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

by Ryan Westfield

  Whatever, he couldn’t worry about that now.

  The peppers stung his mouth horribly. They were incredibly hot. John didn’t know what type of peppers they were, except that they were an orange-red and incredibly shriveled looking. He was pretty sure that the more shriveled a pepper appeared, the hotter it was on whatever index it was that the experts used to measure spiciness.

  For a long while, perhaps hours, John sat with his back against the cheap plywood shed wall. His mouth burned, since there was nothing to wash the peppers down with. His back ached, his shoulder and stomach hurt, and his legs were cramping up, since there was no room to stretch them out.

  But at least he was safe for now.

  Relatively safe.

  Finally, John’s legs couldn’t take it anymore. He had to stretch them.

  He was nervous about making any noise that could be heard outside the shed, in case someone was nearby. He had no way to know if someone was inches away from him on the other side of the shed walls. He doubted he’d be able to hear soft footsteps on the grass.

  So far, though, he hadn’t heard any noises at all. Nothing but the birds.

  John set about rearranging the things in the shed as quietly as he could. It seemed as if no one had been inside it in years. There was a thick layer of dusty grime over most things, and soon John’s fingers and hands were filthy.

  There was an old lawnmower in one corner, along with a plastic gas can that made the whole shed smell like gas and made John even more nauseated than he already felt. The half-opened cans of paint and lacquer didn’t help either.

  John suddenly realized that having gas inside the shed could be bad. Really bad. Surely people would need gas now, more than ever before. Someone was bound to start entering sheds, looking for gas.

  But maybe he’d be lucky. Maybe no one would come.

  As John was rearranging things, moving them as slowly and quietly as he could, stacking them on top of one another, he realized he should be looking for things that could be useful to him. He felt dumb for not thinking of it earlier.

  There wasn’t bound to be food in the shed, but there had to be something he could use… some sort of weapon, maybe, or some flashlights. If he could find some old camping gear, maybe that would help him.

  It took John at least another hour to find what he was looking for. He’d finally arranged all the old rotten wood in one corner. He’d gotten all the rusty gardening tools together and put them above the wood. He’d taken a long hoe that seemed like it was well made and set it aside, thinking he might take it with him. The handle was a strong, dense wood, and the metal head, while a little rusty, seemed like it was well made, of real steel. It was one of those old tools, from back when things were made properly. The edge had been maintained and sharpened over the years, possibly obsessively, until it had been left to sit unused in the shed for who knew how long. It’d probably been used for edging work. John cut his finger as he ran it across the blade.

  John could use it as a weapon and a walking stick.

  There was also a hatchet, completely covered in rust. It was one of those classic hatchets, the kind they’d sold in hardware stores across the country for decades. They cost about $25 and worked fine, but they weren’t very stain resistant. Taking an edge wasn’t their strong suit, but it would do the job, even with the rust and imperfect edge.

  The hatchet could be a good weapon. And if John ever got into the woods, out of the suburbs, maybe he could use it to build a shelter. That was the sort of thing Max would have thought of. And this was the time when thinking like Max, well, it was just the right way to think about things.

  John didn’t find the payload for another twenty minutes, moving everything around so slowly and delicately, conscious of the noise, always listening for approaching footsteps or the sound of an engine.

  Underneath a dirt-caked tarp, there it was.

  An ancient backpack. Looked like army surplus, maybe. It was the kind of pack that hippy kids used to use to hitchhike around the US in the ‘70s.

  The pack seemed full. John tried not to get his hopes up. For all he knew, maybe it was just filled with trash, empty liquor bottles or something, a memento of a misspent youth long ago.

  He almost couldn’t believe it when he opened up the pack.

  Inside, it appeared to be completely full of camping gear.

  There was an ancient tent, large and bulky. But it fit inside the pack just fine.

  There were two water bottles, full of stale water. Who knew how old the water was.

  There was a small emergency medical kit, and a bottle of prescription sleeping pills. Best of all, the rest of the pack was filled with energy bars. They had old labels on them, with graphics that made John think they’d been produced sometime in the mid to late ‘90s.

  The contents of the pack were strange. John’s best guess was that about twenty years ago, someone had packed up their old backpack for a camping trip that they never ended up taking. After that, the bag had stayed, still packed, forgotten in the shed.

  There wasn’t much else in the pack. It wasn’t complete by any sense of the imagination. But it would be enough.

  John immediately went for the water. He smelled it first, and it had a strange odor to it. But he figured it was a risk he’d have to take. He took his first sip and almost spit it out.

  But John realized that the majority of the strange taste was most likely coming from the aluminum of the water bottle seeping into the water. He could deal with a little aluminum. It wasn’t like he’d die from that any time soon, if at all. And if there was bacteria in the water? Well, he’d deal with that too. It was better than dying of thirst.

  He had to force himself not to drink the whole bottle at once. Who knew when the next time he’d get water was.

