by Matt Hart
The Fractured Earth (Apocalypse Makers Book 1)
by
Matt Hart
Copyright © 2015 by Matt Hart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
Forward
Special thanks goes to my lovely wife, Kelly, who is always the first to read my stories, give me feedback, and keep asking me when the next book will be finished. Thanks also to my editor, Lee Burton (@PaperSeraglio) and cover illustrator Elizabeth Mackey (@emackeydesign).
Other Books by Matt Hart
Surviving The Day (Apocalypse Makers Book 2)
Tie Your Shoes and Desert, short stories from The Perseid Collapse (available only on Kindle)
ApocalypseMakers.com
Table of Contents
Forward
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
—————
Erin
I hate these rolling blackouts!
That was my first thought. On really hot days the power might go out for a few hours, to save electricity I guess. I didn't know what they were saving it for, since we needed it for our air conditioners. Oh well, it was a nice day, nowhere near hot enough for blackouts, and maybe we'd miss the rest of Mrs. Hairy Knuckles' college English prep class, the worst and most boring class ever invented to torture us poor souls.
Then I felt the ground shake and heard a distant crash. "Earthquake!" yelled Mrs. Obvious Hairy Knuckles. "Everybody outside!" I stood up like everyone else, but I didn't feel the ground moving. We get some quakes here in San Diego, but this felt different.
"Come on, Miss Erin, outside!" I hated that she called everyone "Mr." or "Miss,” but then used our first names. What an idiot. I stomped out of the classroom with Mrs. Needs Deodorant right behind me, walked down the hall to the right, and slowed a bit since I didn't feel any other shaking.
"I think—" I was pushed forward gently by Mrs. Don’t You Freakin’ Touch Me! I spun out of the push, grabbed her arm, and jammed my palm into her right shoulder, slamming her against the lockers with a loud bang.
"Don't. Touch. Me," I gasped, adrenalin surging through me. I'd been touched once before by a teacher, and not just on the back. Teachers were not allowed to touch a student. Ever. I made damn sure of that, and I took Tae-Kwon-Do to add an extra level of surety to it.
I didn't hurt her, but as intended I sure scared the crap out of her. I sniffed. Or at least the pee out of her. I smiled an evil grin, stepped back, and walked down the hall. Since we were the last ones out, I don't think anyone else saw me do that.
Pity.
I continued down to the emergency "Don't open this door!" door and opened it, stepping out into the bright sunshine. Mrs. Peed On Her Hairy Legs didn't follow me out. Good.
The door was silent, then I remembered that the power was out. I saw everyone shuffling around to their designated "safe zones.” Mine was near a beautiful huge palm, not sure what kind. Its fronds would drop off every once in a while, sometimes with a nice, sharp edge on it. I picked up a fallen leaf and tested its edge with my thumb. Kinda dull, but okay. Whack someone hard enough with this one, they'd feel it.
The other students were looking at me like the freak loner that I was. Screw 'em, I thought, smirking. There's Airhead Bud, who desperately wanted to be friends with someone, anyone; Barbie and Friends; plus the Geek Squad, and the Creep Squad. Their members were almost interchangeable, all with misfit clothing and greasy hair covered with flecks of white. The only way to tell them apart was to catch them looking in your direction. The Geek Squad looked past you and didn't see you, while the Creep Squad quickly looked away as if they'd been caught at something.
Creeps.
Just one more year.
I tried to ignore the buzzing of all their noise holes and looked toward the west, the horizon, the ocean, my best friend. I could smell it from here. I wanted to get on a sailboat and just go. Somewhere, anywhere—anywhere alone. I loved the smell of the salt air, the spray on my face. I loved the whipping of the sails and the soft splash and creak of the boat. It was both quiet and full of sounds, and you could feel the shape of the wind itself in the tiller.
I liked the doldrums, the quiet, still waters like glass, broken by the splash of a bare foot or the joy of a leap. Just to sit on the deck, dropping a line into the mystery and maybe pulling up one of its treasures. Or perhaps anchoring near a quiet, hidden bay and diving into the waters to view the wonders, dimly and briefly, like they were put there just for that moment in time.
I loved to sit on the deck curled under my rain gear as the wind sang through the shrouds, my father deftly guiding the boat through the swells, both of us tied to safety lines. Only once did we go below deck and huddle in the cabin, our sea anchors holding us back against the runaway winds of a tropical depression.
The thought of my dad broke the siren song of the ocean. I turned reluctantly away and looked back toward the city without power and sucked in a breath. A huge plume of smoke could be seen in the distance, and even as I watched a big passenger jet tumbled out of the sky, not even trying to land.
