Radioactive and The Decay Dystopian Super Boxset- A Dirty Bomb and Nuclear Blast Prepper Tale of Survival

by James Hunt

  Davis took hip-hop's remarks personally. He stood up clutching the shotgun in his hand. "Show some gratitude for the city giving a shit about any of you in the first place. We're evacuating you assholes so thank your lucky stars that you're on this bus."

  "Go fuck yourself and your lucky stars," hip-hop replied.

  "Pipe down or I'll slap some cuffs on ya', got it?" Davis threatened.

  "Fuck you, bitch," hip-hop remarked.

  "Why is the city being evacuated?" a stocky black man with a low, baritone voice yelled from the back.

  "Didn't you hear? Someone's gonna hit New York City with a nuke," an aging hobo with stringy white hair said with a laugh. He was in his sixties, but rough living gave him the appearance of a man at least ten years older.

  "It's only a rumor. Another way to bring hatred and suspicion towards my people," a young, middle-eastern man with short, dark hair and sunken eyes interjected.

  "Get with the program, dude," the hobo said. "Someone hit Wall Street today. Blew the whole stock exchange building up. This shit is as real as it can be."

  Sacha tried to stay out of the conversation and just stare out the window, past the overweight man with the thick black beard sitting next to him. They weren't going anywhere fast. One look at the disorder among New Yorkers, and the capabilities in conducting such a mass exodus proved limited. Lines of people walked alongside the bridge, clearly considering it the more practical measure. Police and military were in full force.

  The sky lit up in a mass culmination of helicopter lights, spotlights, and flares. The city still had power, which couldn't be said for many other areas around the country. As Sacha watched from his seat, he felt oddly safe within the confines of the bus. As long as they were the responsibility of the NYPD, he felt nothing could go wrong.

  Sergeant Davis held his hand to his ear, pushing in an ear piece connected to his handheld radio. His face was a tantamount of stoic concern, white in complexion. An expression of deep dismay flushed over him.

  "Say that again," he said into the radio. His eyes widened in deep concern. "What do you mean gone?" he asked. Again his expression was one of deep dismay. He yanked the ear piece from his ear and looked to the Mel, the driver, and without thinking, he spoke.

  "They hit Philadelphia," he said.

  "What are you talking about?" Mel asked, trying to keep his focus on the road.

  "I'm saying that they're saying that Philly got hit with a nuke. They say close to a million people dead. A million!"

  "Nah. That don't sound right. No way that could happen," Mel replied while lighting up a cigarette.

  "I'm telling ya' Mel, that's what they just told me. These are official channels here. We need to get the hell out of this city and I mean fast."

  "Tell me something I don't know," Mel replied.

  Sergeant Davis hit the wall next to him with his fist and shook his wrist in pain. "Shit. I just can't believe it. A fuckin' nuke."

  "What about a nuke?" the black man with the deep voice asked from the back. He had been listening intently to Davis's conversation with Mel.

  Sergeant Davis looked up quickly as if he, himself, had misspoke. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. Just some cross-chatter I'm getting on the radio."

  "Don't sound like no cross-chatter to me," black baritone said. "Sounds like you said a nuke hit Philly. Now did it or didn't it?"

  "Look, there’s nothing to worry about. Just keep quiet back there," Davis responded defensively.

  "I heard it too, man, you just said a nuke hit Philly," the hobo said.

  Murmurs of agreement soon followed as the prisoners grew unruly, much to the delight of the mysterious mechanic, Roy.

  "What the fuck is going on?" the middle-eastern man asked.

  Other passengers followed in their objections. Several rose from their seats and shook their fists in the air. Some pounded the windows. Others shouted to be freed. Sergeant Davis carefully concealed his growing nervousness. Their behavior was clearly getting out of control.

  "I want off this bus," Roy said, speaking for the first time following the outcry of the prisoners. "I want off this bus now!" he added, standing up.

  The other passengers joined him in protest. Everyone, but Sacha, was standing, even the cuffed prisoners.

  "You think you can keep us here locked up like wild animals?" Roy asked, staring at Sergeant Davis through his thick, dangling curls.

