Turning Point: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (The Blackout Series Book 3)

by Bobby Akart

  CRACKLE! SIZZLE! SNAP—SNAP—SNAP!

  Darkness. Blackout. It was — Zero Hour.

  Book Two: ZERO HOUR

  The central theme of The Blackout Series is to provide the reader a glimpse into a post-apocalyptic world. Book One, 36 Hours took a non-prepping family through a fast-paced learning curve. In the period of a day, they had to accept the reality that a catastrophic event was headed their way and accept the threat as real. Once the decision to GET READY was made, then the Ryman’s scrambled around to prepare the best they could with limited time and resources.

  Book two, Zero Hour, focuses on the post-apocalyptic world in the immediate hours and days following the collapse event.

  Zero Hour picks up the Ryman’s plight immediate after the collapse of the nation’s power grid and critical infrastructure. First, they accept the challenges which lie ahead and then they apply common sense to establishing a plan.

  First order of business was security. Colton recalls a story from his grandfather who reminds him to never underestimate the depravity of man. While they accept their fate, and attempt to set up a routine, there are neighbors who have other ideas about what’s best for the Rymans.

  Under the pretense of banding together to help the neighbors survive, the self-appointed leaders run a survival operation of their own. Using the intel willingly provided by unsuspecting residents, the three leaders of the Harding Place Association loot empty, unguarded homes and keep the contents for themselves.

  When a rift forms between the Rymans and some of their neighbors, things turn ugly. There are confrontations and arguments. One of the leaders attempts a raid on the Ryman home at night with plans to steal the generator and some supplies. A gunfight ensues which wounds several of the attacking marauders. One of the three HPA leaders later dies due to lack of sufficient medical care.

  There are also undercover operations including one involving Alex and a teenage boy. Alex recognizes the family’s weakness in not having sufficient weapons to defend themselves and this boy’s stepfather has an arsenal ripe for the pickins. Alex befriends the boy, procures weapons and ammunition, and everything is going smoothly until she finds the stepfather abusing her teenage friend. In self-defense, Alex shoots and kills the man, who happened to be one of the HPA leaders.

  The death of the other two leaders has a noticeable effect on Shane Wren, the ringleader of the HPA who is the cause of the rift between the Rymans and the other neighbors. We’re left in the dark as to whether the death of his cohorts resulted in the turnaround, or simply the knowledge that the Rymans are capable of defending themselves with deadly force, if necessary.

  As a new threat emerges, the HPA and the Rymans come together to repel the vicious group of looters as they make their way deeper into the neighborhood. It was, however, too little too late for the majority of the neighbors in the HPA. Many, because they were out of food, and scared, opted to leave their homes and walk to one of the many FEMA camps and shelters established in the area.

  The Rymans debated and considered their options. Madison stepped up and set the tone for the next part of their journey by making a large meal and announcing that it was time to go. The family gathered their most valued belongings to help them survive. It was time to go.

  Here are the final paragraphs from ZERO HOUR:

  Madison shed several tears as she closed the kitchen door behind them. Colton opened the garage door, revealing the trophy received for the most cleverly negotiated deal in his career—the Jeep Wagoneer. This old truck was their lifeline now. It was their means to a new life far away from the post-apocalyptic madness of the big city.

  Colton eased the truck out of the garage and worked his way down the driveway until he had to veer through the front yard to avoid the Suburban. As he wheeled his way around the landscaping, all three of them looked toward the west where fire danced above the tall oak trees. Reminiscent of a scene from Gone with the Wind, the magnificent antebellum homes of Belle Meade were in flames.

  Madison began to sob now. “Will we ever be able to return?”

  “What about our things?” asked Alex.

  “Having somewhere to live is home. Having someone to love is family. All we need is right here in this front seat—our family.” With that, Colton drove onto the road and led the Ryman family on a new adventure and to a new home.

  They’d reached their turning point—a point of no return.

  The saga continues in… TURNING POINT

  Epigraph

  *****

  Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong and probably at the worst possible moment.

  ~ Murphy’s Law

  *****

  I am not a product of my circumstances. I am a product of my decisions.

  ~ Stephen Covey

  *****

  It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped.

  ~ Tony Robbins

  *****

  May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.

  ~ Nelson Madela

  *****

  Ya’ lives by da’ sun and ya’ dies by da’ sun.

  ~ Old Man Percy

  *****

  Because you never know when the day before

  is the day before.

  Prepare for tomorrow!

  Prologue

  November 1976

  McNairy County

  Adamsville, Tennessee

  Not many people knew the real story of Buford Pusser, the long-time sheriff of McNairy County in southwest Tennessee. Even fewer knew the story of his daughter, Betty Jean Pusser.

  This is the tale of one of the darkest days in the history of the tiny town of Adamsville, Tennessee. The town, and all of McNairy County, had seen its share of crime and punishment—administered by a man some called a hero, and others called part of the problem, Sheriff Buford Pusser.

  The city’s worst day began quietly enough when a used-car salesman discovered one of his cars missing, an anonymous-looking black Ford. The theft was strange, because the boxy ’62 Fairlane was about the least valuable car on the lot, so ordinary it seemed invisible—like an undercover police car or a getaway car.