"Terrorists!" someone yelled. I looked back, but it could have been anyone. I could see people tapping their phones, so I pulled mine out to see if there was any news, but it was dead. I put it back in my pocket and walked over to Mr. Airhead, since I knew he'd be desperate to tell anyone what was happening, and I could see him tapping away at his phone.
"What's happened?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. I hated terrorists almost as much as I hated people touching me.
"Erin, hi! Uh, I don't know. Uh, my phone isn't working, but, uh, I, it was charged this morning!" He was freaking out. I looked around. Everyone was going on an old fashioned freak-out, as my mom used to say, shaking their phones and yelling at them.
What was happening here? I felt my heart racing, so I used a martial arts technique to calm myself, taking a couple of deep breaths, expanding my stomach as I breathed through my nose, and slowly letting it out of my mouth. I opened my eyes and took in the scene.
Hundreds of students stood outside the school on a sunny day. The power had gone out around the same time the ground shook, but it must have been an airplane crashing nearby. I looked up in the sky, all around and as far as I could see. I dunno if I could escape a crashing Dreamliner, but I could damn well try.
I tuned in to the voices chattering away—which I usually avoided.
"...stupid iPhone ... broken ... game tonight ... I think he's cute, too! ... hungry ... my mom ... nuclear ... what this means?"
I looked toward the sound of the last two, the Geek Squad, and walked over.
"Yeah, I think so. Seems like an EMP."
"Yeah, but I didn't see one, so maybe it was solar," said a kid who probably spent more time in the sun in the last five minutes than the previous five years.
"Hey," I said. "What was that again? What does EMP mean?"
Mr. Pasty Face started to scoff, but turned it into a fake cough when he realized an actual, good-looking person of the opposite se
x had asked him a question.
At least I think I'm good looking. I don't put on makeup except for base—I'd rather my face not shine in the light like the greasers I'm talking to.
"Oh, hi, Erin. Uh, it's an electromagnet pulse."
"Electromagnetic pulse, you mean. Get it right," said another one of the geeks.
"Yeah, I mean, uh, electromagnetic pulse."
Why do boys do nothing but stutter around me? Idiots.
"Okay," I said, "What is that?"
Another geek interrupted in a slight breach of geek etiquette by jumping into a conversation with a real girl, saying, "It's a theoretical wave of powerful energy that can disrupt the circuits of modern electronics."
"Not disrupt, destroy," countered Mr. Pasty Face. "And it isn't theoretical either, it's proven."
"Not at this level of effect it isn't."
"It's just a matter of scale since it's happened before and does all the time from solar storms."
"It's not all the time, it's just some malfunctions..."
"All right guys, I got it!" I exclaimed, interrupting their pointless arguing. "So, electronics were destroyed or disabled by an energy pulse." They all nodded their heads in unison. Like a bunch of ugly penguins following a laser light. "So what caused it?"
"Had to be nuclear ... a solar storm ... too big, had to be a flare ... we would have been warned..."
"Alright alright alright! One at a time. You, go!" I pointed at a boy I thought of as Mr. Sniffles. He was always wiping his nose on his sleeve. Disgusting, but I think it just itched.
I hope it just itched.
"A nuclear weapon detonated way up in the atmosphere can cause the EMP. It happened accidentally during nuclear testing."
I held up my hand. "Now you," I said, pointing at Mr. Pasty Face.
Mr. Pasty Face smiled and puffed out his chest. I couldn't help but think of an albino monkey trying to impress a mate. I frowned. "Uh, yeah, uh, so, it could be a solar storm or a flare, you know, from the sun?"
I knew what the hell "solar" meant. I tried to frown harder.
"Yeah, uh, so if there was, you know, a big solar storm, the particles could cause it. Sometimes satellites fail during big solar storms because the storms wipe out their electronic systems, even though they are shielded. It's like the aurora borealis, but everywhere on Earth."
"Yeah," added a tall, lanky kid. His hair was too long, curled up at the edges. He'd probably do well with a mullet. I glared at him, trying to get him to continue. "Yeah, it's like bolts of lightning in everything. Just think of that getting into circuit boards." He spread his arms. "Poof."
The Geek Squad seemed very proud of themselves, and I must admit I was a little bit impressed.
"So what does it all mean? What happens now? And why did the power fail?"
Mr. Needs a Mullet spread his arms again. "Poof," he said. "The power grid has circuit boards. Poof. So do cars, cell phones." He pointed to the smoke rising from downtown. "And airplanes."
I should change his name to "Mr. Poof."
"And what happens next?" I prompted, although I already had an inkling. Rioting, probably, looting and pillaging. And worse. "When will the power come back on and stuff start working again?" Yeesh, I can't even say a sentence right.
"Look at it this way..." started Mr. Poof.
