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

by Bobby Akart

  Once inside the room, they shared a drink and a kiss. Preston pressed himself against her. She liked it. This was different. He was nice. She had held out when the boys made advances toward her in the past, like her grandmother said. But this was the right time.

  “Turn out the lights, Preston,” said Betty Jean as she removed her bathing suit and stood naked, waiting for him to return. She took another swig of the whiskey and allowed it to soak into her body. She was drunk, but she didn’t care. This was the right time.

  Preston turned off the lights and was making his way back to her when the door swung open. It was Preston’s friends, all five of them. They flipped the light back on and Betty Jean scrambled to pull the bedspread over her naked body.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” said one burly teen.

  “Yeah, Presto, ya been holdin’ out on us?” Another one laughed as the six boys all circled the bed, staring down at Betty Jean. She pushed herself against the headboard and drew the covers up under her chin. Her eyes pleaded with Preston to do something. He didn’t.

  After passing the bottle around until it was empty, one of them pulled the covers away from Betty Jean. She was naked and unprotected. The assault lasted for two hours, during which time she stared at the door, waiting for her daddy to walk through with his stick. He never saved her. She was demeaned, beaten, humiliated, and raped—repeatedly. By two in the morning, they’d passed out and left Betty Jean lying on the floor in a pool of urine and blood.

  At least it was over.

  *****

  DATELINE GALVESTON, TEXAS

  From United Press International Wire Services

  TEXAS HOTEL FIRE KILLS 12; 20 STILL MISSING

  Firemen dug eight charred bodies out of the still-smoldering debris of the Central Hotel on Galveston Beach Sunday morning after it was destroyed by a fire that police are calling arson.

  The bodies of six men, four women, and two children were among the first to be pulled from the remains of the charred building hours after the five-story hotel collapsed into a pile of burning rubble.

  It was shortly after 3 a.m. when the fire started in three locations, police said. It spread rapidly, sealed off the Central Hotel’s narrow entrance, and quickly burned the building to the ground.

  Fire department officials immediately declared the tragedy to be the work of an arsonist. One guest who escaped through a window said he smelled gasoline and turpentine. Also, he said each of the guest room doors was held shut by a rope, which was tied to the door handle and then wrapped around the porch supports outside of the walkway. Fire officials also said that the hotel’s entrance and fire exits were jammed shut with scrap wood, preventing them from being opened.

  Witnesses said people were jumping from the upper stories to avoid the flames, only to be crushed when the building suddenly collapsed.

  Policeman Rick Singleton said, “There was a lot of them lying on the sidewalk here with broken backs, legs and arms. Others simply were buried in the flaming rubble. It was horrific.”

  Nobody stopped Betty Jean Pusser.

  Chapter 15

  DAY SIXTEEN

  7:00 a.m., September 24

  Fattybread Pond

  Near Williamsport, Tennessee

  “Good morning, sunshine,” said Madison as she crawled into the tent and presented Colton with his beloved Starbucks insulated coffee tumbler with the commemorative Nashville logo honoring the city as the Music Capital of the World. She planted a kiss on his cheek and waved her hand over the coffee, fanning the aroma into his nostrils. “Wake up and smell the coffee, big boy.”

  “I’m awake,” groaned Colton. He wasn’t really sleepy, but he was sore from the combination of the uncomfortable Wagoneer, the cramped deer hide where he’d spent much of the night, and the unforgiving ground full of lumps and stones.

  Colton sat up and took a long sip of the dark roast coffee brewed by Madison using the gear she’d picked up before the solar storm. Nothing awakened Colton’s senses like his first sip of coffee in the morning. On this particular occasion, it really hit the spot.

  He gave his wife a kiss and whispered, “I love you, Maddie.”

  She hugged him and replied, “You should.”

  Colton chuckled as he took another sip, dribbling a little down his shirt.

  “Nicely done, Mr. Sweet Talker.”

  Alex poked her head inside the tent. “Hey, guys, take a look at this.”

