EMP No Power Omnibus

by Donovan , J. S.

  “Not one word,” Harper whispered and removed her hand.

  The man’s breathing turned rapid as she switched off the lantern and stood up. She commanded him with concise words. Trembling, he obeyed, pushing himself up to the tent’s zippered door. Harper hunkered behind him with the weapon primed for the kill.

  “You can have whatever you want,” the man pleaded.

  Harper got a whiff of his sewage-like aroma. “Open it.”

  In the back of the tent, the slashed gap flapped in the breeze. The man pinched the tent's front zipper and separated the plastic teeth on the egg-shaped door. Harper gave him a shove. He staggered out.

  The three men around the fire stopped and turned, all of them looking confused.

  “I tried,” the man said before Harper pressed her machete against his throat.

  The others looked at each other then back at the intruder, getting flushed with anger.

  “All of you are going to get on the ground and lock your fingers behind your heads,” Harper demanded, feeling powerful adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  “Go to hell,” a husky man spit, not leave his chair.

  Harper slammed her boot on the back of her hostage’s knee, letting him drop to a kneeling position. She held the machete close to his throat. A small trickle of blood rolled down her blade as she stood over the man. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Dustin and James burst forth from the tree line, keeping their guns up and pushing the hammock guy next to the fire. The five campers were of various shapes and sizes but were the backwoods brigand variety. Harper expected nothing less.

  “You’d be wise to listen to her,” Dustin said through a mouthful of sunflower seeds. “She’s killed for far less.”

  “On your knees,” James commanded.

  The strangers hesitated but slowly lowered themselves from their camping chairs to the dirt.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” the husky man declared as he locked his fingers on his balding scalp.

  Harper removed the machete and let the scrawny man join his partners in a straight line.

  “Must suck to be on the receiving end,” James stated as he halted in front of the two at the end of the line. “Say, how many camps did you do this to?”

  Wind fed the fire behind them, causing the flame to bloom.

  Dustin bounced his shotgun barrel between the men. “Too many, I reckon. What should we do to ‘em, Harper?”

  Harper let her machete rest and relayed her premeditated words. “Start cutting until one talks.”

  Still silence. The husky man chuckled. His chin flapped. “Nice show. You aren’t fooling anyone though.”

  Harper approached him. “Francis, I presume.”

  “What do you know, the girl has intelligence. I wonder which one of those twerps snitched? Doesn’t matter. I’ll beat some sense into all of them.”

  Harper curved the point of her machete just under his chin. “You’re going to tell us where to find Brandy.”

  Francis looked at his allies. Their eyes were on Harper or the dirt below them. Francis craned his neck at Harper and projected a large wad of spit on her face.

  Harper’s knee slammed into his jaw. He fell next to the fire. Harper stood over him, wiping the saliva away with the top of her hand. “He has my son.” She let the machete’s curved tip press on the man’s thorax. “I’d do anything for my son. I’d start with killing your friends, then I’d move on to you.”

  The machete’s blade inched down to man’s cargo pants. “And start removing bits if it meant even a one percent chance at saving him.”

  She bent down next to him, keeping the weapon on his groin. “You thought Brandy was scary? I’m much, much worse. When your friends came to Brighton, I gunned them down without batting an eye. Your community is scattered. Your friends are dead. I did that, and I’d do it all over again.”

  The sharp blade began to cut through the fabric. A puddle formed on the front of his camo cargo pants. Francis huffed and let his eyes fall closed. His gruff voice cracked. “What do you want to know?”

  Harper returned the weapon to the man’s gut. “I know he’s expanding in these woods. I want to know where his main base of operations is, his safe haven, and where he calls home.”

  Francis didn’t speak.

  “She’s serious, man. Tell her,” begged the gaunt man with a thin slash on his throat.

  After an exasperated sigh, Francis opened his eyes again. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll spare my life?”

