Staying Alive: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The EMP Book 2)

by Ryan Westfield

  “You know that’s not going to work, Georgia,” said Max. “Do you want your kids to be safe? Or do you want to stay awake every night in the woods, wondering if someone will find us that night or the next?”

  Max wasn’t the type to use cheap manipulation tactics. He wasn’t playing a trick on her, trying to change her mind. He was being genuine, asking her a real question.

  Georgia, of course, already knew the answer.

  She turned the wheel and pulled the van over to the side of the road. She switched off the lights and the engine.

  “So what’s the plan?” she said.

  “Let me think,” said Max, peering towards the house.

  The car was visible now. It was an early ‘90s Jeep. Georgia had actually considered purchasing one for herself, many years back. Instead, she’d gone with the pickups she’d always had. Georgia remembered that Max had had a similar car. She wasn’t sure of the model, though, because by the time she’d seen it, it had been smashed, its metal twisted and its form unrecognizable.

  “All right,” said Max, speaking loudly. “I need everyone awake.” He rapped his knuckles on the glass.

  “What’s going on?” came Chad’s sleepy deep voice. The others groaned and yawned as they woke up.

  “Are we in danger?” said Sadie, sounding worried.

  “It’s fine, Sadie,” said Georgia. “We’re just going to get some gas.”

  “Everyone awake?” said Max, turning around to see.

  Max waited until each person answered.

  “OK,” said Max. “Here’s the plan. We need gas. There’s a car up there at the house. We’re going to siphon it into our tank. James, I need you with me. You can move faster than I can with this leg. You OK with that, Georgia?”

  “Yeah,” said Georgia. She had her doubts and worries, but she knew that James was the best person for the job. He was young and quick. And he knew how to siphon gas. Georgia had showed him how once.

  “Good. I’ll keep guard. I need everyone else with their eyes peeled. I need someone looking in every direction, not just at the house. If anything goes wrong, we’re getting out of here as fast as possible.”

  “We’re just going to steal gas from someone?” said Mandy. “I don’t think that’s right.”

  “Those are the breaks,” said Max. “We don’t have any other options. If we don’t get gas, we’re stuck.”

  “But it’s not right,” said Mandy. “We might be preventing someone else from leaving, and saving their own life. Or their family’s lives.”

  “That’s right,” said Max. “But we’ve got to do it. We’re not going to take it by force. We’ll be thieves in the night. Trust me, I’m not proud of it.”

  Mandy didn’t say anything more.

  “All right, Georgia,” said Max. “Keep the lights off and creep up to that house. Get us right next to the Jeep. The gas cap is on the left side, facing the road.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I had the same Jeep,” said Max.

  With the lights off, Georgia drove as slowly as she could. The van was almost silent. A Prius would have been ideal, but the van wasn’t bad for keeping quiet. Not that Georgia would have ever been caught dead in a Prius in her past life. It just wasn’t her scene. Now, though, everything had changed, and she’d drive anything if it meant keeping her family safe, from a Prius to a tractor.

  They were going so slowly that it seemed to take forever. Finally, though, they were there. Georgia got as close as she could to the Jeep. She didn’t need to worry about leaving enough space between the vehicles to open the doors. Max was already in the back. The sliding door would work no matter how little space there was.

  “Perfect,” said Max. “Keep the engine on in case we need to make a quick getaway. You ready, James?”

  “Ready,” said James.

  Georgia knew her son well. She could hear the nervousness in his voice, even if the others couldn’t. And she could tell he was trying to act brave and do the right thing. Georgia was proud of him, but she wished that his life could have become something else. A life where he didn’t need to put on a brave face. He was just a teenager, after all.

  “You have the hose?” said Max.

  “Got it,” said James.

  Max had his gun in his hand as he slid open the minivan door. There was determination on his face, seen through the harsh shadows that the moon cast.

  “Leave the door open,” whispered Max. “Don’t speak above a whisper, everyone.”

  The last thing Max did before getting out of the van was hand his multi-tool to James. “They might have put a lock on the gas cap door. But you can pry it open with this.”

  Georgia’s job was to watch the house, to see if anyone came out. But it was hard. It was hard not to try to keep an eye on James, with the hose in his mouth.

  Georgia heard James coughing and sputtering. He must have gotten the gas into his mouth. That was good. It’d be flowing by now, filling the plastic water sack.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” whispered Mandy.

  “Everyone watching?” whispered Georgia, ignoring Mandy’s comment. “Everyone still awake?”

  “Yeah,” came all the replies.

  “I’m worried, Mom,” said Sadie, in a hushed voice.

  “It’s OK, Sadie,” said Georgia. But they were empty words, and she knew it. Nothing was OK. But there was nothing else to say.

  “Mom!” said Sadie, too loudly.

  “Quiet,” hissed Georgia.

  “No, Mom, look! The house.”

  Georgia had been looking back at Sadie. She turned towards the house.

  There was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms.

  But that was impossible. The EMP had taken out everything. Not just the electrical grid, but the generators too.

  At first, Georgia was too shocked to act.