  Madison scrambled out first and Colton reached for his pistol and crawled out on all fours, holding the coffee in a death grip.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Shhhh,” admonished Alex. She pointed, directing their attention across the clearing. “Look. The other side of the lake. Do you see them?”

  “Beautiful,” said Madison. “They’re nibblin’ on the cattails.”

  Two does and two fawns had entered the clearing and were nibbling on the cattails’ spikes before washing down their breakfast with water. The lake and the surrounding plant life provided the animals of the woods their own swamp supermarket.

  Cattails were full of nutrients and provided a means of cover for deer. No plant produced more edible starch than common cattails—not potatoes, rice, or yams. One acre of cattails could produce over three tons of flour and supply an abundance of essential vitamins like A, B, C, potassium and phosphorus.

  “Think about this for a second, y’all,” started Colton. “If you were lost in the woods and found cattails, you’ve actually found the four things you need to survive—water, food, shelter, and a source of heat by using the old stalks. We used to have an old saying in Boy Scouts—you name it, and we’ll make it from cattails.”

  The does must’ve detected the Rymans’ presence because they both immediately shot their heads up and looked across the lake. The babies, still unaware of the threats to their existence from man, continued to bow their heads to enjoy their yummies.

  Without warning, they hopped onto the bank of the lake and bounded into the woods, white tails bouncing up and down effortlessly. In a flash, mommas and little ones were gone.

  “Cool,” said Alex. “How could anyone shoot something so beautiful?”

  “I don’t know, Allie-Cat,” said Colton. “They’re so innocent and vulnerable. Before the collapse, I didn’t get the point. Afterwards, obviously, you’d kill a deer as a source of food. For me, I’ll eat everything else first.”

  “Me too,” said Madison.

  Alex started to walk back toward the truck and then she added one more thought. “I’d shoot another person before I’d shoot one of those deer.”

  When she was out of earshot, Colton leaned in and whispered to Madison, “Do you think she was kidding, or should we be worried about what’s going on in her head?”

  Madison shrugged. “The violence doesn’t seem to faze her. Maybe she’s accepted it as part of life now?”

  “I guess,” said Colton. “She made the statement so matter-of-fact like that, I think she meant it. I’m gonna have to talk with her about boundaries, I guess.”

  They started walking back to the truck as Alex began to take down the tent. Colton retrieved the binoculars from the truck and took out the map. He spread it across the hood of the Wagoneer and reviewed their route to Savannah, where the bridge crossed the Tennessee River.

  On paper, their route was pretty straightforward. They left Nashville on the Natchez Trace Parkway and would take it directly to the intersection of U.S. Highway 64, which turned west towards Memphis. The plan was to cross the Tennessee River and travel the last fifteen miles or so south to Shiloh.

  Common sense told Colton to avoid population centers like small towns and even refugee routes. He tried to anticipate the mob mentality, which would’ve followed normal traffic patterns like Interstates 40 or even Highway 100, which led directly to Memphis. He also thought those were likely routes to encounter the National Guard.

  He’d thought about what other refugees would be looking for
, such as sources of water, food, and safe camping areas. South of Nashville toward Franklin was a logical destination for those people fleeing the city. He ran it through his mind repeatedly and his conclusions always supported this direct route.

  He’d learned a lot yesterday, however. In theory, the Trace’s lack of ingress and egress to side roads was a plus. The map provided him this analysis. However, the steep embankments and nonexistence of a shoulder became a real problem, as they’d learned with the two dangerous encounters yesterday.

  During the first day, they’d been caught up in logical choke points—strategic, narrow routes where they became trapped by their attackers. He studied the map and traced the route to Savannah. Colton then took Alex’s iPhone and looked at the GPS rendering of their route.

  He tried to identify bridges, overpasses, or long stretches of wooded areas that might put them in a similar position as yesterday. It was critical that they establish at least two alternative routes to take to avoid getting trapped again. Yesterday, they’d been lucky. Today, they’d be smart.