  “Depends on your answer,” Harper said coldly. “The worst thing you can do is keep your mouth shut.”

  Francis sucked air in and cursed. “Bimberg. Ever heard of it?”

  Dustin’s face lit up. “That old factory?”

  “You know it?” Harper asked.

  Dustin spit more seeds. “Yeah. Used to take my Ford up there during weekends and drink with my buddies. The place is huge. Pretty well kept if I remember correctly.”

  “You think Brandy could survive out there?” James asked.

  Dustin thought for a moment. “It’s hidden well enough. Game is good. I’d say it’d be dang near perfect.”

  “I told you what I know,” Francis said from beneath Harper. “Now I walk.”

  Harper shook her head, her expression lacking mercy. “Tough luck. Join your friends. James, keep your gun aimed. Shoot anyone who runs. Dustin, use your hatchet. We can’t waste our bullets.”

  Dustin tensed up and slowly pulled the axe from the steel belt ring. James gawked at his wife.

  “I told you what I know, woman!” Francis yelled desperately as he sat up.

  Harper pierced him with her emerald eyes. “Did you show mercy to encampments you attacked, or did you kill them regardless?”

  “Only the one’s that resisted, I swear,” the husky man groveled. “Brandy wants them alive.”

  “Why?” Harper interrogated.

  “I didn’t know. For labor, maybe. My job is to capture them. That’s it. Brandy deals with them after.”

  A shadow overtook Harper’s face. “Rejoin the others and keep your mouth shut.”

  Reluctant, Francis rejoined his comrades on their knees in front of the fire. Harper, James, and Dustin took a few steps back, watching them. Their terrified, scruffy faces dripped sweat as they mouthed prayers through their crooked teeth and putrid breath.

  Dustin leaned closer to Harper, whispering, “Are we really going through with this? I will if we need to, but I need to know before I lose my edge.”

  “Of course we’re not,” James retorted quietly. “These are people, Harper. Bad people, but people.”

  Harper thought for moment, unsure where the interrogation ploy ended and her true intentions lay. The idea of killing them didn’t seem out of the realm of possibilities, and that scared the hell of out of Harper. The captives waited for the verdict. What would my father do? What would Church do? She knew. Her heart throbbed, her courage fleeting every second. She gripped the machete. Her eyes bounced to each of the men, embedding their faces into her mind. Their dreadful, bloodless expressions were bound to stay with her until the end of days.

  “Harper?” Dustin asked anxiously. The hatchet head was unblemished, unstained and ready to hack.

  James looked nowhere in particular and sucked in his lower lip. Almost automatically, he cocked back the rifle’s bolt action.

  “Dustin, James.” Harper finally said, scary calm. “One of you, get the zip ties from my backpack.”

  Dustin did as commanded.

  Francis looked up at her, grinding his teeth.

  “Bind their wrists behind their backs,” Harper finished her order. “James, if they resist, shoot.”

  They didn’t resist. Within moments, they were bound.

  “Take them back to Brighton, James, and have Trudy lock them up. Dustin can lead me to Bimberg.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dustin replied and put his hatchet back to the ring on his belt.

&
nbsp; James stood his ground. “Eli is my son as much as he is yours. We do this together. As a family, remember?”

  “I’m fine taking them back, truly,” Dustin interjected. “Just give me the word.”

  After a moment of contemplation, Harper nodded. “Alright. Dustin, draw up a map. And as for you, Francis, count your blessings. Don’t do anything stupid and you’ll get out of this alive. All five of you will.”

  The husky man didn’t reply. The scrawny man thanked her.

  James kept watch of the prisoners while Dustin outlined the best route to the old factory. It was far closer than Harper would’ve expected. When he finished, Harper gave him a hug, wishing him the best of luck with the captives. Rubbing the back of his head, he reassured her with a shaky smile.