I hate it when people say that. Of course, I pretty much dislike talking to people. Period.
“All those circuits are fried, even some of the ones that weren't installed. New transformers, generators, computers must be built. But before then, new manufacturing tools will have to be built, since they're all computerized, too. We have to build the tools to build the tools to build the tools."
"Assuming you're right," I added, looking around at the growing circle of other students. "And the theories about this pulse are true." I looked at Mr. Poof and smiled. "Thank you," I said. He wasn't so bad.
I started to walk away from everyone, toward the beach. The other students parted before me like Moses going across the Red Sea. They all knew my story, and they didn't touch me.
Maybe on the beach I'd at least be safe from fires, and maybe the wackos who come out to loot and pillage would be lousy swimmers.
"Where are you going, Miss Erin?" came an annoying and loud voice behind me. Sounded like Mrs. Hairy Knuckles had managed to clean herself up and make it outside after all. I stopped but didn't turn around.
"I'm going home."
"No you are not, young lady, you stay right here with the other students! We can't let you go when there's been an earthquake, it's too dangerous!"
An earthquake. What an idiot.
I turned around and looked her right in the eye. She had that crazy eye look going on pretty well, and damned if I didn't just realize she had bushy eyebrows, too. Hmm, down payment on the house, or a wax job?
"You should shave your knuckles," I said to her horror. "It's really gross and distracting." I turned and walked away, leaving a stunned teacher and a bunch of stunned students behind.
At least it was a nice day for a walk. Eventually the crazies would show up. To be truthful, going to the beach wasn't a bad idea. And going to my boat and getting away from San Diego was a better idea. It was a beautiful little twenty-seven footer, big enough for long ocean cruises, but small enough that one experienced person could handle it. It was all I had left of my father and mother.
I clenched my teeth and my fists.
If this was terrorists, then I hope I see one of them.
I turned left toward home, paralleling the beach. My whole mental map was based on proximity to and direction of the ocean. So many blocks to the marina, so many to the docks, so many to the closest ocean point. My house was five blocks away from the beach, seven from the marina with my boat.
My house, what a crock.
My foster parents’ place. I shared it with six other foster kids and three kids who actually belonged there. It was an old rundown two-story place with a couple of really big rooms. Four girls in one room, four boys in another, and two Little Ones with their mom and dad.
But truth be told, my foster parents weren't too bad—not like the first ones who tried to sell my boat out from under me. Damn good thing the marina owner was a great guy who had my back. He wouldn't give the keys to anyone but me, and called the police when they threatened me in front of him when I wouldn't hand them over. The cops were really annoyed with me, with him, with my foster parents, but they sided with me.
I never went back to that first house again.
It took maybe ten minutes or so of walking before I turned onto my street. There were a few people out and about, but it was strange. Some were just standing on their porches, staring at the smoke from downtown. A few were pulling suitcases out their front doors. There was one old man who was walking in circles and seemed to be muttering to himself. Every once in a while, he would smack himself in the head. I called him Mr. D'oh! He was on the same side of the street as my house, so I crossed over before passing him by—I'd already hit my limit of creep encounters for the day, so he could have his sidewalk.
It took about five more minutes to get to the house. I counted four hundred and forty steps exactly.
I guess I should explain that.
When I'm stressed or trying to get through something without going nuts with anxiety, I usually count. Mostly it's a countdown, from either twenty or nineteen to zero. I start with twenty, but subsequent counts are nineteen. Maybe ten if I'm going to finish quicker.
It takes to the count of two hundred and thirty to take a quick shower, about three counts of nineteen to get dressed. It's sixty from the time the popcorn oil stops sizzling until the first kernel pops. Sometimes I count down in the movie theatre waiting for the movie to start. Twice I've nailed it, and one of those times was out loud to the great admiration of my foster mother. Two other out-loud attempts failed though.
Anyway, four hundred and forty steps from the time I started counting, with a short detour, u
ntil I arrived at my door. I tried the knob but it was locked, so I rang the doorbell.
Then rang it again a couple of times. My foster mom should be home. I listened at the door and rang it again.
Oh yeah, the power outage EMP thing. Looks like it affected doorbells too. Oh well, I never liked the cheery Greensleeves tune to announce yet another solicitor. I wonder if that's Green Sleeves or Green's Leeves?
I knocked and started my countdown. I reached zero, but the door didn't open. I knocked harder and started another countdown.
Nothing.
Dang it.
I stepped back and looked up at the windows, wondering how I might get up there. My shared room's window was always cracked a bit. I made sure of that by putting a screw into the base so it wasn’t possible for the window to close. My foster sisters couldn't figure out why they couldn't latch the window. The Valley Girls were all boy-crazy and no brains.