  The light shifted in the room, changing brightness. Then it hit her. It wasn’t a normal light bulb. It was merely a high-powered flashlight. Someone was in there, moving around.

  “James!” hissed Georgia, probably too loudly. “Max! There’s someone coming.”

  No answer.

  “Max!” hissed Georgia again.

  “Just a little bit longer,” came Max’s reply.

  “We’ve got to go. Now!”

  “Just another moment… We’ve almost got it all.”

  Georgia was furious. Did Max really think a couple gallons of extra gas were important in a moment like this? After all, her son’s life was on the line. All their lives were on the line.

  The door to the house swung open. A near-blinding beam of light swung over the van.

  25

  John

  Their eyes were locked.

  John had had the luckiest break of his life, but it might not really do him any good.

  John didn’t know what to do. Should he try to escape? Up and out through the window? But he’d never make it in time. All this guy had to do was grab his legs.

  But maybe he’d just stand there, jammed gun in hand, unmoving.

  Of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

  He ran at John, moving suddenly. He moved his big, bulky body quickly.

  As he ran, he swung the handgun like a hammer in a huge arc. It was coming right towards John’s head.

  There was only one thing for John to do. He moved to the side as best he could. He brought the knife up and stabbed with it, thrusting it forward with all his force.

  The gun missed John’s head. Instead, it smashed into his shoulder. Pain flared.

  The knife went right into the man’s chest. It went deep. It was sickening, how the knife penetrated the flesh so easily.

  The man screamed.

  John tugged the knife out, puling as hard as he could. It came free.

  There was shouting upstairs. Heavy footsteps on the stairs again. More were coming down. It wouldn’t take them long.

  In a flash, hardly knowing what he was doing, John was at the
window. He hoisted himself up, his hands cupping the concrete window sill. He had to let go with one hand in order to undo the latch and open the window. It opened outwards, leaving an impossibly narrow space. John didn’t know if he could make it, but he was going to try.

  He hoisted himself up further, his muscles straining.

  Safety wasn’t guaranteed on the other side of the window. Most probably, certain death awaited him, in the form of a man with a gun. But if he got outside, at least there was a chance. If he stayed in the basement, he’d die. That was really certain.

  John squeezed himself through the window. He had to breathe in deeply to get through, and for a moment he thought he was stuck. But he pulled and pushed as hard as he possibly could, ignoring the horrible pain in his injured shoulder.

  He heard noises behind him in the basement. He ignored them. It wasn’t like he could turn around to see.

  He finally broke free, squeezing himself out into the dark night.

  A gunshot echoed in the basement. They’d fired at his feet, missing maybe by just an inch.

  John looked around frantically, expecting a gun in his face.

  But there was no one.

  There wasn’t time to think.

  He simply ran, as fast and as hard as he could. He didn’t know what direction he was headed in. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do next.

  John felt his feet hit the pavement. He must have reached the street.

  He kept running, knife in hand. He heard the door to the house swing open so forcefully that it slammed into the siding.

  They were after him. And they had guns. They’d shoot him dead in the street like a dog.

  Unless he could do something.

  But what was there to do?

  The sky was patchy with clouds, letting a substantial amount of moonlight through. If only the street had been darker, maybe they wouldn’t be able to see him well enough to shoot him.

  There was a dark patch off to the right. It was a small neighborhood park, full of tall trees with full leaves.

  John’s only hope was to get into that thick darkness, where the trees would shield him from the moonlight.

  He didn’t slow down as he turned, aiming towards the park.

  A shot rang out. He didn’t know if he’d made it yet to the darkness. There wasn’t time to check, to analyze the light. He just kept running. He felt no pain except in his shoulder. They must have missed him.

  John ran as fast and as hard as he could, for as long as he could. He ran through the park and he ran through empty suburban yards. He ran between houses and he ran across streets.

  He didn’t know if they were behind him. But he couldn’t continue. He collapsed onto the ground, his breathing ragged and his heart thumping crazily with fear and exertion.

  John lay on his back and looked up at the moon. He was too tired to check his surroundings, to see if he’d been followed, or if anyone else was there.

  He knew he had to keep going. Not immediately. But soon.

  The killings had been senseless. What had been gained by the deaths of Bill and the others? Maybe the militia had taken their guns, and the small amount of food and water they’d had with them. But surely that couldn’t have been the real reason. From what Bill had said, the militia, or the various militias, were after one thing, and that was power. There were people who’d do anything to scramble to the top, no matter what the situation. No matter what was required, including killing.

  And now, John was a wanted man. The suburbs had become enemy territory for him, and he was without supplies or backup. For just a moment, with Bill in the basement, there’d almost been a flicker of hope. A possibility that John could escape. But that had vanished. Bill was dead, and there was no hope that John was going to get out.

  26

  John

  Somehow, John had fallen asleep. He woke up with the early morning light. The birds were chirping as if the world hadn’t ended, as if society hadn’t collapsed.

  John sat up, wincing in pain from his shoulder.

  He was in a nice suburban backyard. There was a small in-ground pool, a glass outdoor table, lawn furniture. There was a croquet set, a couple hoses, and a small flower garden. Someone had planted something in a series of cinderblocks that lay against the back of the house.