  "You dumbasses, we're trying to get you to safety," Davis shouted.

  But it was no use. The passengers chanted and yelled, forming the assemblage of an angry mob. It didn't take long before every prisoner turned into one collective voice of protest. Many, who faced actual charges, were more than happy to join in. The tide began to turn against Sergeant Davis, and there was little anyone could do to stop it. Sacha remained in his seat, even as the black-bearded man next to him tossed up his thick, hairy arms up in protest. He shouted in a native tongue that Sacha couldn't decipher.

  Sergeant Davis spoke into his handheld radio, requesting backup with fear in his eyes. Black beard pushed passed Sacha and joined the others as they marched towards the front. As Sacha sat quietly, he tried to grasp how things could have spiraled out of control so quickly. It occurred to him that most of the anger had originated from the man in the blue jumpsuit. A closer inspection showed that Roy was stoking the fire in a stealth-like manner. Roy stood on a seat in the middle of the bus, overlooking the prisoners below. To Sacha, it was no longer a suspicion, Roy was leading the charge. He shouted to the men below him. They collectively chanted back while pumping their fists in the air simultaneously. Whatever Roy chanted, they chanted back.

  "NYPD let us go! Let us free! End your hateful tyranny!"

  The prisoners who couldn't speak English simply chanted in their native language. Sacha had to admit that it was a catchy tune, then it dawned on him that the inside of the bus was now more dangerous than outside. And he was trapped.

  Mel looked into his large rear-view mirror with deep concern. "You gonna do something about this?" he asked Sergeant Davis nervously.

  Davis nodded and spoke into his radio. "The prisoners are not cooperating, I'm requesting immediate backup."

  The gate was all that stood between them and the prisoners, and Mel knew that it could only protect them for so long. They weren't any closer to crossing the Brooklyn Bridge than when they first started. The main exits to the bus were at the front and the emergency exit, impenetrable in design, in the back. The windows were made up of thick plexiglass with bars on the outside. The only truly feasible escape route for the prisoners was the front of the bus. Mel looked ahead; they were almost on the Brooklyn Bridge. The traffic congestion before them was no ordinary rush hour traffic. There was zig-zag patterns of cars filling all conceivable openings. It would take hours, Mel thought, and with the threat of a nuclear attack in the air, things could only get worse.

  Sergeant Davis stood up, pointing his shotgun past the gate.

  "That's enough," he yelled over the chanting. "Take your seats now!" He looked down at his weapon, imagining the damage it could do. Nothing in his training had ever suggested gunning down a mob of unruly passengers, but he had a potential riot on his hand, all enclosed within the confines of a prison bus. He moved his hand to his side holster where his Taser gun rested. His mind shifted to the front of the cab where there were smoke grenades, gas masks, and riot gear, if it came to that.

  "I want everyone to rush the gate. We can break through, my brothers!" Roy shouted from atop his seat. Sergeant Davis's pleas had done nothing to deter them; they were, in fact, more energized than before. In no time they were upon the gate banging onto it with their meaty and angered fists.

  "Break through! Break through! Break through!" they chanted.

  Sacha slid down his seat as to remain unnoticed.

  "I knew we should have taken the time to cuff and chain everyone," Davis remarked to Mel in a trembling voice. Davis turned to the passengers.

&nb
sp; "Get back in your seats!" he shouted. "I'm not going to tell you again!" He turned and placed his shotgun in its holder against the wall. He then pulled a can of mace from his belt and held it into the air. "Okay, you asked for it," he said with determined conviction.

  The prisoners in the front of the mob held their enraged faces to the gate. Spit flew from their mouth as they chanted. Davis could feel their hot breath. They clutched the gate and shook it back-and-forth. Davis rattled his can, flipped the top off and sprayed a bursting stream of pepper spray directly into their faces. Those on the front lines fell back screaming, covering their eyes with both hands.

  "Don't rub your eyes!" Roy shouted. "Let it run its course."

  Davis continued to spray indiscriminately. As one man fell to the ground, another moved in and filled his place. They were close to twenty men pushing their way against the gate, screaming, chanting, kicking and punching. Sacha ducked down in his seat, fearing how things might escalate. Roy turned back and noticed him. While hunched down, Sacha felt a tap on his back. He looked up to see the jumpsuit man standing over him.

