice was sad. “That’s Buddy Chambers. He was my best friend and a fellow storm chaser.”

  Isabella picked up on his use of the past tense. “Was?”

  “Um-hmm. He died while we were chasing a storm.”

  “I am sorry, Chapman. We do not have to speak of this.”

  Chapman dressed and joined her side. He took the picture frame from her and looked at it as he spoke. “He died doing what we both loved—roaming the Midwest in search of dangerous storms like the one in Texas that day. We had been tracking a line of severe thunderstorms one April, which had already spun off several short-lived tornadoes. It was something we’d done countless times in the past, successfully and safely.”

  Chapman sighed and Isabella gently rubbed his face with her hand. “Chapman, please do not—”

  “No, I have to. You have to know everything about me.”

  She nodded and led him to the side of the bed. They sat together and Chapman recalled the events of that day while he stared at the photo.

  “Like I said, we’d chased storms together for years and, well, we both knew the risks and the routine. For whatever reason, what happened on this one was horrible beyond words.

  “We were tracking an EF4 stovepipe tornado near Garland, Texas. It had already hit the town, leveled multiple homes, and left behind a large swath of ground scouring.”

  “Scouring?” she asked.

  “Yes, um, like scrubbing.”

  She nodded.

  “We got some incredible video and uploaded it to the network. Listen, I knew what to look for. I studied storms like this day in and day out, even during the winter months.

  “Anyway, the wind speeds were estimated at nearly two hundred miles per hour. As we were packing up our gear, we saw the storm change. I got on the phone and called Atlanta. I remember saying the line of storms was initiating toward the south of Garland along several points near Mesquite. They had stalled and turned south, completely uncharacteristic of storms in Texas.

  “Buddy and I jumped in the truck and raced down Interstate 635 to intercept a developing tornado. As he drove, I plotted the data points and used information from Atlanta to predict the tornado’s path. I didn’t communicate any of this to Buddy so he could focus on driving.”

  Chapman became teary eyed. He struggled to find the words, but he continued. “I was so focused on gathering the data and getting us out in front of this massive line of storms that I didn’t notice that Buddy had exited the interstate to avoid stalled traffic ahead. Rather than running parallel to the storm’s track, he cut down another highway directly into its path.

  “The tornado reconstituted as an EF4 and came directly for us. We never had a chance. The tornado twisted a highway sign free of its steel support posts. The posts and the sign got caught in the wind and crashed into the driver’s side of our truck. Buddy screamed, Isabella. It was bloodcurdling, and it was the last thing I heard before our truck got swept away by the tornado. By the grace of God, I survived, but Buddy was lost forever.”

  Chapman sniffled as he stood and placed the frame back on a shelf, where it sat by itself.

  Isabella joined his side. “It was a risk you both understood. Chapman, you provide valuable information that helps saves lives.”

  “I know, but I should’ve communicated with Buddy. I never asked him if he was okay taking the risks I wanted to take. He was very loyal to me and never once questioned my judgment. I should’ve been more careful, and I should’ve stopped to consider what we were doing.”

  Isabella held him tight as he began to sob. All of the emotions of that day so many years ago rose to the surface once again as Chapman now had someone to share the agony with. After a minute, they broke their embrace, and he reached out to the picture of his friend and touched it.

  “Ironically, he died because of the storm, not because of the chaos surrounding it. It’s not just the tornadoes that pose the greatest risk, it’s all the other storm chasers who filled the roads in pursuit. They’re not scientists. They were YouTubers, or Instagrammers, or people trying to make a buck selling their video to the media. Buddy and I were there to get up close to the storm, record the data we couldn’t get any other way. Like me, he was a meteorologist and a scientist. We wanted to know how they work. It wasn’t fair that he died trying to help others.”

  Isabella held him again and whispered into his ear, “Life and death are not based upon fairness, mon amour. If they were, no good person would ever die.”

  Chapter 14

  Tommy Bannon’s Residence

  North Michigan Avenue

  Chicago, Illinois

  Tommy made multiple trips up and down the twelve flights of stairs from his condo unit to the second floor of the basement parking garage. While he loaded the vintage Mustang, Kristi quickly cleaned two matching compact nine-millimeter handguns, which had been kept in her gun safe at the house. She hadn’t shot them in years, but she felt a cleaning was a good idea nonetheless.

  “Okay, Brooke, Tommy will be back for us in a minute. Are you ready for a road trip?”

  “Oo-oo-oo. Eee-
eee-eee.”

  Kristi reached down and hoisted the young chimp on top of the kitchen island. Kristi was continuously amazed at how alert and attentive Brooke was. Her curiosity was normal for an immature chimp, but her ability to pick up on the meaning of gestures and direction was beyond her years.

  “As soon as we get to the farm, I want to teach you to talk with sign language.” Kristi exposed her palm and extended four fingers followed by a gentle double-tap on her chin. Brooke studied her for a moment and then seemed to wrestle with the hand gesture, trying to maneuver her fingers as Kristi had. She gave up but managed to tap the bottom of her chin twice.

  Kristi was ecstatic. “Very good, Miss Brooke!” She repeated the sign, and Brooke tried again. It became a game that resulted in Brooke breaking out in a vociferous eruption of hoots and hollers.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  Someone was pounding on the door, and it wasn’t Tommy. Kristi recognized the cadence of the knocks. She hoisted Brooke in her arms and hustled her off into the bedroom, where she closed the door. She paused for a moment and then walked to the coffee table to retrieve her weapon.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  “Open up!” the man’s voice demanded.

  Kristi walked to the door but avoided the peephole. The morning sun was shining brightly through the plate-glass windows, and her shadow crossing the peephole or the door’s threshold would give away her presence.

  The man persisted. “Open up! We know you’re in there. And was that a monkey?”

  Kristi grimaced and mouthed the words damn it! Her heart raced as she looked at her watch. Tommy had been gone more than ten minutes. He was likely on his way back and would walk right into these jerks outside his door. She was afraid it would result in a confrontation.

  Kristi had to take a chance and see who was in the hallway. She leaned forward and looked through the peephole. She shook her head in disbelief. Four guys. Burly, strong, and not happy.