The Last War Box Set 1 : A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller

by Ryan Schow

  “This is nice,” Macy said.

  “Looks old, but new at the same time,” Indigo replied. “I like it.”

  The double doors led to a huge open foyer with decorative linoleum tiles: they were colored in beige, green, yellow, blueish purple and orange, all making a swirling pattern where the center was a red ringed grey circle. The Sheriff stood in the circle. This might have been symbolic to people who cared (she didn’t), and everyone was gathered around him. Chairs had been pulled out from every classroom, it seemed, but they were filled, leaving standing room only. There was a lot of white noise, considering how many families were there, but the Sheriff put up his hands and called for everyone’s attention.

  After a moment the foyer fell to a hush.

  On the way in, there had been three other doors further down the way, all of them singles. Three more entrances. Three more exits. She nodded for Rex to check out the hallway that most likely led to the exits; he did as instructed. They had a way of reading each other’s signals pretty good in tactical settings that she appreciated. The way it looked, they had nothing to worry about, except maybe a few snotty kids and the mounting body heat which, of course, came with an unsavory scent: the I-haven’t-showered-in-a-few-days scent.

  Rex returned a moment later and tilted his head enough to beckon her. She tapped Macy on the shoulder and the two of them moved to the back of the crowd, closer to Rex. The holes they left behind filled quickly with other people wanting to hear what the Sheriff was saying.

  He was talking about the situation being critical without an end in sight. He said the National Guard was here to help, that they were working on restoring the power. To Indigo, it didn’t seem like they had any plans of working on the power any time soon, but maybe she had been wrong. She looked at Rex, who was frowning, too.

  “Is this an EMP that did this?” a woman asked from the other side of the room.

  “We believe so, yes,” the Sheriff said, “but we can’t be sure the size or the scope of the problem. It could be a west coast problem, or it could be a North American problem. All we know is that calm heads will prevail.”

  For the next thirty minutes the temperature rose along with the stench of the unwashed masses. People were sweating, Indigo included. This really was a community meeting, but it was a good community that was producing some good ideas for safety and social gatherings to find out who needed help and how they could rally around each other.

  That was about when the shooting started.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Stanton was on high ground, a raised 7th Street porch of something like fourteen or fifteen steps with a clear view of the playground and one entry point of the school. Stanton didn’t expect anything to happen, but since he and Cincinnati had split up, he was here alone and she was watching the 6th Street entrance with Atlanta.

  Both girls had the look like they were ready. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t. So when the pack of seven thugs with bats and chains and guns appeared he practically crapped his pants.

  His heart instantly kicked into high gear, nearly blowing a gasket from the burst of pressure. Scampering down the bajillion concrete stairs as quickly and as quietly as he could, he ducked behind an old Mazda Protégé, saw exactly where they were headed and opened fire before they got too close. At this point, he was pretty sure that inside of the next thirty seconds, he’d be dead.

  It didn’t matter. That’s why he fired again.

  With so many people to protect, his first shots needed to count. And they did. Both were head shots; both men dropped. The other five ducked, turned to where he was firing and opened up a can of lead hell.

  He ducked down, but the Mazda’s glass was breaking everywhere and exit holes were punching through the metal.

  One round blew past his face, causing him to scoot as far to the front of the sedan as he could. Two of the seven were down and the other five were coming; he only had to take out one or maybe two more before they got to him, that way he’d make it a fair fight for Rex and Indigo when he was dead.

  He said a quick prayer for Sin and Macy, asked God to protect them as he steadied his hand and stood and open-fired like a man.

  I practically go paralyzed with fear as I see a huge pack of men appear down the street on Balboa. It’s even harder for me to breathe when half of them break off and start up 6th Street heading straight to for the school.

  Could this be a coincidence? I don’t think so.

  Every single one of them looks hard, their walk aggressive, their bodies loaded down with weapons.