  It was the morning after Election Day in 1976 and the peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, had defeated that Yankee Gerald Ford, much to the delight of democrats across the south. The car salesman’s head was swollen from too much ’shine and celebration, but he managed to open his dealership on time nonetheless.

  The day ended quietly, too, with a series of muted popping noises, much like the sound of a newspaper rolled loosely into a fly swatter and slapped on a tabletop. Few people heard those nine innocuous pops, and those who did never spoke of them. Yet those sounds would destroy a family, alter countless lives, transform a town, and create a monster. Little would remain the same in Adamsville, Tennessee, or the surrounding counties, in their wake.

  Between those two events that fateful day, Clarence and Wanda Tindle lived as they always had, taking no special precautions, exhibiting few outward fears. Adamsville was a quiet town now, following Sheriff Pusser’s tumultuous time in office. Clarence went to the law office he’d occupied for nearly twenty years, where he’d served McNairy County as a criminal defense lawyer. Wanda, as always, worked much of the day on her one great obsession—exposing McNairy County’s legendary corruption, in her capacity as the editor of the Independent Appeal newspaper. On the surface, they were above reproach and widely respected in McNairy County.

  During that last day, Clarence also found time to walk his German shepherd, joke with his law partner—a staunch Republican—about the election, get his thick shock of graying hair cut at the local barbershop, and gas up his new Buick Estate station wagon in preparation for a trip Friday to Memphis.

  Wanda spent the better part of that Wednesday shopping for clothes for her increasingly round five-foot frame, buying one of those newfangled microcassette voice recorders, and planning a United Daughters of the Confederacy convention she was chairing in Dec
ember. At one time or another during the day, she told people she had contacted the FBI about the harassment they’d been receiving from a private investigator who’d been digging around in the death of the illustrious former sheriff since his accident in 1974.

  Sheriff Pusser was a legend in McNairy County. As the sheriff of this small rural county along the Mississippi-Tennessee state line, he’d become a one-man army fighting gambling, prostitution, and moonshining operations, which had run rampant during his term in the late sixties.

  His life gave rise to several books and movies, and one very large conspiracy. You see, Buford Pusser died in August 1974 after his Corvette careened off Highway 64 at a high rate of speed, and he was ejected from the car before it caught fire.

  Moments later, his daughter, thirteen-year old Betty Jean, came upon the scene while on her way home with friends. She found her pa holding on to life, and with his last, dying breath Pusser whispered in Betty Jean’s ear, “They finally got me.”

  Although an autopsy was not performed, the state trooper working the accident, who later became the sheriff of McNairy County, took a sample of Pusser’s blood. The hospital released the results stating his blood-alcohol level was in excess of the legal limit. That state trooper was Clarence Tindle’s younger brother.

  As the rumors ran rampant throughout the county, accusations were leveled at Trooper Tindle. The Tindles fought back with a hit piece exposé on Pusser’s dealings while sheriff, using Wanda Tindle’s position at the newspaper as a bully pulpit.

  Pusser’s mother hired a small-time private detective, who quickly developed a working theory that the Tindles had the motive and opportunity to sabotage Pusser’s Corvette, resulting in his death. Clarence was tied to the crime figures who Pusser tried to put away. Wanda relentlessly pursued corruption charges against Pusser. And former Trooper Tindle, the sole investigating officer, declared his intentions to become sheriff. The private detective was paid handsomely for this theory—to the tune of over one hundred thousand dollars.

  The war of words continued for over a year, during which time the hostilities finally simmered down—until Election Day, 1976. Trooper Tindle became Sheriff Tindle on that date to much fanfare throughout the county.

  This enraged Buford Pusser’s mother, who was convinced the Tindle family was responsible for her beloved son’s death. She exploded in anger in front of her orphaned grandchild, now fifteen-year-old Betty Jean, who took it to heart.

  On that fateful Wednesday night, Clarence and his brother, newly elected Sheriff Tindle, shared a drink in celebration of his victory. Wanda went upstairs to draw a bath and soak her weary bones.

  While Wanda relaxed with a glass of wine, she thought she heard a faint knock, but then the boys started laughing, so she disregarded it. It was probably several minutes later, nobody would know for sure, when she heard, faintly, the first popping noise.

  She then thought she heard a vague sound of movement in the living room, followed by more pop—pop—pop sounds. There went Clarence again, swatting flies with a newspaper. They were both drunk and probably couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with their best effort. She laughed to herself as she finished off the glass, allowing the warm wine to soak into her bloodstream.

  It was several minutes later when the bathroom door creaked open and frail, impish Betty Jean Pusser walked in, carrying a .22-caliber Ruger with a black tube silencer sitting fat and obscene on the lip of the barrel. Wanda attempted to cover her naked body with her arms as young Betty Jean pointed the gun at Wanda’s head. Betty Jean wasn’t shaking from nervousness. Her eyes were dark, lifeless. She only allowed herself a slight smile as she gently pulled the trigger.

  Wanda Tindle never heard those last four quiet pops. Consciousness, dreams, and fear were all obliterated before the sound of that first silenced shot stopped echoing off the tiled bathroom walls.