  "What are you sitting here for? Now's our chance to escape." Roy said.

  "I don't have anywhere to escape to," Sacha answered.

  "You can go with us," Roy said.

  "And who are you?" Sacha asked.

  "I'm with the Brotherhood of Men. You should join us."

  "That's okay. I think I'll just stay on the bus."

  Roy leaned in closer.

  "We're sitting ducks on this bus, friend. We'd have a much better chance out there than in here. Trust me."

  The commotion got heavier by the minute. Men riled on the ground in tear-soaked agony. Davis had reached the end of his first pepper spray can. He threw it aside and went for another.

  "What the fuck is going on back there?" Mel asked while trying to stay focused on the road.

  The remaining prisoners shielded their eyes with their hands, ran to the gate and kicked it repeatedly. The gate shook, but stayed firmly place.

  "I need immediate backup!" Davis said into his radio. His eyes were wild and frantic. He suspected the gate would only hold so long. He looked to his shotgun as a possible option.

  "There's an open invitation to join us, if you so choose," Roy reiterated to Sacha.

  "Thanks, but I should be fine," Sacha said nervously.

  "Don't get any wrong ideas about what you see here today," Roy said. "We're not a violent group in nature. We subscribe to the most effective path towards victory. Whether methods involve nonviolent resistance or violent aggression, often in life we must do what's necessary to get what we want. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Sacha nodded as Roy studied him. Suddenly a large crash sounded from the front. The gate had not collapsed yet, but was soon getting there. Roy turned from Sacha and rushed to join the other men at the front the bus.

  "Smash it down!" he shouted, egging the group on further. "Smash the gate and kill them both! It's the only way brothers!"

  The men had Mel's full attention. He steered erratically while looking into his rear-view mirror. The prisoner's eyes were filled with rage beyond reason. The gate clung desperately to life along the side of the bus interior.

  "We need to get off this bus!" Mel shouted to Davis.

  The prisoners erupted into joyous unit of cheering following the damage they had done to the gate. It would be only a matter of time before the divider was breached. Davis ignored Mel's plea and went for his Taser gun. Though clearly outmatched, he fired into the group from an opening in the gate. The Taser line hooked itself into one of the men causing him to go down like an epileptic seizure. However, it did little to stop the rest of the mob, as they kicked and smashed the gate relentlessly.

  "Are you out of your mind? Let's get the hell off this bus!" Mel shouted.

  Davis whipped around and grabbed his shotgun from its holder.

  "Backup should be here any minute. We can't allow a bus of suspected terrorists to roam freely around the city."

  "You're out of your mind, and I'm pulling over," Mel replied.

  Davis turned to the prisoners with his shotgun aimed.

  "This is your final fucking warning," he said with a determined glare. "I may not be able to hit all of you, but I'll take out most of you, that's for sure."

  The prisoners remained undeterred. Roy continued to egg them on. The gate was uprooted on both sides. Mel glanced in his rear-view mirror in utter disbelief. He had never thought the gate so easily removable. Roy remained strategically behind the group demanding that they dispose of their captors. The prisoners in the front were noticeably hesitant to take a shotgun blast, as they began to push back. Davis noticed their ambivalence.

  "That's right," he said. "Now everyone take your seats. I will not think twice about using this shotgun." For a moment things got quiet. Davis's plan had worked; no one seemed to want to be a martyr.

  He held shotgun with steady aim, keeping his eyes on the men.

  "Mel, find a spot and pull over, we'll wait until backup arrives."

  Mel glanced into his mirror again, then back to the road. There was little space on the bridge to park. They were wedged between endless lines of gridlocked traffic. He inched his way over towards the right, trying to find a place where they wouldn't block traffic. Davis lowered one hand and retrieved his radio.

  "Fifty-five, I'm on the bridge. Need status on that back-up."

  Davis nodded as some indistinctive chatter came over his ear piece. "Roger out," he said.

  Roy worked his way to the front of the crowd in disappointment. "Brothers, it appears we've been outmatched. Let's go back to our seats like the officer said."