  Pushing Atlanta behind me, we duck inside the pocketed alcove of a grey, three story residence with teal painted trim around the windows. We can hide inside here, but we’ll only last for so long if something goes down. I try the door handle, but it’s locked. We’re screwed. If we’re caught in here, we’re dead. Or worse.

  “Cincinnati?” Atlanta asks. She doesn’t see what I see, but she sees the expression on my face and it’s enough to startle her.

  “Get your gun ready,” I tell her with too much adrenaline in my voice. “You can shoot that thing, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you aim, too?”

  “If you get me close enough. What’s happening?”

  Stealing a quick breath, I pop my head around the corner, see eight of them closing in on us. Do I shoot now, or do I let them get inside and try to trap them there? With a bunch of families, my daughter and my brother inside, the answer is clear.

  “When they head up the stairs,” I tell Atlanta, “the second their backs are too us, we start shooting. Got it?”

  All the blood leaves her face, but she nods yes.

  “We miss we die,” I tell her.

  Atlanta nods again, her face as terrified as any I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something.

  Before the gang heads inside, they gather in a circle and game plan. With my stomach in my throat and my bowels milliseconds from emptying out against my will, I grip my gun too tight. Trying to control my breathing, hearing them talking about heading inside and mowing down all the men and children, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, not once taking my eyes off the group.

  The fact that they’re talking about killing children sets my blood on fire.

  Over my shoulder, I say, “I go, you go. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Atlanta says.

  Before I can go, the shooting starts. It sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the school. Stanton. The pack of thugs all startle, then turn toward the sound of gunfire. The second they’re moving on the school, I burst out of the alcove and start firing. Behind me Atlanta does the same thing. We hit five of the eight, but the remaining three scramble for cover and I’m clicking an empty magazine.

  Atlanta is doing the same.

  We both scurry back into the alcove, realizing our mistake the second we make it. The alcove is a trap. Gunshots ring out, slamming into the stucco walls and the wood and glass front doors. If they’re broken out, we can get inside, but by the rate of fire, we won’t have time and we’d probably get cut pretty badly by the broken glass if we tried.

  “Are you hit?” I ask Atlanta.

  “No.”

  “Are you reloading?”

  “Yes.”

  I eject the magazine the way Stanton and Rex taught me, replace it with the spare in my back pocket.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Go.”

  Outside gunfire is still erupting the next street over, but on our side, there’s only silence. There are three left, and we didn’t hit any of them, so I take it to mean they’ve either fled or they’re coming up on—

  I see him almost too late. His head pops around the corner and our eyes meet. I freeze, but Atlanta doesn’t. The sound of the weapon discharging in such a tight, enclosed space sends my ears ringing. I didn’t realize I’d cried out until it was too late.

  A wash of red blows out the back of the thug’s
head and he drops to the ground. More gunfire pocks and peppers the alcove, but I can’t hear it over the piercing ring in my ears.

  Atlanta had no choice but to fire right beside my ear. I get that. Still, it’s got me feeling a bit wobbly. Holding my hands over my hears, I step backwards into the alcove’s pocket. Atlanta steps forward.

  When I see the two men, I know it’s all over, but Atlanta starts shooting anyway, both of them ducking and firing at the same time. But not Atlanta. She just stands there in a shooter’s position emptying her magazine in an attempt to take out these two clowns.

  Inside the school, the gunfire gets everyone in a stir. The Sheriff immediately tells everyone to stay calm as he takes out his weapon and moves toward the doors.

  “What’s going on, Sheriff?” Rex asked, moving up next to the law man.

  “Stand back, son.”

  Rex heard the shooting coming from both sides of the school and suddenly he knew what was happening.

  “They’re flanking us,” Rex said. “You’d know that if you brought reinforcements, but you didn’t.”

  “Those your people? The ones firing back?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked down his nose at Rex and said, “I said stand back. Now.”

  Rex put his hands up and moved back, turning to give Indigo the signal. As he was turning, automatic gunfire lit up the large foyer and people started to drop, the Sheriff first. Rex pushed and shoved his way toward Indigo and Macy.

