Supernova EMP- The Complete Series

by Grace Hamilton

  She was a college girl. She was nineteen. She wanted to be a lawyer. She wanted to hang with her friends, and she wanted to climb or free-run.

  She didn’t and had never wanted this.

  It had taken a few minutes to bring her breathing back under control and to stop the trembling that had overtaken her.

  I need a fire, and I need a plan, she thought.

  The fire had been the easy part. She’d known that lighting it might bring inquisitive people her way, but the lock on the gate had been sturdy, and the rolls of razor wire along the top of the fence should deter all but the most enthusiastic of interlopers. There’d been crates on wooden pallets in the store full of spares, so she’d broken one open with a small fire ax she’d found next to an extinguisher at the back of the storeroom. There’d been more than enough paper-wrapped components to use to get the fire started, which she’d lit on the most sheltered side of the building—this thankfully being on the side opposite of the body.

  Once the fire had been lit, she’d started to plan.

  Two hours later, she’d come to several inescapable conclusions. Finding her dad had to be a priority, but how to do it? She had no idea where he might have washed up, or even if he had. What about Poppet? Would they be together or would they have been separated, too? Having no real idea how many hours she’d been in the water, or where the currents had taken her, meant that just searching the wetlands without purpose was unlikely to lead to a significant find.

  What she needed was equipment, food, transport, and if the death of the power worker was anything to go by, a weapon of some kind. Her mom had given Storm and Tally knowledge of the gun in the lockbox under the floorboards by her bed in case of a home invasion, and had let them come to the range on a few occasions to learn how to shoot the Cobra. Tally wasn’t like many of her friends who were vehemently anti-gun––she was more ambivalent to their possession and use. She saw them as necessary in many circumstances, and so the idea of finding a gun for personal protection was as important as food and water. Especially if she meant to find her dad.

  She’d find none of the baseline things she needed by going back to the beach. If she was going to think about this practically, what she needed was to get to the town or city that the transmission towers had fed with electricity before the supernova. There, if she kept her head down and stayed out of the way of people, there’d be a chance she might be able to get what she needed.

  The warmth from the fire was beguiling, making her drowsy as she dried out and got to feel more comfortable. She’d eaten two of the candy bars and drunk a beer. That warmed her inside, but she knew alcohol wasn’t a good way to stay hydrated; in fact, it could have the opposite effect. She’d need to find clean water soon, too. Any water she’d crossed in creeks so far had been undrinkable.

  On the Sea-Hawk, she’d constructed a pretty good heat-based filtration system to turn seawater to fresh, but she’d had the advantage of materials that could be readily adapted to the project. There was none of that in the substation. Here in the windswept wetlands of, she assumed, coastal Georgia, she’d have to move further inland to find water she could drink. Even then, there’d be no knowing if it would be fresh or healthy.

  There were so many things to consider when the normal, accepted, and coddling certainties of life had been taken away. Water, food, staying warm, and an ability to defend oneself were the life essentials now. When the faucets were turned off, the store was empty and all you had was the ability to make one small fist, then the idea of fending alone was beyond daunting.

  And then there was the consideration of her father, and where he might be at that moment.

  As much as the pull of wanting to find her dad had been gripping her, the need to do it methodically and with the right tools was rising.

  Before the supernova, she’d given Storm a collection of books for his e-reader about survival and prepping for disaster. He’d been bored with having to sit for long periods while recovering from the chemo, and appreciated some nonfiction that would have practical applications. She’d chosen the books for Storm on the basis that the two of them had a long-term plan to go and do some wilderness climbing when he was recovered. And so, the more they knew about the baselines of survival, the better. The knowledge she’d gleaned had stood her in good stead on the Sea-Hawk, and she hoped, now she’d found herself in a more desperate survival situation, that the snippets of knowledge she’d gained would continue to come in useful.

  But those had to be considerations for the morning. In the night to come, she’d be warm, and the edge would be taken off her hunger by the candy bars––even if they offered only empty calories. She’d need proper sustenance soon.

  Her eyelids became droopy, her knees drawn up under her chin. She caught herself drifting off a couple of times. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep in front of the fire outside the building. The fire would eventually burn itself out, and who knew what the elements would throw at her? So, shaking her head, she stood, patting the last of the embers down with her shoe. She moved around the substation to the door, trying to avoid the cardboard-covered body lying five feet from the entrance.

  That’s when she heard the rattle of the gate as someone tried to open it.

  She spun away from the door and looked into the well of darkness engulfing the far side of the fence. The sky had been overcast, not showing any stars or moonlight, the clouds having moved in as she’d sat by the fire. Any warmth and comfort she’d accrued in the last two hours had left her body now, leaving her shivering.

  She was able to see a few feet beyond the fence, but see she saw no shapes, and nor could she hear the sound of movement.

  It was possible an animal had brushed against the fence and clattered the frame in the small amount of play between it and the gate. But the sound had definitely been a rattle, not a single movement, as if someone was trying to see if it would open.

  Tally’s eyes, which had been staring into the ember’s moments before, began adjusting better to the darkness. She could see the tall lattice of the nearest transmission tower stretched over that section of sky, and feel a thin breeze ruffling the grassy tussocks, and in the distance the call of a disturbed waterfowl crackled and croaked.

