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

by Ryan Schow

  Masking his discomfort, he looked up at Camila wishing his wife had never been privy to that particular detail. And he prayed to God Lenna never saw the woman, let alone met her in person. The thing about Camila Cardoza was she knew how to draw a man in uniform. She could be a girl’s girl at night and a guy’s girl in the trenches. Guys loved this about her. Their wives hated it. Knowing Lenna, she’d probably hate it, too.

  “I thought Cardoza was a man.”

  “Lenna, sweetheart,” he said, dodging the question because of its poor timing while at the same time softening his tone with reassurance, “I’m needed.”

  “I need you, too,” she pleaded. Then, softer in tenor and voice: “The boys need you.”

  “I know, baby,” he said, turning to look at Camila who was all eyes on him and tapping an extremely impatient foot. She crossed her arms, let out a not-so-subtle huff, then glared at him like she was ready to come out of her skin.

  He turned away from her.

  “Jagger, they’re still bombing the city,” Lenna said. “They’re killing everyone and everything they see, and half of downtown is still on fire. It’s a massacre that’s not ending and I’m not sure how much longer I can do this alone.”

  Drawing a deep breath, feeling his patience crumbling, he started to speak, but something massive exploded, breaking a few windows and shaking the floor beneath his feet with far greater intensity than before.

  Reflexively, Jagger and Camila ducked—Camila in the doorway, Jagger in the middle of the room like an idiot. The air was suddenly stale, powdered with drywall dust. A light flicked off, pitching them into darkness, then flickered back on. He was scared, and he missed his wife. And he hated that Camila was watching him through it all. Another bomb hit, causing more plaster to rain down around them.

  “What the hell?” Jagger growled.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Camila spat. “We need to go. Now!”

  “I’m so sorry Lenna but I have to go,” he said, cupping his entire hand over his free ear. “We’re taking substantial fire again and if I don’t go…I need to go. We’re either making a last stand or evacuating and I’m not sure which.”

  “I love you,” she said. In her voice, he could already hear the start of tears.

  “I love you, too, baby.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “We need you, Jagger. Remember that, please.”

  “I will,” he said before hanging up.

  He looked at Camila and said, “Where in the hell did that explosion come from?”

  “We have to get to Hangar Six right now,” she said, her eyes now looking haunted and afraid.

  “And how do you suppose we do that?” he asked, joining her as she trekked down a long hallway double time.

  “By any means necessary.”

  “On whose orders?”

  Looking back, the overhead fluorescents flickering, she flashed that forced smile and said, “You’re adorable when you worry, Lt.”

  Frowning, not ready for her flirtatious banter—unnatural as it was in that moment—he repeated the question: “I said, on whose orders?”

  “Top brass.”

  The second they left the building, Camila tossed Jagger the keys. Jagger hopped into an open air Jeep, cranked the engine then stomped on the gas and headed for the tarmac. All around them, things were burning. Smoke muddied the air and drones buzzed and zipped through the clouds of it, firing on military personnel and equipment.

  “Who let you borrow this?” Jagger asked, eyes half on the charcoal sky and half on the road ahead.

  Her black hair pulled in a tight ponytail, but still blowing around, she said, “Who said I borrowed it? And is there really anything in this place I need to ask permission for?”

  He fired her a look.

  In response to his look, she said, “Any minute now and it’s going to be every man and woman for themselves.”

  Small range artillery fire popped and crackled all around them, and half a dozen drones raced overhead, their aim elsewhere. The Jeep was suddenly strafed, ripping apart the backseat and giving them one hell of a scare. Overhead, a small drone swung back around to finish what it started. As they were bracing for impact, the squat little plane exploded mid-air.

  “Good God!” Camila croaked as the wreckage bounced off the front grill, rocking the already battered vehicle.

