by P. A. Glaspy
"Nice. What kind of books, Pap?" Aaron asked. "I'm always up for a good read."
"Well, I've got a bunch of Louis L'Amour westerns and quite a few prepper fiction books."
Cameron cocked his head to the side. "Prepper fiction? What's that about?"
Elliott replied solemnly, "Basically, it's about what our lives will be like now. I guess all that prepper fiction is turning into non-fiction as we speak."
"I think I'll start there," Aaron said. "Sounds like that may be our new school books."
"It very well may be, Aaron. They're on the book shelf behind you." Elliott pointed to a fully loaded built-in bookcase on the wall.
Aaron walked over and started skimming over the books there. "Well, I can't say I recognize any of these authors."
"That's because most of them are what is called indie authors. They publish their own books online without a publisher. Doesn't make them any less of a good read though," Elliott said. "And they usually don't cost as much. Read a few and let me know if you like them."
Aaron pulled out a book called Good Fences by an author named Boyd Craven and held it up. "How about this one, Pap? Any good?"
Elliott smiled and nodded. "Yep, that's a real good one and very fitting for our situation. I think you'll like it."
"What about me, Pap? Any suggestions?" Cameron asked.
Elliott walked over to the bookshelf and looked through the offerings. He pulled out a book and handed it to his younger grandson. "One Second After. It's about an EMP also. It's one of the first ones I ever read. This one isn't exactly prepper fiction. The folks in this story weren't prepared in any way for what happened. But it does tell how they adapted to the world they were left with, which is exactly what we're going to have to do."
Both boys settled down on the couch with their reading material. Elliott went back to his recliner and sipped his day-old coffee while watching the fire dance in the glass door of the wood-burning stove. His thoughts went again to Carly and the rest of the family. Not living in town and having no way or desire to get there, he had no idea what it was like where they were. He was sure it wasn't a good situation — he just didn't know how bad it was by then. He sent up a silent prayer that they were all together, safe and warm, and working out a way to get there.
The sun, which had finally peeked out right at dusk, had dropped below the horizon leaving a dark, silent world in its wake. Even though he lived in the country, there was a yard light that came on automatically at night bathing the top of the driveway, the carport, and part of the porch in light each evening. Glancing out the window and seeing nothing but blackness was a bit unnerving. He got up and checked that the front door was locked and bolted. The guns they had cleaned earlier were lying on his grandmother's old table in the kitchen. He picked up a small pistol, stuck it in his pants pocket, then checked the back door as he had the front. Satisfied they were as secure as they could be, he went back to living room. He walked to the bookshelf and picked out a book for himself. He sat back down, took a sip of his coffee, and opened the book.
Cameron looked up from his tome. "What are you reading, Pap?"
Elliott held his book up. "The Last Layover. First book in one of my favorite series of prepper books, and it's based here in Tennessee."
"Sweet. I may read that one next," Cameron said as he went back to his own.
The sound of footsteps on the back porch had Elliott jumping out of his chair and reaching into his pocket for the pistol he had just placed there. At their grandfather's sudden movement, both boys sat up and looked at him, then toward the kitchen.
"What is it, Pap? You think maybe it's Roger again?" Aaron asked anxiously.
Elliott shook his head, speaking softly. "No, Roger wouldn't make that trip again; damn sure not at night." He pulled the pistol out of his pocket as he spoke.
Cameron's eyes grew wide. "Whoa! Are you gonna shoot 'em? Whoever's out there?"
"Shh!" Elliott hissed at Cameron. "I ain't planning to shoot anybody, but I wasn't expecting any company either. You boys stay in here." Elliott started toward the back door. The knock that came next made him jump.
Cameron whispered loudly, "They knocked. Robbers wouldn't knock, would they?"
Elliott continued on without acknowledging Cameron's remark. The back door was solid and didn't have a peep hole. Just as he was about to call out asking who it was, there was another knock and a voice that said, "Dad? Are you home?"
Elliott stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that voice. He hurried over to the door and unlocked it. Throwing it open, he found his son shivering in the dark. The shock was quickly replaced with joy. "Ethan! Sweet Jesus!"
Ethan smiled and said, "Hi, Dad. Can I come in? Pretty well frozen here."
Elliott reached for his only child. "Yes! Yes, come in!" He pulled Ethan inside the door, closed it behind him, and reset the locks. They stood there looking at each other awkwardly for a moment. Elliott extended his hand toward his son, who took it, then pulled his father into his embrace. Elliott hugged Ethan fiercely, with joyful tears coursing down his face. They stood in the kitchen, father and son, holding onto each other for all they were worth. The world for both of them stood still in that moment. They were unaware of the two young men standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen watching the scene in awe. Finally, the two men heard a voice that shattered the magic of the moment.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Elliott and Ethan pulled away from each other. They both looked to where the boys stood. Ethan felt like he was looking into a time travel mirror. "Aaron? Cameron? Oh my god! You're here!" He started toward them, but Aaron stepped in front of his younger brother.
"I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing here?"
Cameron peered around his older brother. "Dad? Is it really you?"