  She wrapped her arms around her torso and took a step towards the gate, but froze before her foot fully touched down, keeping her weight on her back leg.

  This could be a mistake. A big one.

  If there was someone out there, and they were watching the substation, they were likely armed. There was a distinct possibility that there was more than one of them, and going towards the gate would provide a better target for their shot if they were about to make one. So, Tally turned, and with a near leap, bounded through the substation door and pushed it closed behind her.

  In the darkness of the small building, she heard the raggedness of her breathing and the thumping of her heart. There’d be no sleep for her now, not when it was clear she was not alone. She would have to find a way to get out from behind the fence without drawing attention to herself, with no weapons and no element of surprise.

  If she couldn’t do that, she’d be trapped there until the persons or person watching moved on, or found a way to open the gate for themselves.

  6

  The bullets tore into the wood by Josh’s head as he pushed the shaking Poppet to the ground and tried to shield her from the gunfire.

  The air was filled with the rat-a-tat-tat of small arms fire, and the decking exploded at their feet in a fashion that threw up dust and splinters.

  “I said, don’t move.” Harve’s voice cut across the space at the back of the mansion. “I’m not a sports shooter. I like my executionees to not try to make a contest of it.”

  Poppet was in a bad way.

  She wasn’t injured physically, and she wasn’t necessarily terrified. Her body was being wracked by the ravages of acute alcohol withdrawal. It had been as much as Josh could do to get her to her feet and drag her out into the corrido
r, down the back flight of stairs to the rear of the mansion, and out through a window. Josh should have known something wasn’t right when he’d said the word, “Poppet,” and she’d answered, “Vodka.”

  They hadn’t had any time to find her a barrel of Dutch courage. Matters were too pressing for that. Josh had wanted them both out of the building, then on the way back to the coast to find Tally.

  Poppet Langolini was what in another time would have been called a gangster’s moll. Her husband, Joey Langolini, had died helping Josh get her off the abandoned liner Empress in the middle of the Atlantic, killed by the ravaging bursts of machine gun fire from the supernova-affected crew. She’d been in the lifeboat with Josh and his daughter when it had smashed into the rocks, and like the others, had been thrown into the water.

  Josh hadn’t realized how much alcohol the fifty-year-old platinum blonde had needed to retain her equilibrium on a day-to-day basis. She’d located Captain Rollins’ rum store on the Sea-Hawk within an hour of coming aboard—“I know where addicts hide their stash,” she’d said, winking at Josh—and had kept herself busy drinking it while she’d helped them navigate back west to the U.S.

  Obviously, being wrecked in the lifeboat without any alcohol, and then trapped on the rocks, rescued, and brought by Carly back to the mansion, had not been conducive to her performance. The first thing she’d done when Josh had picked her up was to be repeatedly sick on the floor, and then reach out a hand which had been vibrating like a jackhammer.

  Josh had seen many drunks exhibiting similar symptoms on the streets of Jacksonville when he’d been a cop, but never in a woman from such a gilded background as Poppet’s. The well-heeled very rarely suffered withdrawal from alcohol like this. They had enough money to keep their drug of choice flowing.

  Poppet had hobbled down the corridor clinging to Josh. She’d just about managed the stairs, and then he’d had to heave her out of the window first before following her through.

  It was then that the bullets had spat at them, freezing Poppet where she’d stood and causing Josh to move to protect her.

  “Don’t shoot!” Josh called to Harve, putting up his hands. “We surrender!”

  Another burst of gunfire smashed into the wall.

  “What makes you think I want you to surrender, fool? I just want to enjoy myself before I hang your carcasses with all the others in the avenue…” Harve called back cheerily, as if he was making arrangements to meet up for a drink and maybe a meal with an old friend.

  “Harve? Why are you trying to kill my house?”

  The voice was that of Trace Parker, his laconic Southern drawl unmistakable.

  Josh risked a look up. Trace was sticking his head out of an upstairs window, looking with some distaste at the bullet holes peppering the clapboard wall of this aspect of the mansion.

  “They’ve escaped, Trace. You know what we do with people who try to escape…. I thought…”

  Trace sighed. “That’s it, Harve, you didn’t think. You’re like three bulls in a boutique china shop. Please try to work out why it is I might not want you to kill Mr. Standing right at this moment.”

  Poppet was hugging onto Josh’s torso now. He could feel her trembling as he looked across the grass to the trees where Harve was standing. Harve was bare-chested, his suspenders hanging around the waist of his pants, and he stood in front of a white canvas field tent. A small cigar was bobbing in the corner of his mouth, and he held an Uzi outstretched in one hand while his other hand dug into his pocket and pulled out a fresh magazine.

  Trace’s question was dumfounding Harve to the same degree it was baffling Josh.

  Why exactly did Trace want to keep him alive? Not that he was complaining, but life seemed to be treated extremely cheaply here if the bodies on display in the avenue were anything to go by.

  Harve’s face was nonplussed, and his mouth hung open on a slack chin.