  “Follow me,” he yelled over the screaming. Indigo was ready, but Macy was looking terrified. He slapped her in the face hard and said, “Get it together!”

  She came to, sprung into action.

  They headed for one of the three northern exits just as a gunman entered from the west end of the foyer and started unloading what sounded like a bump-stock AR into the crowd.

  When they burst through the door, Rex and Indigo saw the guy outside lighting up the west end of the foyer through the open doors. Indigo shot him in the ribs. He fired off two retaliatory rounds that had all three of them diving for cover.

  Macy was freezing up, fear all over her face, her hands shaking.

  The gunman stopped firing when his injuries overtook him. They couldn’t do anything about the shooter inside, but on either side of the school gun battles were waging. Out on 7th, it looked like Stanton was pinned down by a single shooter. On the other side of the school, 6th Street, his sister and Atlanta were taking fire.

  Cincinnati or Stanton?

  “I’ll get the girls,” Indigo said. “Macy you stay here and cover us, just in case.”

  Indigo rushed down the outdoor hallway toward 6th and he ran for Stanton on 7th. He broke out into the playground with no cover and only a prayer for protection.

  The guys going after Stanton were big, both of them rounding the hood of a shot-to-hell Mazda. One of them had a baseball bat; but the lead had a shotgun at the ready. There were bodies laid out on the pavement everywhere.

  Stanton had to be behind the Mazda. He was either trapped or dead. That’s when he saw Stanton on bent knees working his way around the trunk of the car, opposite his attackers.

  Rex didn’t exactly heave a sigh of relief as much as he put on the speed. He was within twenty feet when the guy with the shotgun turned and saw Rex. It was just a matter of time. He spun the weapon on Rex around the same time Stanton saw the guy turn. The shotgun went off right after Stanton put a round through the side of his head. The big guy fell over and Stanton ran toward Rex firing on the guy with the bat. He dropped and Rex yelled, “The girls are under attack!”

  Rex turned and ran back for Cincinnati. Stanton took chase and was closing in on him more quickly than expected.

  Macy couldn’t just cower there while a shooter was inside killing all those people. Swallowing hard, she got up, crept back into the building the way they’d come out.

  Sniffling, pawing the tears from her eyes, she said, “Get it together. Do your part.”

  She made her way back into the building, hurrying to the sounds of automatic gunfire. When she got to the small hallway that turned right and opened up to the foyer, she smelled gunpowder and blood.

  Horrified, she stilled herself, fought the upsurge of her stomach.

  When she peeked around the corner, four women were huddled in the corner, bawling and shaking. One of them was crawling toward her child. This was the woman they’d asked for directions from. All her daughters and her husband were dead.

  Everyone was dead.

  A rough jolt of nausea hit her as she saw the shooter packing an extended magazine into his assault rifle. She walked into the foyer and opened fire. Nine rounds, every single one of them missing the intended target.

  Her heart dropped . Startled, the shooter quickly checked himself over, then realized he wasn’t hit. His fear became a sadistic smile as he dropped the AR, grabbed his pistol and emptied the magazine in her direction.

  Atlanta’s out of ammo and I can’t hear anything but the punch of every shot making my ears ring extra sharp.

  The minute Atlanta clicks empty, the two guys get to their feet and break out a pair of automatic rifles. I say a brief prayer to God, ask Him to watch over my baby, my husband and my brother. The barrage of gunfire is cut short by the sound of an over-revved engine. The shooters don’t see the rusted white Jeep bearing down on them, but the second they hear it, it’s already too late.

  The Jeep plows into the pair, smashing the front hood and sending both guys flying through the air. Atlanta steps out of the alcove and drags me with her. We both see the Jeep’s bloody hood with relief. Then we see Indigo. She’s rushing down the stairs, heading toward the men lying broken in the road.