  John tore into one of the energy bars, which had gone hard and stale over the years. But it didn’t smell too strange, and it actually still tasted good. It had a lot of sugar in it, and John wouldn’t have been able to describe how intensely pleasing the taste of real sugar was in that moment. It seemed to warm his body and give him more mental strength to continue.

  Now he had gear. Maybe he actually stood a chance.

  Now all he had to do was get out of the suburbs and not get discovered. That was going to be hard, if not impossible.

  But he’d try.

  John dozed off once or twice during the rest of the day, but mostly he just waited. He tried his best to think of a plan, to map out a route. But his thinking wasn’t as clear as he would have liked. Probably from the intense stress he was feeling. He just couldn’t seem to conjure up a picture of a map in his head.

  The best thing to do was simply try. He’d head through the yard and parks as much as he could, keeping off of the roads. He’d eventually make his way far enough north that the suburbs would give way to the more rural areas. Then, he’d stay away from the highways and roads and stay well within the woods, hidden from prying eyes by the trees and thick late summer foliage.

  If he made it that far, his biggest problem might simply be finding the farmhouse. He didn’t have a map, and he hadn’t been to the farmhouse since he was a kid. He vaguely remembered what the area looked like. But it wasn’t like he’d ever actually driven up there himself. He’d been a kid, riding in the back seat with Max. His parents, obviously, had done all the navigating.

  It seemed like a long shot. Almost impossible. Then again, maybe he’d see something along the way that would give him a clue to where he was and where he needed to go. Maybe he’d come across some landmark.

  That was all based on the hope that he wouldn’t simply die in the woods.

  The day seemed to stretch forever, with nothing to do but stare at the walls, make seemingly futile plans, and re-check his newfound gear over and over.

  Finally, it was nightfall. There were still no sounds outside the shed.

  John waited through dusk, growing increasingly impatient. Why couldn’t the sun just set faster? Di
d it really have to take its sweet time going down? Didn’t it need a rest like everyone else?

  Maybe John’s thoughts were turning a little strange. Then again, maybe it was normal. Since the EMP, John had probably spent more time alone than he had in a long, long time. His work life involved dealing with people constantly, and he wasn’t the type to stay at home by himself. He’d always been out and about, with a hot date on his arm and money in his pocket.

  John had read stories about people in extreme situations, people who’d had to fight for their lives. He remembered a story about a man who’d been stuck at sea for six months, living off seagull meat and blood. When he’d eventually been rescued, he’d been unrecognizable to his family. Not that his appearance had changed much. Instead, it was his personality. He was just different. A human can’t go through such a harrowing experience and come out the other side the same person. It’s just not possible.

  But that man at sea had a civilization to come back to.

  John didn’t.

  And no one else did either.

  Maybe whatever changes John was going through mentally, they’d be permanent ones. And maybe that wasn’t so bad. He was adapting to his new environment. He’d killed it in the financial field, and now those skills didn’t serve him anymore. Maybe it was a testament to his character that he was able to make the changes necessary, even if he was doing a clumsy amateur job of the whole thing so far.

  In the silent darkness, John got his things together. He hoisted the ancient backpack onto his shoulders. It was heavy, and his shoulder hurt from the strap.

  He tucked the rusted hatchet into one of the straps on the side of the backpack. He put his kitchen knife in an odd sort of pocket that someone must have sewn onto the side of the backpack. It fit in there nicely, and with a little luck, he’d be able to reach it easily.

  One hand was free, and the other held the long hoe.

  His heart was pounding in his chest as he finally reached for the handle to the door of the shed.

  It was time to continue his journey.

  27

  Max

  “Get away from my car,” shouted the man in the door of the house.

  “Keep going,” whispered Max to James.

  James obeyed him, holding the plastic tubing through which the gasoline flowed.

  “We’ve got to go!” hissed Georgia from inside the minivan.

  But Max knew they needed to wait. They needed that gas more than anything. It was worth the risk. It was worth the danger.

  Max wasn’t going to risk James’s young life, though.

  Glock in hand, Max stood up from behind the Jeep, making himself visible. He wanted to make himself the target, and not James.

  Maybe it was dumb. Maybe it was the dumbest thing he’d ever done. And at the start of the EMP, Max had been the guy who’d just been interested in looking out for himself. His attitude couldn’t have changed quicker.

  “Get off my property,” shouted the man in the doorway.

  His flashlight blinded Max. He tried to shield his eyes, but the flashlight was too bright.

  “It’s dumb to waste your batteries on us,” said Max loudly. “You’re using the brightest setting. Turbo mode, probably. Won’t last more than ten minutes. I know my flashlights.”

  Max was just stalling for time. He wasn’t actually concerned about whether the man burned up his flashlight batteries or not.

  “I’ve got a gun,” shouted the man.

  Max could hear the fear in his voice. He had a strong hunch that he wouldn’t shoot.

  Then again, everything was different know. People were doing things they’d never have done before.

  And fear could propel people to do things they’d normally never dream of.

  “Got it all,” whispered James.

  Max heard James pulling the tube from the Jeep.

  “Make sure you get the tube,” whispered Max out of the side of his mouth.