  “Hey, Alex, would you mind giving me a hand?” he asked as Alex finished folding up the tent with Madison.

  “Sure, Daddy.”

  Colton began to untie the tarp and remove the bungee cords to access the gas cans. While standing watch, it didn’t take him long to realize that the one-hundred-fifty-mile drive to Shiloh could easily double in length if they had to wind their way through the backroads to avoid potential hostile encounters. They had already used half a tank of fuel as a result of their evasive maneuvers yesterday.

  “What can I do?” asked Alex.

  Colton continued to unwrap the trailer hitch receiver to reveal the four five-gallon gas cans. That was when he saw the holes in two of the cans.

  “Crap!” said Colton.

  “Oh no, Daddy. Are they empty?”

  Madison joined them. “What? Oh no,” she said.

  The two cans on the right side of the Wagoneer had been emptied during the shoot-out at the I-840 overpass. The gas had spilled along the ground while they were driving and nobody noticed.

  Colton picked them out of the grate and jiggled them. Each contained a gallon or less. All he could do was shake his head.

  “It is what it is. Alex, take what you can out of these and fill the tanks. Go ahead and top off the tank with the other two. I think you’ll have some left over.”

  “What should I do with the empty gas cans?” asked Alex.

  “You know, keep them. Stow them back on the rack and cover the whole rig with the tarp. We might have a use for them at some point.”

  Madison walked up and rubbed Colton’s shoulders. “We should be all right, Colt. We only have about seventy miles to go.”

  “Yeah, we should get there. The Wagoneer is a gas hog. If we can avoid any more shoot-outs and significant detours, we’ll have more than enough.”

  “Yeah, see?” added Madison.

  Colton smiled and hugged his wife, who always made him feel better when he was down. He loved her more every day.

  “Thank you, darling,” he replied. “Listen, I wanna walk down and check out the two bridges that cross the Duck River. One is the long span that’s part of the Trace. The other is a side road below to the north. It may take us longer, but we have to have several route options as we move forward to avoid more of yesterday’s excitement.”

  “Amen to that!” She smiled and looked upward to Heaven. “You go ahead. Alex and I will get the truck ready to hit the road.”

  Chapter 16

  DAY SIXTEEN

  8:00 a.m., September 24

  Natchez Trace Parkway

  The Duck River Bridge

  Near Williamsport, Tennessee

  Colton slipped and landed on his backside, finishing the walk down the trail to the Trace in a bruised and bumpy fashion. He looked back up the hill to determine what was responsible for the rude loss of footing. He slapped the dirt and pine needles off his jeans and checked the road to make sure it was clear.

  It was about a mile to the Duck River Bridge, which would take him fifteen to twenty minutes. Based upon the map and his assessment of the terrain, driving up to the bend that led to the bridge would lock them into a position they couldn’t back out of.

  The Duck River wound its way for over two hundred fifty miles through Middle Tennessee. It was a scenic river and a favorite of Nashvillians who enjoyed canoeing, fishing, swimming, and camping. Colton recalled a conversation he’d had with Jake Allen about the river. It contained more species of fish than all the rivers of Europe combined. It was full of freshwater mussels too.

  As a rural river, it was fairly clean except for pesticides, which ran off the farmland during heavy rains. But the local farmers had taken steps to prevent this practice, and before the collapse, the Duck River provided fresh water to a quarter million surrounding residents.

  “This would have been a perfect place for a weekend cabin or a bug-out place,” Colton muttered aloud as he walked closer to the bridge. He’d barely had time for the girls at home, much less for long weekends at a cabin. It hadn’t made sense to make a purchase like this on any level.

  How could he have known they’d need a bug-out location? He’d never really paid attention to stuff like this before. Of course world events concerned him, but the saber rattling of foreign countries had been in the news his entire life and nobody had fired off the nukes yet.

