by Roger Hayden
“Here we are,” Carlos said. “You ready?”
Mila lifted her revolver and checked the chamber. It was loaded with six hollow-point rounds. She looked ahead. A gray mist shielded the town from complete inspection. “Ready when you are.”
Carlos brought a pair of binos to his eyes and scanned the area. “I don’t see anyone. This is so weird. I’m sick of this ghost-town shit.”
“You and me both,” Mila said.
They waited for a moment as the car idled. Getting out of the car was challenging. It was the only protection they had from the unknown, and if the post-EMP world meant anything, it was that danger lurked around every corner, even in picturesque, upscale towns like Clarkson. Mila turned to look at the weapons in the backseat.
“What should we take?” she asked.
Carlos gripped the steering wheel. “It could go either way. Fill our backpacks with supplies. Take a couple rifles just in case. We don’t want to look dangerous, but we don’t want to look weak, either.”
Mila nodded. “How about we each take a rifle and backpack?”
“Sounds about right to me,” he said.
They reached around and grabbed both rifles and brought them to the front seat. Mila took a few extra magazines and put them inside her jacket pocket. She hoped, for the life of her, that she wouldn’t need a single round. She held fast to her belief that good people were still around. Without such hope, nothing would make sense. Carlos let the car coast forward and stopped behind a large SUV parked on the side of the road. He killed the ignition, and they stepped out of the car—a half mile into town—ready to embark on the mission ahead.
From opposite sides of the car, they hoisted their backpacks over their shoulders and held their rifles firmly. Carlos put on his Oakleys—even though it was hardly bright out. He tilted his head, signaling Mila.
“Let’s move. Stay low and out of the open.”
The stuck to the side of the road, on the grass and under the shedding trees. The road ahead was paved in brick. They came to a sidewalk and kept a careful eye on the two-story cottage homes ahead.
“Should we call out or something?” Carlos asked. “Let them know that we’re not here to cause any trouble?”
“Like, we come in peace?” Mila answered.
“Joke all you want. I don’t want to get shot.”
They cautiously walked beside each other through the mist, stepping across curious bits of broken glass and all the while scanning the windows and doorways. An ambush could happen at any moment. They were in new territory, outsiders once again. If reasonable people still existed, Mila hoped to find them here. She squinted ahead to see a line of cars, positioned like a barricade and completely blocking the road.
“Stop,” she said, grabbing Carlos’s arm.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something’s not right.”
Carlos looked where Mila was pointing and saw the vehicle barricade fifty feet ahead. “You’re telling me it’s not right.”
A gunshot rang out and echoed in the emptiness, sending them diving to the sidewalk, flat on their stomachs. Mila’s rifle fell near her side.
“Shit! You hit?” Carlos said, breathing heavily.
“No,” Mila said quietly.
“State your business!” an unseen man shouted.
Carlos grabbed Mila’s arm, and they crawled beside a nearby blue sedan for cover. He pulled his binos out and scanned left and right. He spotted a man on the other side of the vehicle barricade holding a long hunting rifle and looking through the scope.
“I’m not gonna ask you again!” he shouted.
More shots rang out, hitting the car and sending up metallic sparks. Mila covered her head and pushed against Carlos as he attempted to crawl underneath. The windshield blasted out. Glass bits rained down, and the gunfire pulsed in their ears. This wasn’t the first time someone had been fired upon, which explained the other bits of glass they’d just seen. Now the relentless shots were firing from all around them—confirming that there was more than one gunman.
“What do you want to do now?” Carlos said in a panicked voice while trying to cover his head.
“Answer his question!” Mila said.
A brief silence followed the drifting echo of gunfire.
Carlos stood up on his knees with his arms up in the air, just enough to peek out from the side of the bullet-ridden car. “Don’t shoot! My name is Carlos Santos! I’m from Nyack!”
“Carlos, who’s your friend there?” the man shouted.
Mila gained her courage and stood up with her hands in the air. Her rifle still lay on the sidewalk. She put aside any further hesitation and walked right past Carlos and out into the open road.
“Mila!” he said urgently. “What are you doing?”
“My name is Mila Parker,” she said, walking forward. With her eyes straight ahead, she pulled at the straps of her backpack and lifted it over her shoulders.
“Watch it there!” the man shouted.
“We come in peace,” she said, holding up the bag.
“What?” the man asked.
“We don’t want any trouble. We’re looking for good people. If you want us to leave, we’ll go.” She slowly lowered the bag onto the brick road and stood away from it. “But please accept some supplies as a token of good faith.”
“Step away from the bag!” the man shouted. “And keep your hands in the air!”
She backed away, trying to remain calm, though all her instincts told her to run.
“This town doesn’t accept outsiders. We have enough trouble of our own,” the man said. “So take your compadre there and hit the road.”
She looked up and saw dozens of armed people in different windows of the homes ahead, aiming their rifles. The people of Clarkson weren’t messing around.
“We’re not asking to live here. We’re not asking for supplies or anything else.”
“Then what the hell do you want?” the man asked.
“To talk like civilized people, for starters,” Mila answered.