Aaron turned on him. "Don't call him that! Dads don't run out on their kids, not caring if they live or die. Dads don't pretend their kids never existed. He's not a dad!"
Cameron recoiled at his brother's verbal assault. Elliott went to his grandsons. He laid a wrinkled hand on Aaron's arm. "Can we just sit down and talk, son? Yes, he has a lot of explaining to do. You're right to be wary. I am, too. But with what's happened, we might need each other to get through this. Can you hear him out? For me?"
The daggers Aaron was shooting at his father softened when he looked down at his grandfather. He nodded slowly, saying, "Fine. I'll listen to what he has to say for you, Pap. I just won't believe any of it." He looked back up at Ethan defiantly.
Elliott patted his arm. "Thank you, Aaron. Now, let's sit down and talk in the kitchen." He turned back to Ethan. "Are you hungry? Want some coffee?" Ethan was still staring at his sons.
"I can't believe you're here. I had no idea … I mean, I was on my way here to surprise Dad for Christmas, and I'm the one who's surprised. This is just so great."
Aaron snorted. "Great? Did you miss the fact that our world is turned upside down? What's great about that?"
Despite his oldest son's belligerent tone, Ethan couldn't stop smiling. "That you and Cameron are here. That in the middle of all this shit, I finally get to see you both. It was just meant to be."
Aaron rolled his eyes. "Jesus, you sound like a sappy soap opera. Why would it be meant to be anything?"
Ethan's smile disappeared. His face was filled with sorrow and regret. "I've been a terrible father, a horrible son. I can't undo that. All I can do is try to get to know you now. Hopefully you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
"Forgive you? Why would you ever think we would forgive you?"
Ethan looked down at the floor then back into the mirror reflection of his eyes and said, "Because I'm dying."
Chapter 24
The Chairman had risen early, despite the long-lasting celebration he had hosted the night before. He reveled in the celebrity showered on him by his people. He puffed out his chest with pride at the praise heaped on him by the attendees. The only d
ark spot of the night had been the call from the president of the United Nations. He had no doubt that there would political repercussions from that body. He didn't care. Their sanctions meant nothing to him. He had allies who could see his vision of a crippled United States and were willing to support his actions and provide to his country what the United Nations and the United States had tried to deny them. Their support may have been in secret that day, but the days after were going to be a different story.
He had scheduled a meeting first thing in the morning with his top-ranking military leaders to determine how they would progress now that the attack had been successful. He sat at the head of a long, polished table. All the seats were filled on either side with military personnel in various states of wakefulness. Apparently, some of his underlings had celebrated a bit too much from the pained looks on their faces. That was their fault. He didn't force them to drink too much. There was no seat at the other end of the table. No one was in a position to equal his. Not even close. He addressed the group.
"Good morning, comrades. I trust you slept well after our glorious victory and subsequent celebration. Today, the eyes of the world are on us and our country. They are in awe of what we have done; what we have accomplished. No one thought the United States could be brought to this level. No one believed it could happen so quickly and cleanly. No loss of a single Korean life. No guns fired. And yet, we sit here victors in a battle fought thousands of miles away with the push of a button. A new day has dawned for North Korea. We will be revered as a force to not be taken lightly."
The men around the table nodded their heads in agreement. Timid smiles crossed the faces of a number of the attendees. The Chairman went on.
"In the coming days and weeks, we will formulate our plans to continue with the next phase of our attack. We will monitor closely the deterioration of the condition of the people. As they must adapt or die in this new reality, many will not be strong enough or brave enough to fight for their lives. They will die or be killed for the food in their homes and then soon, the clothes on their backs. When they have warred among themselves long enough, we will simply step in and take control. Are there any questions?"
A general tentatively raised his hand. The Chairman acknowledged him with an inclination of his head. "Excellency, what about their allies? Won't other countries that are loyal to the Americans come to their aid? Is there a chance they may attack us in retaliation?"
The Chairman snorted in disgust. "We have shown the world what we are willing to do to end oppression heaped on our country by pompous arrogant nations who have no respect for us or our way of life. No one would dare to attack us now."
At the far end of the table, one of the admirals leaned over to the man next to him and whispered, "Let us hope not, but I fear this is just the beginning of a battle we are destined to lose."
Excerpt from Book 3 in the Perilous Miles Series,
Another 20 Miles
Chapter 1
Damon had been on the road for most of the day. He was stiff from sitting in the same position for so long, and his leg was aching from not being used. The sun setting behind him told him the day was coming to an end. He was still at least an hour from New York City. There was no way he was going in there alone at night. He needed to find a place to hunker down for the night.
He stopped again to consult his maps, both civilian and military. He took the opportunity to get out to stretch his legs and relieve himself. He had stopped just south of another residential area, Milltown, New Jersey. He could see signs up ahead for The Home Depot and Target in the waning remnants of daylight. That was definitely not an area where he could secure his vehicle, much less himself. He got back in the Humvee, locked the doors out of habit, pulled out a tactical flashlight, and consulted the map of bases and armories. His ride was a bit obvious, both because it was a military vehicle, and because it actually ran. He needed a place he could blend in.