  There was a clink as the two pairs of handcuffs, the ones Josh assumed he’d picked up from the upstairs rooms, were thrown by Trace from the window to land on the grass.

  “Harve, were both Mr. Standing and Ms. Langolini locked in their respective rooms, and were they both handcuffed?”

  “Yes, Trace… of course, they were…”

  “And you decided to shoot them before we found out how they got out of their handcuffs and rooms?”

  “I… I…”

  Trace scratched his head. “I can see the cogs whirring, Harve, but I can’t hear the ticking. Getting out of handcuffs and escaping from locked rooms draws us towards two considerations. Firstly, are there any implications for our security here in Parkopolis? And secondly, Mr. Standing and Ms. Langolini are smart and resourceful. What kinds of people do we need to assist us in our mission in Savannah, Harve? What types of people, specifically?”

  Harve clopped his mouth closed. Josh could see the burning resentment and humiliation in his eyes, but Harve didn’t let it seep through the words coming out his mouth.

  “We need smart and resourceful people, Trace. Smart and resourceful people to go into Savannah.”

  “Exactly. Sometimes, Harve, I think you don’t see the big picture. Now, stop shooting my house, handcuff them again, and put them somewhere with a guard to watch over them. Clear?”

  Harve slipped the magazine back into his pocket and, flicking the safety on the Uzi, dropped it back into his tent.

  Josh would have enjoyed the moment so much more if Poppet hadn’t bent over, retching and splashing vomit over his toes.

  Harve had pulled Jackdaw and Steve off whatever duties they’d been engaged in to come to the mansion and keep watch over Josh and Poppet. Neither man seemed happy with the arrangement. Once again, Josh was struck with how much animosity there was between Harve and his two lieutenants, and then how much there was between Harve and Trace.

  But he had learned some useful information before he and Poppet had been dragged back inside the house, only to be handcuffed through the bars of two chair backs in the center of a large dining room.

  Josh assumed it was the dining room because of its size, not because of any furniture in it, because pretty much all the furniture had been removed, the carpets taken away, and the floorboards exposed. There were three chairs, two of which Josh and Poppet were secured to, and one that Jackdaw took, while Steve leaned against a wall. Both of their guards had Glocks on their hips and seemed more than a little grumpy about being there.

  So, they were close to Savannah, Georgia, Josh thought to himself. Though, he had no idea what the mission Trace had spoken about might be and why they needed smart and resourceful people to go and carry it out for them. If they weren’t prepared to go into the city themselves, what could be stopping them?

  Secondly, Josh had never heard of a town called Parkopolis in Georgia or anywhere else for that matter. The connection to Trace’s surname seemed on the surface to be a ludicrous notion. What kind of person names a place after themselves? he thought. That took a severe amount of hubris—but then, what he’d seen and heard and felt of Trace did not suggest someone who was unfamiliar with the concept.

  Too many kinks in the situation to flatten out now. Josh needed more information, and the one person he hadn’t yet pumped for that was Poppet.

  He wanted to know if she’d come ashore with Tally, when she’d last seen his daughter, and what she remembered, but Poppet was still in no state to engage with questioning at that level of intricacy.

  When she wasn’t moaning softly or retching, she sobbed big tears down the front of her tattered and filthy blouse.

  “Joey… Joey…” she said again. The delirium in her voice was plain to hear. She was coming in and out of consciousness as her body battled the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal.

  “What’s up with her?” Jackdaw asked, eyeing Poppet suspiciously. He’d already moved his chair back away from the woman as if he expected what she was suffering from to be contagious.

  “She needs a drink,” Josh said.

  St
eve held up a plastic bottle of water he’d taken from the leg pocket of his cargo pants.

  Josh shook his head. “Not water. Something stronger. She’s going through acute alcohol withdrawal.”

  “She’s a drunk?” Jackdaw asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “I… prefer… lush,” Poppet almost whispered. It got the point across.

  “You want a drink drink?” Steve asked.

  “More… than life… itself,” Poppet said, raising her head to look at the man. “But… you’re not… going to give me one… are you?”

  “Sorry, lady. Harve said water only. No food. No spirits.”

  “Pity…” Poppet breathed. “But… I suspect… it’s for the best…”

  “How so?” Jackdaw asked, genuinely interested.

  “I can’t… imagine alcohol is going to be easy to come by in America from now on. This cold turkey… might be a blessing.”

  Poppet’s head dropped forward as if the effort of getting those words out had drained her completely. Steve shook his head and Jackdaw scratched his.

  Steve and Jackdaw appeared to be the most reasonable people Josh had encountered since being washed up, but he knew that reasonableness was only prominent when you measured it against the murderous Harve and the chilling Trace. In normal circumstances, he could see the two guards as very much a threat; it was just that their particular brand of threat was being mitigated by more threatening folk.

  “Why doesn’t Trace want to go into Savannah himself? Or send you guys? What’s so dangerous about Savannah?” Josh ventured.

  Jackdaw’s eyes fell.

  Steve pushed himself away from the wall and looked at Josh the way a bad teacher might look at a slow child. “No alcohol, no food, no answers.”

  “If I’m going to be sent somewhere, then I’d like to know why. What’s in it for me?” Josh pressed.