  Jagger lifted his arm and gave the thumbs up to whomever had their six. He’d been ready to do evasive maneuvering, even if it meant he’d only buy them a few extra seconds of life. He tried not to think of his heart. It was going a million miles an hour now with that last close call. Any faster and it was bound to tear loose of his body. Fortunately most of the drones were headed for the half-standing hospital where they could perpetrate the greatest number of human casualties.

  With the pedal smashed firmly to the floor, Jagger hit Munn Field at unacceptable speeds. He saw the exploded fuel storage tanks and knew there was no time for sight-seeing. Sitting on what he knew were Helo spots F2 and E were four Bell UH-1Y Huey’s, all of them charred to a crisp. He dodged more tarmac wreckage, the Jeep’s tires screeching and squealing as he maneuvered around a destroyed mess made of two or three downed drones.

  Camila grabbed the panic handle, but didn’t bat an eyelash. “This is why you drive,” she said a bit too calm.

  “Why were the Huey’s even there?” he said, the smoke-filled wind grating across their cheeks and eyeballs. Jagger covered his mouth, drew a breath through his hand. He didn’t know why he asked the question. Protocol, at this point, was out the window.

  Camila shot him a look and said, “Who knows? Why does it even matter?”

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t answer. The road ahead held more obstacles. In the sky, a new fleet of drones were swirling and attacking.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  “I always wished you weren’t so married,” she said over the noise. “That I could’ve had you just once before we both became worm bait.”

  “We’re not dead yet,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

  He should have been thinking of the drones, or her bold admission, but what he was thinking about most were the Huey’s. That was what he usually flew. That and on occasion, the newest version of the Valor. The fixed propeller version, not the Tilt-Rotor. Was there anything left to fly out of here? Was there any escape?

  Camila made a big ordeal of blowing out a huff, but a quick glance let him know she was prepared to let his thoughtless repudiation of her stand. She knew the score. Was this her last attempt at telling him how she felt?

  In and around the carbonized skeletons of the Huey’s were the bodies of the pilots. They sat like smoked cinder, sculpted in a black death statue, just waiting for that one stiff breeze to blow their remains across the tarmac and out of existence.

  “What’s the casualty count?” he asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied. “Half the base, maybe? More now that the hospital is being turned into a gigantic pile of rubble.”

  He thought of all those people stuck inside the hospital, how when the building first caved, everyone who hadn’t died from the explosions or escaped in time was now gone, as in crushed to death beneath an avalanche of debris.

  “It could be worse,” she said, coughing from the foul air, “we could still be in Corpus Christi.”

  “At least we’ve got our hours,” he quipped, his frown letting up a bit.

  If his wife hadn’t been the woman she was, if he was even slightly east or west of perfect north on his moral compass, he would’ve fallen for Camila a long time ago.

  At twenty-five, she was the perfect combination of natural beauty mixed with the more coarse nature of a man. Girls like that hardly even existed anymore. He’d never pretend to deny her allure, but he wouldn’t gawk over her either. Not the way everyone else did. Perhaps that’s why she liked him: he wasn’t available.

  Truth be told, he’d come to appreciate s
o many things about her that he was sure he was attracted to her and doing his absolute best not to fall into that trap. Like his recovering alcoholic of a mother used to say, “You’ve got to take it one day at a time.” Today was just another day, he told himself.

  Even if it was his last.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The going was slow, but Rider managed to get them to the hospital on Cherry Street without the plywood coming apart. He killed the engine on the motorcycle, dismounted the bike along with Ballard, then asked about Lenna.

  “Doing good so far,” she said, but she was losing color again and he knew she was hurting by the pinched look in her face.

  Hagan got off the mattress and stood there waiting.

  “Can you stand up?” Rider asked her. “If you can, I want to have a look at the underside of the plywood.”

  She got to her feet with his and Hagan’s help, then found she could stand on her own without getting sick or dizzy.