The man turned as though he was talking to someone else. He nodded and turned back to Mila. “How do we know that there aren’t more of you?”
“Our group has a secluded place in the mountains. There’s eighteen of us in all, but only us two here.”
“And they sent you to do what? Scrape and beg? Or maybe you were hoping to catch us off guard!”
“That’s not true!” Mila said. “We were attacked by a gang of criminals who ravaged our town. Led by a man named Arthur.”
The man stopped and turned his head again. Mila saw it as a promising sign and waited with heightened anticipation. Clarkson was close to their last option, and she was determined to make her case despite any danger she might be putting herself into.
The man turned back to her. “You and your friend step forward, but keep your hands in the air!”
Mila turned to see Carlos, still lying on his side by the blue sedan and clutching his rifle. He looked up at her, hesitating.
“We’re both armed,” Mila said. “But only because we didn’t know what to expect. Like I said, Nyack has been taken over.”
“Easy,” the man said. “Put your weapons on the ground next to your pack and come forward.”
Carlos pushed himself up and walked slowly toward Mila with one hand holding his rifle out in front of him, and his other hand held high up. “You sure about this?” he said to Mila out of the corner of his mouth.
“It’s our only chance. We’ve come this far.”
“There are other towns, you know.”
“They haven’t shot us yet, so I’d say we’re doing pretty well.”
Carlos cocked an eyebrow at her and placed his rifle next to her backpack. He then pulled off his backpack and set it down. They stood next to each other with their hands up, awaiting the next command.
“Any other weapons you got, you know what to do,” the man said.
Carlos shook his head. “This is
ridiculous.” He pulled out his knife and pistol as Mila fished her revolver out from her boot.
“One more question,” the man said. “How did you get here?”
They looked at each other. Carlos hesitated as Mila turned to the man. “We drove,” she said.
“Are you crazy?” Carlos whispered, his face flushed. “Why don’t you just give them the keys to our cabins while you’re at it?”
“We have to build trust!” Mila said.
They waited in silence as the man continued his side conversation. Mila knew that their unexpected presence had at least piqued the curiosity of the community.
“Go ahead and step forward,” the man said. “Try anything funny, and we’ll shoot you on the spot.”
Mila and Carlos did as they were told, as men and women, their faces filled with suspicion, watched from their windows above. Clarkson seemed to have descended into the Wild West in a manner similar to Nyack. Was there no place left untouched by the EMP? It had affected not only the grid, but also people’s humanity. Mila pondered this as they got closer to the man behind the barricade, who never took them out of his rifle’s sights.
“That’s good,” he said. They stopped walking. “Keep those hands up, and move slowly.”
They reached the line of cars and stopped. “No turning back now,” Carlos said under his breath.
They could see the man more clearly. He had a full head of light-brown hair that hung over his ears, and a matching brown beard to go with it. Under the bill of his hat, his eyes were a wild blue, and he was wearing green camouflage gear like an outdoorsman. He stood up fully, and they could see that he was a well-built man of average height, probably in his late thirties. He looked at them no less suspiciously now that they were up close.
“You can go ahead and just climb over now,” he said.
Mila stepped on the front bumper of a dented-in Chevy Cavalier and moved across the hood with her hands low and feeling her way across the dusty metal. The car dipped lower as Carlos followed her lead. Once they were on the other side, the man walked over and greeted them.
“My name is Bill Dawson,” he said, removing his hat. He didn’t offer a handshake, but giving them his name was a start.
Mila looked around, trying not to be obvious about it. She could see the town better now that they were past the vehicle barricade, and it helped that the mist had lifted a bit too. People continued watching them from their windows. Most homes were boarded up, with only a window or two to look out of. Farther down the road, cars were positioned from one side to the other, like personal barricades, where other people were standing with rifles aimed.
There was no denying that the town was fortified beyond anything she imagined. It was also very quiet, even though their presence had not gone unnoticed. But Mila was elated to see so many people and families who had seemed to escape the anger and violence that Nyack residents had endured. Behind Bill was another man, sitting on a crate. Slightly paunchy and with sagging cheeks, he wore a thick parka with a fur hood pulled over his head. He adjusted his glasses, stood up, and walked over to them.
“We could hear you coming a mile away,” he said.
“Figures,” Mila responded.
“That’s why I asked Bill here to ask you how you got here. We appreciate your honesty. I know that if I had a working automobile, I’d be less inclined to tell anyone.”
“We wanted to build trust,” Carlos said, seemingly taking credit for the idea.
Mila looked at him funny then turned to the approaching man. “I’m Mila—”
“I heard your names. I’m Jordan. Jordan Flynn.”
“Nice to meet you, Jordan,” Mila said with a breath of relief. “I’m so glad to meet some normal people for once.”
Jordan stopped and raised his hand to prevent her from going on. “I wouldn’t go that far yet. You just met us.”
“I can tell,” Mila said.
“Suit yourself. Now, I heard you mention someone by the name of Arthur.”
Mila’s smile dropped. “Yes. Unfortunately, we’ve crossed paths with him and his gang.”
