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

by Ryan Westfield

  It might have been the first time they’d talked in days. John wasn’t sure.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cynthia.

  “We’d better go around it.”

  “There’s no movement.”

  “Yeah, but who knows what it is.”

  “Let’s go a little closer.”

  John knew why she was saying this. Even though they were safe, they were becoming stimuli-starved. The woods looked the same day in and day out, and they simply hadn’t seen anything resembling civilization in a long time. Something metallic and shiny and large was bound to be interesting.

  “OK,” said John.

  He was feeling despondent, possibly, and more willing to take a risk. After all, maybe they’d never find the farmhouse. And their supplies wouldn’t last forever. What would they do after that?

  He and Cynthia broke tradition by walking side by side through the woods, towards the metallic glinting.

  The object was bigger than they’d thought. It seemed to stretch forever.

  As they got closer, John suddenly realized what it was.

  Cynthia had the same realization. At the same time.

  “Shit,” muttered John.

  Cynthia covered her mouth with her hands in horror and surprise.

  It was a commercial airplane, crashed in the Pennsylvania woods. It was a big plane, the type that carried hundreds of people, but John didn’t know what the model number would have been.

  There was no movement. There didn’t seem to be anyone there.

  John doubted there’d be survivors. He scanned the area near the plane, and saw bits of the wreckage scattered among the trees in a line for miles. Trees had toppled over, shattered and broken.

  The closer they got, the more horrific the crash appeared to be. There was simply no way there were survivors.

  “They must have lost power during the EMP,” said John. “This is an old crash. Must have happened weeks ago.”

  The cabin of the plane was torn completely open, revealing a scattering of decomposing bodies, victims of the crash.

  John didn’t know what to think or feel. He’d seen so much death already. But this was… it was different, somehow.

  Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she looked at the bodies.

  “Come on,” said John. “We’ve got to see if there’s any food.”

  “I… can’t…” said Cynthia.

  “Come on,” said John. “I know you can do it. You want to live just as much as I do.”

  The truth was, his desire to live spiked and plummeted constantly, and he never knew quite where he stood anymore.

  Whatever fires had burned here had long gone out, leaving scattered and charred remains of things long past the point of recognition.

  John and Cynthia walked through the wreckage, through the bodies, hunting down packets of airplane food that might have survived.

  They spent three hours in the rising sun looking for food. They came away from the carcass of the aircraft sweating with exertion, the images of burned and torn apart bodies fresh in their minds. Miraculously, some of the airplane food had somehow survived. Maybe 20 meals or so, and pieces here and there of other meals. Some of the pre-packaged meals had been torn apart, the food exposed to the air, but John took these anyway.

  “About a week’s worth of extra food,” said John, flopping down onto the ground between two large pine trees, well away from the aircraft.

  Cynthia didn’t say anything.

  They both fell asleep without even getting out their blankets, completely forgetting their watch system.

  John woke up when the sun was going down. His body had gotten used to this odd sleeping schedule.

  “Shit,” he muttered, seeing Cynthia asleep as well.

  He shook her awake.

  “What?” she said groggily.

  “We forgot to do watches,” said John.

  “Well, we’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  That was all that was said about it.

  They ate in silence. John relished the airplane food. It may not have been good, and some of it may have been partially rotten, but at least it wasn’t another damn energy bar.

  “You’re not going to eat the airplane food?” said John, watching Cynthia biting into yet another energy bar.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Not without thinking about those bodies.”

  “Well, you’ll get hungry soon enough,” said John. “We don’t have a lot of these bars left.”

  They got up and started walking, heading north.

  They were both tired and impossibly weary. The long journey had taken a toll on them. They stopped walking single file and began meandering through the woods, losing a lot of the discipline that John had insisted upon for the earlier part of the journey.

  “I don’t think we’re ever going to find it,” said John.

  “Find what?”

  “The farmhouse,” said John.

  “Oh,” said Cynthia, as if she’d forgotten the point of the whole trip.

  “At least,” said John. “We’ve gotten pretty far away from everything. We’re safe from the militia out here.”

  “Yeah,” said Cynthia.

  She had never really gotten over her husband’s death, it seemed, and continued to carry the sadness with her.

  “Wait,” said John, pointing ahead. “Do you see that?”

  “What?”

  “That big old tree there.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “I… I remember that tree… Max and I used to go out there and climb up its old gnarled branches…”

  When they reached the tree, John stepped closer to examine it. Sure enough, it was the tree. It was unmistakable, with its huge, knotty branches and permanently-wilted looking leaves. Whatever type of tree it was, it was ancient.

  “We’re close to the farmhouse,” said John. He could feel the excitement building up inside of him. “We’re close! Shit, I can’t believe it. After all that… all those mistakes… I thought we’d missed it by miles for sure.”

  “You sure this is the tree?” said Cynthia.

  “Dead sure.”

  “So we’re close to your brother? The one who’s super prepared and everything?”