  Rider dropped to a knee, lifted the plywood and examined at the underside. It was chewed up in the center. They wouldn’t make it back to Indigo’s on it, but if he took Hagan off the mattress and put Ballard on, then maybe they could get an extra hundred or more yards before the thing came apart.

  He dropped the plywood, looked around. The rubble from the medical center’s collapse spilled across Cherry Street into a collapsed parking garage. He could hide Hagan and Lenna inside there, but he didn’t know who might be lurking so he decided otherwise.

  They’d come in on California Street, but even then, all they had was maybe one alcove that was maybe two feet deep and provided no cover.

  “We need to find a place to hide you,” Rider said to Lenna. “Can you walk?”

  “I can,” she said.

  They made their way around the hospital to the front entrance on California street. Once upon a time the hospital was a beautiful brick and concrete building. Well, beautiful as far as hospitals go. Buildings like that weren’t usually the mainstay of architectural beauty.

  Half the four story hospital still stood while the other half lay in ruin. The good news was there were plenty of places to hide. Rider wasn’t sure how safe they were, but he’d find out soon enough.

  The four of them walked up the brick stairs, Hagan and Ballard helping Lenna, Rider scouting ahead with his weapon drawn and his senses on full alert. Where one of the wings collapse, there were gigantic mounds of broken concrete blocks, some taller than him.

  “This’ll work,” he said.

  Behind the giant concrete blocks, tucked in between the rubble and the still standing portions of the hospital, Rider felt Lenna and Hagan would be sufficiently insulated from the people or potential problems on the street. The spot also provided cover for them in case trouble spilled out of the hospital’s front doors.

  “You got ammo?” he said to Hagan. The boy nodded. “Good. Don’t use it unless you’re in a pinch. And don’t be a hero. This is about survival, not about anything else.”

  “Okay,” he said, concern sitting heavy in his eyes.

  He might not have made that face had they not been attacked in the Jeep. Or maybe he would have anyway. Rider had no idea what the kid had survived before this, or what he was made of. One thing for sure, there was plenty to be afraid of out here, for they were officially balls deep in the vast unknown.

  “How long will you be?” Lenna asked.

  “As long or as short as necessary. We’ve got other injured people back at the home, one with gunshot wounds to her chest and shoulder.”

  Lenna blanched, then looked at Hagan who nodded his head ever so slightly.

  “Don’t be a hero,” Rider said once more.

  “Got it,” Hagan replied, much of that fear gone, or hidden.

  “Ballard, it’s you and me,” he said. The boy complied, no longer so worried about Rider.

  “Can’t he stay here?” Lenna asked.

  “I need him to carry supplies in case we hit pay dirt, or in case I need a free hand for this,” he said, lifting his weapon.

  Lenna nodded, then turned away, unable to look.

  Rider and Ballard ventured inside the blown-out front of what was once Sutter Health CPMC. Inside there were workable walkways, but the air was heavy with dust motes and the stink of destruction. Further down the west wing, everything seemed to be in tact.

  They walked quietly yet steadily through the dark hallways, letting their eyes adjust to what little light there was. He had an old flashlight, but he used it sparingly. Moving through the pools of darkness, Rider kept his eyes on the sagging ceilings and potential hazards on the ground. The last thing they needed was to fall through a hole in the floor or have the building collapse on top of them.

  A small fleet of squeaking rats ran by, startling them, but neither he nor Ballard said a word. Occasionally he’d flick on the light, read a sign, then shut it off and move on. He did that about ten minutes after they first entered the abandoned hospital.

  “Bingo,” he muttered.

  “You found something?” Ballard asked.

  “Sure hope so,” he said. “Because I’m not really a fan of this place.”

  Now if only they had what he needed. He flashed his light through a large glass window and saw the medical supply room beyond. It was not exactly stacked to the ceiling with supplies, but it wasn’t barren either. He tried the silver knob, found it locked. He put his shoulder into it, tested its sturdiness and groaned inside.