  The captives raised themselves up at Harper’s order and marched ahead of Dustin, but not before grabbing supplies from the campsite. The country boy kept his shotgun snug in his hands. His purple, circle-lined eyes were watchful of any sudden movements. In a single file line, Dustin and the brigands marched into the dark woods and vanished into the night.

  James slung his rifle over his shoulder and squeezed his fists. He let out a deep breath. “You scared me for a moment.”

  Harper nodded, looking into the crackling fire. “I know. I didn’t realize how easy it is to get carried away. Wow, that sounded psychotic.”

  “No, it didn’t. If Church was here, he would’ve shot them without a second thought.”

  “I’m not Church,” Harper replied.

  “Thank God for that. If I had married Church…” he shivered.

  Harper put her trembling hands in her pockets. “Jared, it’s okay to come out now.”

  The little boy popped out from behind a bush and entered the center of the camp, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

  Harper crouched down in front of him and smiled. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “I’ve… I’ve seen worse,” the boy said shyly.

  Harper wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. “I’m going to find your parents, okay?”

  His big eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Yes,” she released him. “But right now I need you to follow my good friend Dustin. He’ll take you to a special safe place.”

  “What about you?” Jared asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Harper replied. “Run along.”

  The boy nodded and turned to the woods. Harper oofed as he gave her a powerful hug just before running off into the tree line.

  Harper’s gaze followed him until he was out of sight. She stood, brushed herself off, and rejoined James by the fire.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go save our son.”

  They stomped out the fire, took the lantern, and set out toward Bimberg. The earth worked against them as they hiked the steep hill. The trees thinned out the closer they got to the tall, striped chimneys rising over leaves. Shouts and undisguisable speech became audible on the other side of the rolling peak. With two fingers, Harper switched off the non-electric lantern and lowered to her belly beside James.

  Using their elbows and knees, they crawled up the dewy grass, slowly watching the factory grow on the other side of the slop. As they reached the cusp of the hill, they slowed to a halt. Burning sticks fashioned into teepees were scattered unevenly in front of the industrial brick factory and throughout the dozens of tents erected below.

  A drunken couple sang as they staggered between tents with 40 Malts in their hands. Another posse of people threw knives at hay targets. More socialized at picnic tables and on towels while others closed the flaps of their tents. Patrols of two or more walked on rusty steel bridges running the second floor of the factory. Torch light reflected off the inside of the building’s tall windows. One on the third story was a single pane aligned with the building center. The light within was brighter than all the others.

  “Holy hell,” James said as they watched. “There’s hundreds of them.”

  Harper gulped and got ready for the stupidest decision of her life.

  Chapter Five

  Factory

  What Bimberg lacked in fortification, it made up for in expanse. Camping tents of all shapes, colors, brands, and designs curled around the factory and stretched into the outlying timberland. The community within thrived in the late hours with bouts of laughter and boisterous, indistinguishable chants. Beyond the lit factory, the ground’s topography ramped higher into the Smokies, though the night’s darkness concealed the zephyrs’ iconic low-hanging mist.

  From a hill that sloped into Brandy’s habitat, Harper held the scout’s advantage. Prone, her belly kissed the grassy hilltop. Dewy blades of grass scratched her skin through the tears in her t-shirt, further boosting her newfound vigor. Her wiry eyes darted from each passing “guard,” men and women armed and smoking. The patrols’ routes were as chaotic and random as the camp itself and gave Harper little confidence in her hasty plan.

  She shrugged off her backpack, opened the drawstrings, and retrieved the binoculars inside. They were originally Church’s and still had crusted blood in the adjustable crevices. Harper pressed them around her bloodshot eyes. Her sight moved from a group of drably dressed, malnourished men kicking a balding Catholic priest. They wiped their greasy hair from their eyes and mocked him. One poured a can of beer on the priest’s shiny head. The savage’s companion saw the wasted resource and decked the pourer in the jaw. He repaid the wannabe boxer with an unexpected tackle and pounded his fists over his face. The others ignored the battle and continued kicking the holy man.