  By all appearances, it was a charming suburban backyard.

  And it felt like a peaceful day. No lawnmower engines buzzed. No cars honked.

  Then again, certainly no one was making coffee and reading the daily paper. No one was watching cartoons.

  If there were people still in the house, they were hunkered down, probably in the basement or the attic, clutching whatever object they’d found that was the most weapon-like.

  John cursed himself for falling asleep. He needed to keep moving. The smart thing to do would be to move by night. At least that way, he could try to avoid being seen by the militia. But in the broad daylight, what chance did he have? From what Bill had said, the militia controlled all the roads. And there wasn’t any getting out of there without getting onto the roads at some point. There was only so far he could go through backyards.

  John’s kitchen knife lay next to him on the grass. The blade was coated in dried blood, and John carefully wiped it along the dewy grass, cleaning the blade. The kitchen knife had become his only reliable companion. When he’d left his apartment, he’d never thought he’d last long at all. And a lot of that “lasting” had to do with his knife. Well, that and dumb luck.

  John shouldn’t have been alive. He’d made four “friends” so far since his apartment, if you could really call them that. And he’d seen each one killed before his eyes. Why did John deserve to live and they didn’t?

  But he pushed those thoughts away. There was no sense in dwelling on that now. In doing so, John had another thought: his own thinking process was changing. That was natural. The EMP aftermath had shaped and molded his brain. Intense experiences tended to do that. John was noticing that slowly, little by little, he was becoming more practical minded. This way of thinking reminded him of his brother Max, who always looked to the practical first. Or at least what Max considered the practical.

  John needed a place to hide out for the day. He wasn’t going to risk traveling far during the daylight. Not after what he’d seen yesterday.

  He didn’t dare try to enter this house here. There was no way to know whether it was abandoned or not.

  If he tried to enter, there was a good chance he’d be attacked by the occupants. John didn’t want to fight some innocent family trying desperately to hold on. He was now willing to fight, but not like that. He’d fight people who came after him, who tried to take his own life away.

  The thought of entering the house, though, was temping. Inside, there might be food, water, a place to rest comfortably.

  But it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t risk it.

  John moved over to the cinderblocks. The plants growing inside looked odd. Long green stems. But no flowers. They triggered a distant memory. He’d seen them somewhere before.

  On a hunch, John dug down into the earth. His instinct had been right. Down in the dirt, potatoes were growing. He’d heard about this before—some trend of growing food inside cinderblocks. He didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

  John dug until he’d recovered all the potatoes. There was another batch of cinderblocks, and John dug through those. These didn’t contain potatoes. Instead, under the leaves, John found small wilted-looking peppers. He picked these as well.

  He couldn’t eat just yet. Instead, he surveyed the area, hoping to find somewhere to hide out.

  In the yard next door, there was a small shed. Maybe that would work. He could hide out in there until nightfall. He’d need some luck, though. There was a good chance someone might enter the shed, looking for something useful, like gasoline or other supplies.

  John had to climb over a fence to get to the next yard. He threw his handful of potatoes and pepp
ers over the fence first, and then hoisted himself over. His shoulder still burned with pain from getting smacked by the gun.

  He wished he had that gun. But there hadn’t been time to think of things like that. If he’d gone for the gun, there was a good chance he’d have been shot trying to get it, or trying to get out the window.

  John gathered up his potatoes and peppers. He was so hungry that his mouth was salivating as he scooped them up. The smell of the peppers was intense and delicious, and John didn’t even like peppers. It was hard for him not to sit down right there and eat everything. That was how hungry he was.

  Fortunately, the shed was unlocked.

  It was dark inside, and cramped. He couldn’t see much at all at first. Only a little bit of light came in through a couple gaps where the roof hadn’t been fitted correctly to the walls. It wasn’t one of those quality Amish sheds that many in Pennsylvania had. It was just some cheapo knock off, assembled hastily and poorly. But that worked in John’s favor now, since gradually, his eyes adjusted the darkness and soon enough he could see fairly well.

  John didn’t waste any time. He ate the potatoes first. They were raw, of course, but he bit into them like apples, eating the skin and everything. His stomach started to ache almost right away, but he ignored it. It was more important to get food into his stomach than worry about whether or not the raw potatoes might make him sick.

  Next, he ate the peppers. Normally, he hated spicy food. But the potatoes hadn’t been nearly enough. After all, when was the last time he’d eaten? There’d been that stale bread, but that didn’t have any protein. And then there’d been that bar food. Not much protein there either.

  John remembered reading that potatoes actually contained high quality protein. They didn’t show up on the normal nutrition charts as high-protein foods, however, because the protein content was normally measured against the whole weight of the potatoes, including the water. The article John had read had mentioned that during lean times in Ireland, workers were known to survive on nothing but potatoes. Of course, John didn’t know whether he’d be able to effectively assimilate the protein in raw potatoes. Judging by his stomach cramps, there were some problematic components of the potatoes that were normally neutralized by cooking.