  Standing back, he gave it a hearty kick. The door remained shut, but his body was humming.

  “Mother fu—” he started to say, but stopped himself because Ballard was watching him. He turned to the kid and said, “This door is no joke,” but Ballard only remained silent.

  “Can you shoot it?” the kid asked.

  “If there are people in the hospital, and it’s a perfect place to hide, that kind of noise will bring every single one of them right to us.”

  “Maybe one of them has a key,” he said.

  “Maybe one of them has a gun they’ll use to pump us full of lead for trying to steal their stuff,” Rider said back.

  Drawing a deep breath through his nose, sizing up the door one last time, he moved back, got a running start and threw the most ferocious side kick he could at the door, causing it to buckle, but not break.

  “Mother of Christ,” he growled, grabbing his leg.

  The pain that shot through his body was monumental. He wasn’t exactly at one hundred percent, and he wasn’t exactly young anymore.

  “I think it’s about to give,” Ballard said. “Maybe one more?”

  “Easy for you to say, kid,” he grumbled as he moved back and sized up the door one last time. Kicking down metal doors was a young man’s game, and he wasn’t exactly young anymore. He thought about shooting it, but he wouldn’t. Not worth the risk.

  Instead of giving it another kick—which he couldn’t do again—he decided to go through it. He took a moment, gathered his thoughts and tried to draw strength from them. He thought of Lenna with all her cuts and bruises, he thought of Macy the way he found her nearly shot to death, and he even thought of Rex who’d been shot twice, although they were somewhat superficial wounds.

  Yeah, he had to go through it.

  Taking several deep breaths, grounding himself, he envisioned his body crashing through the door with success. Finally he ran full speed ahead and when he slammed into the door, it was with all the force he could muster. The door broke open and he went flying into two metal stacks of nearly empty shelving. He went down hard. One of the metal standing cabinets fell over making as much ruckus as a gunshot. Maybe more.

  He was slow to get up, and he hurt all over, especially his shoulder. There was a steep, uncomfortable pain that told him his arm was out of socket. He used his free hand to manipulate it back in place, crushing on his molars and cussing to himself as he rolled it and sunk the joint back into place.

  Smarting from the pain, Rider tested his arm, wincing a
s he circled it forward and backwards. It was back in. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a son of a bitch—it did—but then again, so did his neck and back. Rolling his neck, then stretching it side-to-side with a bit of force, he managed to crack a half dozen vertebrae.

  Ballard picked up the flashlight and started reading off medicines, grabbing boxes, asking him if they needed this and that. Rider wanted to take it all, if they could.

  “We need to find something to carry all this in,” he said, looking for some kind of cooling fridge for blood bags. Ballard said he’d go look, but Rider said, “Stay close. Close enough for me to hear you at regular volume.”

  Rider went through the supplies, finding things like medical tape and syringes, empty blood bags, a saline solution, various antibiotics. There was no blood storage though. That would be a refrigerated unit, and unless there was a gas powered generator here, which there obviously wasn’t, he wouldn’t be finding any good blood.

  He felt fortunate to have found anything at all.

  Ballard rushed back into the room as quickly and as quietly as he could, dropped a cardboard box on the floor and said, “There are people out there. Men I think.”

  “How many?” Rider asked, clicking out the flashlight.

  “Two or three.”

  That’s when he heard the voices. Moving closer to the broken door, he reached out, fingers grasping for the boy. He found Ballard and said, “Go out this door, hide under that desk on the other side, don’t come out for any reason. Go!” He started to move, but Rider gripped him a bit harder. He shoved his Glock at Ballard and said, “Just in case.”

  Ballard grabbed the gun, then did as he was told just as the men’s voices became clear.

  “I’ve got to take a dump,” one of the men said to the other in a youngish voice, almost like it was a piece of business rather than too much information.

  “I don’t need to know that,” the other man said, clearly older by the wear in his tone.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And you’re freaking disgusting.”