  And the day ended as quietly as it had begun, with a nondescript Ford Fairlane disappearing down a deserted street to a faraway rock quarry and its final resting place at the bottom of a murky lake.

  Everyone’s life contains a seminal event, a turning point that shapes who they are and how they interact with their fellow man. Betty Jean Pusser’s turning point came that day at the age of fifteen.

  Chapter 1

  DAY FIFTEEN

  6:15 a.m., September 23

  Chickering Road

  Belle Meade, Tennessee

  The Jeep Wagoneer’s headlights caught a cardboard sign nailed to a telephone pole—a handwritten sign—The End is Nigh. Darkness swallowed it and Colton was left with the sense he was on the road to eternal damnation. His family had taken God’s most precious gift, the lives of his fellow men. He wasn’t sure if asking forgiveness would be sufficient to avoid the fate in store for them.

  The high beams of the Wagoneer clawed the grass along the side of the tree-lined road, plowing a furrow through the dewy landscape so neon green in color it looked unnatural. The lawns of Belle Meade, which were once pristinely maintained by efficient gardeners, had become overgrown and unruly.

  Everything Colton knew, or thought he knew, about Nashville and Belle Meade had been erased by the end of the world as he knew it. Two weeks after the devastating solar storm that caused the collapse of the nation’s power grid, his family had gone from days filled with work, social activity for Madison, and school for Alex, to a post-apocalyptic dystopia where death had become commonplace.

  The Rymans’ worldly goods were crammed into the Wagoneer—memories of the past and the tools to survive an unknown future. Colton reached for Madison, who’d remained quiet since their departure from Harding Place. He gave his devoted wife’s hand a squeeze to gain a reaction from her. Madison turned her face to look at Colton, managed a smile, and wiped away the last of her tears.

  “Are we there yet?” She laughed, letting out some emotion. They’d been on the road for only fifteen minutes.

  “I wish,” chimed in Alex from the backseat. Alex had been remarkable as the world of a teenage girl crashed around her. She was very mature and logical for her age. Daily activities for Alex revolved around her school and love for golf, which had both been ripped from her life.

  She’d also killed a man. After an initial period of shock, Alex had become incredibly at peace with the shooting, which was clearly in self-defense. Colton wasn’t sure whether he should be proud of her acceptance of taking another man’s life, or concerned that his daughter might be harboring feelings that needed to be released.

  In any event, there wasn’t time to explore the mind’s inner workings. A lot had happened in the last fourteen days and he needed to focus on the task at hand—safety and a new home for the Ryman family.

  Colton rolled down the window of the 1969 Jeep Wagoneer using the hand crank. Fresh morning air filled the truck as the sun slowly began to rise to their left. Another hand-printed sign came into view, this one riddled with bullet holes—REPENT. FINAL WARNING.

  The Rymans had reached a turning point and were forced to make a decision. The neighborhood had collapsed around them. Fires were burning out of control to their west. Gangs were infiltrating the streets and homes to their north. Families were abandoning their residences in droves, seeking the utopian comfort and security of the FEMA camps established throughout metro Nashville. The Rymans, however, chose the potential safety of the countryside over a certain life of gunfights and scavenging in the city.

  “It’s really quiet, isn’t it?” replied Colton, attempting to make small talk as they drove into a future where nothing was sure and anything was possible. “It’s been a while since we took a road trip. Kinda nice without traffic.”

  Neither Madison nor Alex provided a response. Colton continued to ease his way along Chickering Drive as the Rymans headed southwest out of town—destination Shiloh, Tennessee, on the banks of the Tennessee River.

  The concept of hitting the open road was almost romantic in its scope. We liked to think of everything going crazy in the wor
ld being left behind as we head out into the presumed serenity of the farms and desolate countryside.

  But just like life, a winding road contained unknown perils and troubles. You never knew where the bend in the road might take you.

  As he wheeled the Wagoneer through several abandoned cars, a downed tree limb blocked their progress. Colton approached slowly, scanning the sides of the road for indications of trouble. The sun was rising and the morning light allowed him better visibility. There didn’t appear to be any other signs of life, so Colton slipped his gun into his paddle holster and shut off the engine.

  “Wait here. I’ve got this,” said Colton to Madison and Alex. He exited the Wagoneer and stopped, stunned by his surroundings.

  This stretch of road was relatively uninhabited. Once outside the car, the silence was shattered. Surprised by the sheer magnitude of the sounds, Colton stood and listened.

  A choir, a community, no, a nation of frogs sang from the darkness still engulfing the woods surrounding him. Wide and deep, the croaking critters chirped and chortled from every direction. Croaks both rough and guttural filled the air, buoyed by a mixture of higher tones from other frog species.

  Big croaks. Big doggone frogs, Colton thought.

  Then, in unison, as if directed by a conductor, they stopped.

  Silence.

  Intuitively, Colton immediately crouched down next to the Wagoneer. He considered leaving, but Colton hesitated to start the engine for fear of being discovered. He peered over the driver’s door and held a finger up to his lips. He mouthed the words to his girls—be quiet!