Jordan crossed his arms and brought one hand to his chin, thinking. “We know the name all too well. But before going any further, you need to check in with our town sheriff. He’ll want to hear everything you have to say.”
“You have a sheriff?” Carlos asked. “Damn, I don’t think I’ve seen a cop in two months.”
“Follow me,” Jordan said. He turned to Bill. “Keep watch. This day has been strange enough, and we don’t know who else is going to come wandering in here today. And check out their packs. See what they brought us.”
“Got it,” Bill said.
Jordan beckoned Mila and Carlos to follow him. They walked together as the brick soon turned to flat pavement. Smoke was in the air, rising from a number of smoking burn barrels in their path, obviously set up for heat. The town was flat-looking and desolate. On closer inspection, the homes seemed worn and damaged, and many were boarded up with plywood over the windows. The trees reached their skeletal bare branches into the sky, and there was no sign of wildlife beyond a flock of birds flying overhead.
They passed a few other men, who maintained their shooting positions behind strategically placed cars—many of them with smashed-out windows and flat tires. Sloppy graffiti covered many of the cars and homes. The men were scruffy and dirty, dressed in mismatched winter clothes like vagrants. They looked worn but hardened, offering no friendly greetings or nods of acknowledgment. Mila tried not to make eye contact with them. Jordan and Bill seemed cordial enough, but Mila and Carlos appeared to be on thin ice with everyone else.
“How many people do you have here?” she asked Jordan as they were passing a vacant post office and entering a quaint but empty business district.
Jordan thought to himself. “Well, Clarkson had a population of about six thousand. Lot of people left. Others, well, we’ll get to that later.”
“How many are left now?” Carlos persisted.
“I’d say we have about a thousand people. A little more, maybe.”
“Wow,” she said. “Our numbers are much lower in Nyack.”
“Our mutual acquaintance, Arthur, drove most of Clarkson out,” Jordan said.
Mila covered her mouth. “Oh no. Here too?”
“I’ll let the sheriff explain more.”
The evidence was in the shops they passed. Gaping holes stood where windows used to be. Many were absent doors and anything else inside. Nothing but empty shelves remained. On the corner of the street, they came to a small, red brick police station with its windows intact and protected with bars. There were a few police cars in the parking lot, and unlike most other cars they had encountered, they were free from leaves, branches, and debris.
“The sheriff is really strong on appearances,” Jordan said. “You’ll see.”
“Thank you for hearing what we have to say,” Mila said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Jordan said, leading them across the street and to the police station. “The sheriff will make the final call.”
They entered the building to find it plenty dim inside, with a single kerosene lamp resting on the front counter of an empty lobby. Jordan told them to wait as he went to the counter and rang a small bell as though they were checking into a hotel.
Behind the glass, a door opened and a man emerged—striking in his old-fashioned appearance. He had a thick head of white hair, aviator glasses, and a long-sleeved gray police shirt with a sheriff’s star over his chest. He was tall and skinny, and his head was blocked by a visor on the lobby window.
“What can I help you with, Jordan?” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.
“We have some visitors from Nyack,” Jordan said.
“Oh yeah?” The sheriff peered through the window to get a closer look at them. “How’s that old town holding up?”
“Not well,” Mila said. She felt comfortable enough to speak up.
The sheriff paused and then loo
ked to Jordan. “What do they want?”
“To speak with you, of course,” Jordan said.
The sheriff thought for a moment, hidden behind his dark sunglasses. Mila wondered how he could even see. “Busy today. Why don’t they come back later? We got a heap of shit on our hands right now.”
Jordan leaned in closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “It’s about Arthur. Apparently he’s made a name for himself in their town.”
The sheriff stopped, as though someone had just hit him upside the head with a shovel. “Give me five minutes, then send them to my office. I’m trusting that they’re unarmed?”
“That’s correct, Sheriff,” Jordan said.
“Five minutes,” the sheriff said. “They wait five, and then I’ll give ’em five, fair enough?” he asked, looking past Jordan.
“Yes, that would be great,” Mila said.
The sheriff was gone before they knew it. Jordan turned back around with a shrug. “That’s that. Just have a seat, and he’ll talk with us soon.”
Mila and Carlos sat on the first two chairs as Jordan stood patiently, leaning on the counter.
“And I thought we had some weird folks in our group,” Carlos said. Mila shushed him but couldn’t help smiling.
“How have your people managed here so far?” Mila asked.
“Each day is a new challenge. Most of us are just holding up, hoping that the power grid will come back online. Steven, an engineer, explained to us about electromagnetic pulses and how even if the power does come back on, nothing is going to work. Nothing that got fried, anyway.”
“My husband is big on that stuff too,” Mila said. “Our car was manufactured before the eighties. And anything made before then seems to work just fine.”
“The Buick?” Jordan asked.
“No, that’s our friend’s car. We’re preppers.”
“You don’t say.”
After some brief chat—not revealing too much—Jordan said that it was time to see the sheriff. Mila was feeling better about their prospects by the minute. They had ventured into the town and introduced themselves, a big first step. Now all they had to do was convince the townspeople to help—and help was in short supply almost everywhere, with every person for themselves.