  A smile was starting to grow across Cynthia’s face. It was the first time John had ever seen her smile.

  “We’re very close,” said John. “It’s just down this way. Come on.”

  John was excited to see the brother that he’d barely spoken to in a decade. He was excited to find a home, to feel safe. Maybe he could become useful at the farmhouse, maybe he’d feel like he belonged. It would be their safe haven, a place to escape from the horrors of what the world had become.

  “There it is,” said John, leading Cynthia out of the woods and into the field.

  The farmhouse stood there in front of them, illuminated in the moonlight, looking more or less how it always had. John almost couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe that after all that, he’d finally arrived.

  “I don’t see anyone,” said Cynthia.

  “They’re probably inside,” said John.

  “Don’t you think they’d have someone on watch?”

  “Uh, I guess,” said John. It did seem a little strange to him. “But maybe they’re on the other side of the house or something. Or hidden. I mean, knowing Max, he’d have it all set up perfectly… everything would be just right.”

  John suddenly had to confront an idea that he’d been avoiding since he’d left his apartment in Philly. The fact was that John didn’t actually know if Max had gotten to the farmhouse. It simply seemed like the most logical thing that could have happened. And if John had survived, how would it even be possible that Max, who was certainly going to have been wildly prepared, wouldn’t have survived? It was a sobering thought, and John pushed it aside yet again.

  “Come on,” said John.

  Together, they walked across the field and up the
steps to the old porch at the front of the farmhouse.

  “I don’t hear anyone,” said Cynthia.

  “Uh, maybe they’re out hunting or something,” said John. “Or looking for edible plants. I’m sure Max knows all about that stuff…”

  “Why do you think he has others with him? Maybe it’s just him.”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I just kind of figured… it would make more sense with more people. Max is pretty strategic. But yeah, he can be kind of a loner too… Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s just him by himself here. Maybe he’s hiding out. Maybe he saw us approaching and didn’t recognize us or something. He’ll be glad to have us here. We can help him defend the house… We can start growing crops…”

  John was trying so hard to believe that, against all odds, Max was here, that he was growing almost delirious with artificial excitement about all the possibilities. The facts were that no one seemed to be there.

  “Max!” cried John, knocking loudly on the wood door. “Max! It’s me, John, your brother. Your long lost brother! Come out from wherever you’re hiding.”

  No one answered.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here,” said Cynthia, putting her hand on John’s shoulder.

  “No,” said John. “He’s got to be here. He’s just got to be.”

  John lit one of the candles from Cynthia’s house, holding it aloft in front of him.

  The door was unlocked and John pushed it and went inside.

  In the flickering candlelight, John saw a body on the floor, lying face down.

  John gasped.

  “Is it your brother?” said Cynthia, her voice quiet.

  John bent down to examine the body. He turned the stiff body, grunting with exertion, until the lifeless face turned towards him.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  They moved through the house, finding a total of ten bodies, none of them Max.

  “It looks like there was a huge battle here,” said Cynthia.

  She was probably right. There were bullet holes in the walls and there was blood on the floor. Not to mention the ten corpses, stiff and already stinking.

  “I’m guessing there were two groups, fighting for control of the house,” said John.

  “Makes sense, from what I can see,” said Cynthia.

  They moved from room to room. In the upstairs, there were no bodies.

  “This is the bedroom Max and I stayed in once when we were kids,” said John, gesturing to an open door.

  Inside, there was an unmade bed. On the bedside table, there was a book on a nightstand, lying halfway open, spine up. It was a book on edible plants in Pennsylvania.

  John picked up the book and flipped through it. There were notes in the margins, and the handwriting was unmistakably Max’s.

  “It’s Max’s handwriting,” said John.

  “Look at this,” said Cynthia, flipping through a cheap notebook she’d taken from the bed. “It’s some kind of journal.”

  John took it from her and opened it. There weren’t many entries, and they weren’t dated. It was unmistakably Max’s handwriting, the same adult-like writing he’d used even as a child.

  “Worried that people will be coming from the cities,” read the first entry. “We have someone on watch at all times. But we may have to abandon the farmhouse and head to more rural areas. Lower population density means lower risk.”

  Below the entry, there was a rudimentary plan on how Max and his group might escape. He made mention of various people that John had never heard of, names like Mandy and Georgia. At the bottom, though, the name “Chad” appeared.

  “Chad?” muttered John. “Chad Hofstetter? No, it couldn’t be…” John remembered Chad well from childhood, the guy who’d never had it together and was never going to get it together. Last John had heard, Chad was still partying hard and working odd jobs to pay for his drugs, selling his blood plasma when he couldn’t come up with the money for his next fix.

  “Sounds like your brother is still alive,” said Cynthia.

  “Maybe,” said John. “Sounds like he got out. But what are we going to do?”

  “We could stay here.”

  “Stay here, and wait for more people to come, ones like the dead men in the hallways and living room? We don’t even have any guns.”