  “We’re leaving,” said Max loudly. “There’s no need for any violence.”

  Max backed up slowly. He made sure James had gotten into the minivan before he himself did.

  Max’s heart was thumping in his chest as he slowly got into the van. It felt like an impossibly long moment, a moment in which Max could easily take a bullet from the stranger.

  But he didn’t shoot. Max’s instincts had been right.

  “Go,” said Max.

  The van was already moving. Georgia was on the ball.

  She was driving fast, headlights back on, down the narrow country road. There was nothing in front of them, and just dark trees on either side.

  “You could have both gotten killed,” said Georgia.

  She sounded angry. Max knew she had every reason to be. Max had put her son, not to mention all of them, in danger. But he’d weighed the risks against the final outcome. It had paid off, but it easily could have gone the other way.

  Max would take the blame. And he was OK with that.

  “We needed the gas,” said Max.

  “James could have been shot,” said Georgia. “And you could have prevented it. It was his neck on the line.”

  She sounded angrier than Max had ever heard her. It wasn’t like her. She had a good understand of necessity, and James had been in danger before. But Max could understand why this particular situation would bother her more than others. To her, it had probably seemed as if Max was being intentionally reckless.

  “Mom,” said James, piping up. “It’s OK. Nothing happened. And Max actually put himself on the line… He stood up. He would have been the one to get shot. Not me.”

  Georgia didn’t say anything more. But no one else spoke, and the atmosphere in the van was tense for the next hour or so until the sun started to come up.

  Max was busy doing mental calculations around their gas usage. The minivan wasn’t running as efficiently as it should have, and they’d need more gas soon. Maybe they could make it another eight hours of solid driving, and maybe they couldn’t.

  And there was no guarantee that when they eventually got low again on gas that there’d be another situation that allowed them to refuel.

  No one in the car was asleep, and various foods from the Millers were passed around. They all agreed to save the beef jerky as much as possible, since they’d need protein along the way. But it was hard to do, since they all found it the most appetizing thing to eat. Maybe their bodies were giving them signals through their cravings, telling them that they needed more protein.

  The best thing to do would be to keep their eyes peeled for another car to siphon gas from. They could fill up the water sack and carry the gas with them in the van. That way, they’d have more of a choice in when they decided to put their necks on the line again, rather than waiting for the gas to run out.

  Max knew it wouldn’t be a popular idea. He knew Georgia wouldn’t like it. But it made the most sense, and he was going to speak his mind no matter how it was taken.

  “Listen,” said Max, breaking the silence that seemed to echo through the minivan. “We’re going to need more gas soon enough… and…” He explained his thinking.

  Of course, Georgia objected.

  “I don’t see why it’s any less risky to get the gas sooner rather than later,” said Georgia.

  “It lets us choose the situation,” said Max. “It gives us more of a strategic advantage.”

  “It didn’t do us much good before.”

  She was still mad. But that was OK with Max. He understood.

  “I think Max is right,” said James.

  “He’s got a good point,” said Mandy. “It’s going to be dangerous either way. We might as well have some advantage.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” said Chad. “I don’t see any other cars anyway. We haven’t driven past a house in miles.”

  “We passed one a ways back,” said Mandy. “You were just asleep.”

  Just then, a car appeared in front of them, coming around a blind curve. I
ts headlights were on, despite the rising sun.

  “Shit,” muttered Georgia. “Let’s hope this goes well.”

  “Just keep driving,” said Max.

  Georgia had to slow down because of the curve. They couldn’t have been going more than twenty-five miles an hour. The other car wasn’t going quickly either. It was an older SUV, and as it got closer Max recognized it as a Ford Bronco.

  “What do you think I should do?” said Georgia.

  “Hopefully they’ll just drive right on by,” said Mandy. “That’s what the others did.”

  The two vehicles passed one another, going slowly.

  Max turned to look.

  Inside, there were two men wearing light jackets. Their heads were almost shaved. One of them had a tattoo running up his neck. It reminded Max of the convicts who’d attacked him in the woods heading to the farmhouse.

  The men stared right into the minivan. There was cruelty in their faces.

  “Are they going to kill us?” said Sadie weakly.

  No one answered.

  The moment had only lasted for an instant. The minivan was past them now.

  “Let’s just hope they don’t turn around,” said Max. He turned around himself, to get a better look. Everyone else turned too, craning their heads.

  Just before the minivan was about to disappear around the bend in the road, the Ford Bronco’s brake lights went on, a bright red in the early morning light.

  The last thing Max saw before they rounded the corner was the Bronco slowing down to a complete stop.

  “Shit,” muttered Max. “I think they’re turning around.”

  “What can we do about it?” said Chad.

  “Not much,” said Max. “There don’t seem to be a lot of turn offs on this road. And I doubt we can park somewhere and hide…”

  “Drive faster, Mom,” said Sadie.

  “It’s not going to do any good,” said Max. “We’ll have to face them sooner or later. But we have the advantage. We outnumber them. Now where are those semi-automatics?”