He found a National Guard armory not far from his current location. It would take him off his preferred route, but he felt that the loss of travel time would be made up for in what he hoped would be a more secure location than out on the open road. The ramp off the turnpike to Highway 18, also known as Memorial Parkway, was just about a mile ahead. The area wasn't ideal. There were a lot of houses and apartments between him and the armory. There was a service road that provided access to the Raritan River he could use for a bit, but there just wasn't a route available that wouldn't have him driving through some heavy residential areas on the way. He just didn't have many options at that point. The closer he got to New York City, the more densely populated the area would become.
A fist hitting the driver's side window made Damon jump in surprise. He instinctively reached for his sidearm. Turning his head, he saw a man standing beside the vehicle trying to open the door. Finding it locked, the man beat his fist against the window again.
"Hey! Where'd you get the Hummer? How come yours runs and nobody else's does? Are you with the government? What's going on? Open the door!" The man rattled off question after question, punctuating each one with another fist to the window. Damon pulled his pistol up into view. The stranger took a couple of steps back but continued to stare at Damon with hate-filled eyes. Damon reached down and turned the ignition, firing up the Humvee. The man's eyes grew wide as he realized Damon was getting ready to leave. He took a step forward again, shouting, "Why aren't you helping us? Where is the government or the Red Cross? We're going to run out of food in just a couple of days! I've got three kids and no way to feed them! We need help!"
Damon looked at the man and replied sadly through the closed window, "I'm not here to help you. I don't know when or if help is coming. You need to go home and lock your doors. I'm sorry, I have to go. Good luck — you're going to need it. We all are." With that, Damon put the vehicle in gear and quickly pulled away. He could see the man in his rear-view mirror running behind him, slipping on the roads that were iced over with no traffic to melt it, shaking his fist and yelling something Damon could no longer hear. He wasn't lying when he told the man he was sorry — Damon felt genuine compassion for his plight. Damon was glad he hadn't married or had kids. He couldn't even fathom not being able to feed them in a place that seemed to have always been teeming with food. Fast food joints on every corner; restaurants for miles; even gas stations served hot food, so to speak. To think that in the amount of time it took to snap one's fingers it was all gone was more than he could process. He looked over at the snacks he had brought. He didn't know how long they would last. Hopefully long enough to get him to his destination. After that, he had no clue. He was no more prepared for a life without electricity than most of the other people in the country.
He continued on until he reached the exit for Memorial Parkway. As with all toll roads, there was one last booth before the end. Just like the others he had passed, the arms were broken, leaving Damon again to wonder who had come through in a working vehicle to do the damage. He hoped it was U.S. military. Any alternative he could imagine was not comforting.
The interchange was massive with more than a dozen lanes coming together. He couldn't help but think what a nightmare rush hour traffic was like here. There were quite a few abandoned cars in both directions but no people he could see. As it had been at least twelve hours since the blast, he was pretty certain anyone who had been driving through there had sought shelter before the sun went down. If he recalled correctly, the weather forecast had called for lows in the low teens along the Eastern seaboard north of D.C. for the next few days. Without shelter, proper clothing, or the right gear, people couldn't live through that. Considering most of the city populations heated their homes with electric heat, he knew many Americans would likely die of exposure, even if they were in their homes. At some point, without heat on the inside, it would come close to the temperature of the outside.
Damon was able to weave around the dead cars and trucks and made his entrance onto Memorial Parkway. It appeared most if not all
of the residents in the area were inside their homes. He saw no one outside, thankfully. He progressed well to his next exit that would take him to Johnson Drive. Johnson Drive would become Hamilton Street, which was where the armory was located. He just had to get through about three miles of a heavily residential area first.
He had expected to see evidence of looting at grocery and convenience stores. He didn't expect to see restaurants with their doors kicked in. But then, why shouldn't he have? Restaurants were places with food, and usually a lot of it in industrial-sized cans or crates. Every one that he passed appeared to have been vandalized and stripped. And this is just the first day, he thought. What will it be like in a week, when all the food is gone?
There were a few places where people were congregated outside around barrels with their contents burning. The flames lit up the area around them showing the fear and uncertainty on their faces. At the sound of the Humvee, heads turned toward the street; a few of them even took steps toward him. Damon didn't slow down. In fact, if it looked like someone was heading his direction he sped up.
He was making his way down the street at a decent rate of speed until he reached the parking lot for a strip mall with a dollar store and a number of small restaurants. The lot was a decent size spanning Hamilton from one street to the next. And it had a lot of people in it. Damon could see from the kerosene lanterns and flashlights held by some of the people there that every storefront in the building had been broken in. At the sound of his approach, every flashlight beam was trained on the road in front of him, then his vehicle. Many of the onlookers hurried toward the sound. He tried to speed up again. He wasn't quick enough. At least half a dozen men stepped out and stretched across the two-lane street. He considered taking the sidewalk to his left, but his moment of hesitation gave the men time to block that as well. Damon stopped about a hundred feet from them, engine idling. He had a decision to make — and this one would probably cost someone their life.