  “We could try,” said Cynthia.

  John sat down heavily on the bed.

  “I guess so,” he said, looking around the room that was so similar to his memory. So similar and yet the situation was so different. Society had collapsed. Who would have thought that he’d be back here decades later, wondering if he’d survive the next day?

  “There are guns,” said Cynthia. “Didn’t you see all the guns those dead men have? There are dozens of them. We could use them to defend this place. We could even hunt animals… We’ll do watch shifts, just like when we were hiking…”

  She seemed to think it could work. John wasn’t so sure.

  “I guess,” he said. “I mean, I’m tired of walking. I’m tired of running…”

  “There’s food here, too,” said Cynthia. “I mean, there must be. Those guys have gear. Didn’t you see their packs? Probably stuffed to the gills with food.”

  John didn’t know why, but he started laughing. It just seemed to crazy to him that Cynthia sounded excited about the food in some dead men’s packs. Then again, he’d shared a similar feeling when examining the crashed aircraft.

  John let himself fall back onto the bed. His knees hung over the mattress, and the tips of his shoes barely touched the hardwood floor.

  He kept laughing, laughing at the situation, laughing at the world, laughing at everything.

  To John’s surprise, Cynthia lay herself down on the bed. She turned on her side and pushed herself up against John. She buried her head in the crook of his arm and laughed along with him.

  35

  Sadie

  Sadie’s tears had been slow to stop.

  She remembered James pulling her, practically dragging her, away from the van and into the woods.

  The four of them had sprinted through the trees. The branches had smacked into them, cutting them.

  They’d run and run, and Sadie had cried the entire time. She couldn’t believe that her mom and Max had done what they’d done. Sadie had protested, but no one had listened. And she couldn’t believe that James had gone along with the plan.

  Chad had led the way, followed by James and Sadie. Sadie’d never seen Chad run so fast. Mandy took up the rear, shouting words of encouragement, telling them to keep going, to keep running.

  They’d all run until they couldn’t run any more, until their feet ached and their hearts pounded, feeling like they’d give out, until their lungs ached for air.

  And they hadn’t stopped to rest. Chad had urged them forward, telling them they had to at least walk.

  There was no way to know what had happened to her mom and Max. Sadie remembered hearing the van speeding away, the door slamming. But that was it. By the time the Bronco drove by, that evil, vicious looking SUV, Sadie and the others were too deep into the woods to hear it.

  No one spoke as they walked through the woods for hours and hours. The hours turned into a full day. They’d seen nothing and no one, nothing except the endless trees.

  Memories of her former life flashed through Sadie’s mind as she walked. She remembered the times that her mother had wanted to take her hunting, but Sadie had been more interested in watching TV and texting her friends. She remembered how she’d never wanted to go to school, to sit in those boring classrooms and listen to someone tell her stuff she either already knew or didn’t need to know. How she longed for a classroom now! Those climate-controlled rooms, once so bland and stark, couldn’t have seemed more appealing compared to the forest, the horrible forest that seemed to stretch forever, terrible and vicious in its own way. And those chairs! The straight-backed chairs permanently fixed to those tiny, obnoxious desks. What Sadie wouldn’t have given to have o
ne with her right now…

  Sadie felt guilty about even thinking about comfort when her mother was most likely dead. But she couldn’t cry any more. It felt like her eyes had no more tears to give.

  “Sadie,” said James, tugging on her sleeve.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear Chad and Mandy? We’re stopping for the night.”

  “Oh,” said Sadie.

  She felt dazed, lost in the strange world of her own thoughts.

  “We can’t start a fire,” said Chad. “It’s too risky.”

  “Here,” said Mandy, putting her arm around Sadie and handing her a bag of beef jerky. “Eat some of this. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Sadie, which was the truth.

  But Mandy and everyone else urged her to eat, and she did feel better afterwards.

  The night was long. Impossibly long. They had nothing to sleep in. No sleeping bags, and the ground was cold. Summer was approaching its end, and the cold weather would be coming in soon.

  “James?” whispered Sadie, curled up in the darkness. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think Mom’s OK?”

  Sadie didn’t know why she asked. She was already convinced that her mother and Max were both dead, and that the men in the Bronco would be coming for them soon.

  “Yeah,” said James. “You know Mom, she’s tough. And Max, you can’t get anything by that guy.”

  “Thanks,” said Sadie. She suddenly realized that she’d asked because she was looking for comforting words, even if she knew in her heart that they were wrong.

  The group barely spoke in the morning, except for a brief discussion about whether they were on the right track to get to Albion, the small town that Max had mentioned.

  Sadie didn’t get the sense that any of them actually thought there was a good chance of meeting Georgia and Max at Albion. But they all knew that they had to at least try.

  After another few hours of hiking, in what Chad insisted was the wrong direction, they found Route 90, a huge, empty highway. The woods just miraculously ended. Sadie had never been so happy to see a highway in her life. It meant an end to the endless woods.