  Down the way, a skeletal man and woman reclined on low beach chairs. A corroded methamphetamine needle rested in the woman’s limp palm while a plastic tube was constricted just above her elbow filled with burgundy track marks. More meth heads sat on the dirt or in chairs. Their minds were in a place between life and death. Spectators snickered and procured their belongings.

  Two armed guards opened the factory’s front doors for a man leading a line of seven dead-eyed women tied together by hemp rope. Some were Harper’s age, some were in their twenties, a few were elderly. The metal doors shut behind them with an inaudible clink.

  A month and a half into the Blackout and true evil was already showing its colors.

  “Do you see Eli?” James whispered.

  Harper moved her enhanced sight up to the factory’s third-story window and at Brandy looking back at her. Harper dropped her head the ground but, after realizing that her adversary couldn’t see her in the darkness, she lifted them back up and retrained her vision on the window. Brandy sipped a glass of Scotch as he looked out at his people. His blond hair had been slicked back and swooped at the back of his neck. His mouth moved, but Harper couldn’t hear the words. Then he turned back and walked out of view.

  “Brandy’s here,” Harper stated and handed off the binoculars.

  “Where there's smoke…” James’s voice trailed off. “Look at this place.”

  Harper frowned. “While Church was building his defenses, this must’ve been Brandy’s project.”

  “Should we get reinforcements?”

  Harper watched the vast expense. At Brighton, Brandy’s siege crew was crippled but he had double, perhaps triple, that number here. Around two hundred, if Harper guessed correctly. In their current state, Brighton wouldn’t stand a chance. Reinforcement wasn’t an option, either.

  “We’ve come this far,” Harper said, feeling Eli’s presence. “Let’s get our son back.”

  The guard swiveled on the steel walkway, giving the Murphys their opening. Like two jackals in the night, Harper and James darted down the slope using the cover of darkness. They kept their weapons holstered. If someone spotted them, it would all be over. They’d kill James and tie Harper up like one of those slave girls. Harper’s blood boiled at the idea. She’d die before that happened.

  They ducked beside a tent, catching their breath. The silhouette inside evolved into a n
aked man as he stepped out of the shelter and yawned with outstretched arms. He lit up a marijuana joint, acknowledging a few passing individuals with a nod. The smell of skunk raised teenage memories of Harper from her hellraising days. Her rebellious self would’ve loved Brandy’s little anarchist fantasy, barring the slaves and possible obsessive violent nature. Then again, she would’ve hated it.

  The Murphys moved around the back of the tent and dashed between pavilions. The fire from an erect bushel of sticks revealed them for an instant before they disappeared behind a rusty refrigerator packed with clothes. They moved through the outer reaches of the settlement, chasing shadows and suitable cover behind trash. From pharmaceuticals to homegrown, nearly every type of intoxicant was in play. The overactive cocaine snorters folded their dirty clothes, yelled at each other, and kept pouring beers. Those on LCD felt each other up. More users burned a police uniform, making it clear where they got their substances. Harper and James gently stepped by the intoxicated sleepers, crawled around the chairs of the talkers, and dashed behind the walkers.

  The farther they ventured into the community, the more frequent patrols became. The guardsmen--if you could call them that--made infrequent stops and turns, spying into tents, giggling at crude jokes and ignoring most heinous acts. Harper questioned their use until she spotted a man running out of a factory with a shirt full of canned goods. After taking a baseball bat to the back, he collapsed on his face. The patrol claimed the cans and whacked him again. They lifted him by his hands and feet and carried him far from the factory.

  James and Harper remained cautious, sneaking wayward toward the factory’s side.

  “H-help me…”

  They froze, turning their heads to the beaten priest. The assaulters had abandoned him at a crossroads of tents. His face was swollen pink and purple. Puffy bruises sealed his eyes and inflated his lips.

  “Please. Help.” He extended an arm in their direction. Blood hardened on his receding hairline.