  Davis placed both hands on his shotgun, staying alert of any sudden movements. The prisoners grumbled and backed several steps away. Roy examined the gate and noticed that they had caused a large opening in its side where Sergeant Davis was vulnerable. Roy nodded to the middle-eastern man, who he seemed to already be acquainted with, as the man nodded back. Most of the prisoners had dispersed, but a few remained. Sacha looked up from his seat in curiosity. There was some kind of plot in the air, and Roy was far from conceding his fight. The remaining men at the gate spoke quietly in a huddle. Sergeant Davis took notice of their lack of compliance.

  "The rest of you, back in your seats," Davis commanded. In response, Roy slowly knelt down, concealing himself behind two of his men. Davis tried to follow him, but couldn't tell what was going on. From his cloaked position, Roy pulled off his right shoe, jumped up, and whipped it at the gate with all his might.

  "Get down!" he yelled to his men.

  The shoe flew at Davis and hit the side of the wall, startling him. He pulled the trigger on the shotgun as a result. The blast of the shotgun caused immediate panic as the prisoners toppled onto each other trying to hit the floor. The blast caused a dazed weariness in Sergeant Davis. As he tried to regain his composure, Roy jumped up from the ground with implicit instructions.

  "Now is the time! Get him before he kills us all!" Roy's most loyal men were the first to lead the charge. Soon the other prisoners--who only moments ago, lost their zeal--became energized with that prospect of escape.

  They climbed through the gap in the gate and lunged at Davis in a fury. "Move, quickly," Roy shouted while pushing them forward like a battering ram. They climbed through the gate and were soon upon Davis. In return, Davis held his shotgun up with pure resolve and blasted away the first man in the group. Sacha jumped up from his seat, covering his ears. As Davis fired his shotgun, Roy continued to push the men towards through the gate. Sacha ducked behind his seat following every gun blast.

  The world outside hummed along in their own distress, taking little notice of the carnage within the bus. Several men lay dead on the floor. Sacha could see the hobo and the black baritone lumped on the ground in a nearly unrecognizable and grotesque heap.

  The white gangsta had his young face blown off by Davis's next shot. Two of Roy's own men fell to the floor
with their warm insides splattered against the walls. In a last-ditch effort, the remaining prisoners, led by black beard, pushed their way through the gate in a fury. They cornered Davis against the front of the bus as he reloaded his shotgun. Mel panicked and floored the bus against the railing of the bridge, smashing into a taxi cab and a few other cars along the way. The bus shook violently and threw several of the prisoners to the ground.

  Sacha's face smacked against the window causing a temporary moment of blindness and a lost tooth. Grunting continued from the scuffle up front.

  "Kill him!" Roy yelled.

  Black beard gripped onto the Davis's shotgun, yanking it away from him. The barrel was hot, but he tried to withstand the pain. Davis pulled back on the buttstock as hard as he could.

  "Stop the bus!" he yelled to Mel.

  Black beard yanked the shotgun completely from the Davis's hands as Davis panicked and tried to get it back. He pulled back on the buttstock with all his might, causing black beard to turn the barrel in his direction. As they wrestled for the gun, the barrel angled towards Mel's back, and suddenly, the gun went off. The force threw Mel out of his seat and against the front windshield of the bus. Davis released his grip in a stunned reflex, as black beard ripped it away from him, firing directly into Davis's chest. He blew apart into two halves against the windshield. With their adversaries now dead, Roy looked at the teetering, unmanned steering wheel and saw that they were headed towards the bridge railing.

  "Grab onto something," he shouted to the remaining prisoners. Black beard turned around in confusion and saw that they were bound for unavoidable disaster. The bus plowed through the bridge railing, and in a matter of seconds, sailed into the air, plummeting into the great abyss below. Sacha gripped his seat, but flew up against the ceiling of the bus with everyone else. His insides felt like they were being pulled out of him with gravity's pressure. The front-end of bus hit the black waters of the East River. A great force pummeled every man alive as bodies flew around like popcorn kernels within their sinking tomb. A blinding white light ravaged Sacha, followed by quiet darkness.