  The driver gets out of the Jeep. He’s a young kid, good looking and scared. He did this on purpose, though, so maybe he wasn’t that scared.

  My equilibrium not being what it needs to be, I grab a parked car’s hood to keep from falling over. I pull back my hand and see red on the palm, from where I’d been plugging my damaged ear. Suddenly I’m worried I won’t ever hear right again.

  “Are you two okay?” the kid asks both me and Atlanta.

  I nod my head and say, “Ears ringing,” too loud. I hear myself, but I sound like I’m underwater.

  Looking up, I watch Indigo put bullets into the hearts of both shooters, just to make sure.

  “Jesus,” the kid is saying. He’s got a nasty red line on his head. It looks like a cut, but longer, deeper. His face also has a bunch of little cuts, which look a few days old.

  Indigo jogs to us and sees the tremors in my eyes. She looks at the kid, who’s standing there not knowing how he can help, and I see Atlanta telling her what happened, that she shot too close to my ear.

  They both look at me and say, “Stay here,” and I nod my head, sitting down on the sidewalk and feeling like run over crap.

  The kid watches Atlanta and Indigo head back inside the school. He looks down at me not knowing what to do. Finally he extends his hand. I take it and he helps me up. He waves for me to follow him, and I do.

  I know what he’s doing.

  He walks me to the Jeep, opens the passenger door and helps me inside. This old thing isn’t nearly comfortable, but it’s a heck of a lot better than sitting on the sidewalk. He runs around the other side and gets a bottle of water and an old shirt.

  Back with me, he balls up and wets the shirt, then gently dabs at the soft skin under my ear. I’m looking at him and he’s saying, “Can you hear me?”

  “A little,” I say too loud.

  He glances over to where the girls ran back to the school, like maybe he heard something. To me it sounds like the muffled, far-away sounds of more gunfire. Putting myself aside for a minute, I start to worry about the others.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  The boy turns around and says, “Hagan. Hagan Justus.”

  “Thank you, Hagan,” I manage to tell him. “I think you saved our lives.”

 
The second the guy starts shooting, Rex runs through the open door squeezing the trigger of his own gun. The gun is jammed though, a round sitting wrong in the chamber. He goes with it though, running faster and spinning the weapon in his hand. The shooter sees him and turns the weapon on Rex, but it’s too late. Rex slams butt of his weapon into the guy, pistol whipping the hell out of the side of his head.

  They both go to the ground, the shooter out cold.

  Rex sees four women in a corner, huddling together, a mass of dead bodies—men, women and children alike—and his niece, Macy. She’s laid out on the floor, her blonde hair fanned out behind her.

  “Oh, God,” he says, scrambling to his feet and moving through the sea of bodies toward her. He slips twice in ponds of blood, but manages to not fall.

  Stanton is right behind him screaming Macy’s name.

  His niece has two blooms of red on her: one above her left breast, another on her shoulder, plus her ear is nicked, a chunk of the skin just gone from where the bullet took it.

  He checks her pulse.

  It’s weak.

  “Macy,” Rex said, holding back the rage, the terror, the tears. “Macy, honey. Wake up for me baby, please. Please just wake up.”

  Suddenly kneeling down beside him, Stanton’s going to pieces.

  Rex tapped her face, said her name again, garnered no response. Stanton is touching her, pumping her hand, saying “No, no, no,” over and over again an a sad, mewling rush. He finally pushes Rex aside just as Indigo and Atlanta burst through the foyer’s main doors.

  This is my fault, Rex was thinking to himself. He shouldn’t have pushed her. If he hadn’t have pushed her, hit her, she might have stayed put instead of coming in here.

  What was she thinking?!

  Indigo saw Macy, hurried over and knelt down, the concern bare in her eyes. Atlanta saw her, walked over at a slower, more shocked pace, then hovered over them for a second. Stanton was holding Macy. He was sobbing, crying out her name. Rex looked up at Atlanta, saw her eyes taking in the carnage. Then he those same eyes find the shooter.