  In Nashville, he never thought they were susceptible to things like hurricanes, earthquakes, or wildfire. It was true that this area of Tennessee was in the heart of Dixie Alley, one of the deadliest tornadic regions in the world. But they had places to hunker down for that at home and insurance to pay for the damage.

  The solar storm was completely off his radar. Now, in hindsight, of course, he could see how a small cabin on the river would have been a fun place to hang out with Madison and Alex during normal times, as well as provide them a place to survive after a catastrophe.

  As Colton got closer, the entrance to the bridge came into view, but it was immediately engulfed in a thick white fog along the Duck River. The fog formed when cooler air moved over and mixed with the warm and moist air at the river’s surface. The moist air cooled and became saturated, causing the fog to form and rise up along the valley walls.

  “NOOOOOO!” came a man’s voice through the dense condensation.

  “Please, sir, just take what we have,” a woman’s voice pleaded. Her words carried through the fog.

  There were two bridges that crossed the Duck River here. One, a long very elevated span, was part of the Natchez Trace. Even at its high elevation above the river, the bridge was awash in thick fog. Another bridge, just a hundred yards to the north of Colton’s position, was part of a country road that led from Williamsport to his south, towards Centerville.

  A gunshot rang out and Colton immediately ran into the woods for cover. The man was moaning in pain. Colton was unable to discern whether the activity was on the upper or lower bridge. The fog was thick and the sounds echoed off the valley walls.

  “Pleeeeeeease!” the woman begged, and then there was another gunshot, followed by her haunting cries. “No, Billy, please God, no!” The next sound Colton heard was a splash below.

  Colton tried to get a better view of the two options through his binoculars but still couldn’t see. He had no way to calculate when the fog would lift. He did know that his family was only a mile away from this carnage and he wanted no part of it.

  The woman could be heard running, her bare feet slapping on the concrete.

  “Git ’er!” shouted one of the men.

  Many feet were now in pursuit of the woman who’d just witnessed her Billy get shot and unceremoniously thrown into the Duck River. She was running for her life.

  Colton felt for his weapon and contemplated helping her. The road dropped in elevation considerably as it entered the river basin. Even if he could get to her, he’d have to shoot his way out and escort a distraught girl
uphill out of the fog. On the other hand, a few warning shots might scare them away and he could rescue the girl.

  “Run, you idiots!” the leader shouted at his men, and the girl’s pursuers picked up the pace.

  The sounds of the footsteps were getting closer. They must be on the upper bridge! He started walking in that direction to get a better look. He was dangerously close to where the fog began. If the girl emerged, with the men chasing close behind, he might be discovered.

  Colton weighed his options. He could fire warning shots and encourage the girl to keep running. But if the marauders had a vehicle, they could chase Colton down before he could run a hundred yards back toward his own family.

  Colton paced the road, slapping the side of his head with the palms of his hands. You’ve got to decide! Please, God. What do I do?

  “Gotcha!” shouted one of the men. Colton could hear the girl hit the road and scream in pain.

  It was too late to help. There was nothing he could do. He’d debated with himself too long. Colton let out a gasp of air, leaned over, and then looked to God for guidance and forgiveness.

  After a moment, he turned and quietly walked back to his own girls.

  Chapter 17

  DAY SIXTEEN

  8:00 a.m., September 24

  County Road 50

  Williamsport, Tennessee

  Colton didn’t want to discuss the details of what he’d observed at the Duck River Bridge, and Madison didn’t press him. Whatever had happened, it had a profound effect on him. When Colton returned to their camp, he looked around to make sure everything was secure and simply announced they’d have to make a detour to the south toward Williamsport. Neither Madison nor Alex questioned why. They knew him well enough to know he’d talk about it when he was ready.

  Colton and Alex studied the map together before he worked his way down the trail and back onto the Trace. Instead of continuing, he pulled off into a cornfield on the south side of the highway and drove down a rut-filled dirt road. Eventually they found a gravel drive and made their way over to Highway 50, which led into the small town of Williamsport.