by Roger Hayden
Rob and his family had managed to escape and make it back to his bug-out car: a red 1979 Datsun. It still ran because it had no computer-run parts to destroy.
Many people had their own theories about the September 12th strike. Rob was certain that they had been hit with an EMP—a high-altitude electromagnetic pulse, ignited forty thousand feet in the air. It was the only thing, to his knowledge, capable of dismantling power grids, portable electronics, and the internal circuitry of most modern vehicles.
The sudden loss of the most basic and relied-upon conveniences had frightened people, some believing that the end of days was upon them. But how far had it spread? Beyond New York? No one knew. And without basic communications, all that people could do was speculate.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Rob leaned against the kitchen counter of his three-bedroom cabin in deep thought. How much longer could they stay there, especially with winter on the horizon? When could they venture back into town? When would it be safe? Such answers remained unknown.
Each day presented new challenges, from rationing their food to getting more, and maintaining a healthy reserve of all necessities. They also had to ensure the security of their camp—consisting of five cabins spread across three acres. They had a twenty-four-hour lookout, and guard shifts were rotated out each day.
Bear Mountain offered the refuge they needed, and at their altitude, they hadn’t encountered anything beyond wildlife. After two months, however, the urge to return home was intensifying among the camp residents. The other families, including Rob’s, feared for loved ones who lived elsewhere. No one knew exactly how far the EMP had reached, and not knowing was the worst part.
As a committed prepper, Rob was prepared to hunker down as long as necessary, though in those early hours of the morning, he contemplated alternatives. He wanted to get a team together and see how Nyack was holding up. Eventually they would need more supplies, too.
Rob knew that organizing such an effort would fall on his shoulders, but he didn’t mind. He was happy to help as long as everyone pulled their own weight. At camp, everyone looked out for each other. They had to.
A light breeze blew through the screen of the open kitchen window. It was quiet outside, peaceful even, and the cabin smelled of pine and fresh maple. In a few months, there would be several feet of snow and bitter cold to go with it. They would need to plan accordingly.
The cabin was made entirely of wood, floor to ceiling. An outside well and pump provided running water, and their portable septic tank and water heater made their conditions livable. The limited amount of electricity from their 640W off-grid solar system was an extra bonus.
As the owner and operator of Pro-Survival, a small hunting and prepper shop, Rob had sold solar units to each camp resident. He hadn’t seen his shop in two months, and hoped that when he did venture into downtown Nyack, it would still be standing.
Their cabin was minimally furnished, but they didn’t have a refrigerator, television, washer or dryer. Their cell phones and laptops were of no use. Those were luxuries from another time and place.
His thirteen-year-old son, Nick, and eleven-year-old daughter, Kelly, had their own rooms; Rob and Mila shared the master bedroom. The thousand-square-foot cabin was a tight fit for a family of four, and the idea of hunkering down seemed simple enough, but Rob longed to return home—if that was ever an option.
Such decisions would rely heavily on news reports broadcast intermittently over the emergency radio. It was resting on the kitchen counter, and Rob turned the knob, hoping for an update about the power grid being restored or news that the National Guard was being deploying to the area. Anything that offered hope.
The Emergency Alert System hadn’t broadcast a new update in over a week. Their earlier reports confirmed that an electromagnetic pulse had been responsible for the power grid shutdown. But they hadn’t confirmed whether the cause was solar flare activity or a deliberate attack. Seventy-five percent of the nation’s power grid had been disabled, and emergency services had long been overwhelmed. That was the latest news, and it was getting old. The radio began humming, then crackling with static, and finally came in clearly.
“This is a report of the Emergency Alert System,” the broadcast began. Rob turned the knob up in heightened anticipation.
“The North American Aerospace Defense Command has reported on some thirty-five national black spots that are in the process of receiving sustainment aid from FEMA, the Army Corps of Engineers, and various other emergency response and military agencies. People are discouraged from traveling lengthy distances on foot despite hardships where they have found themselves stranded.”
It was a different broadcast from before—something new. Pencil in hand, he scribbled onto his notepad, trying to keep up with the announcer.
“Emergency responders are currently distributing maps to local emergency centers where food, water, and limited power are available for displaced residents. Those with missing family members can also register names with the National Missing Persons Database. Fresh from his seventeenth emergency summit meeting with law makers and department heads, President Taylor delivered a message on Thursday, saying that the American people should know that the federal government, in conjunction with state and local officials, is doing everything in its power to bring support and relief to hundreds of millions of Americans going through the largest crisis in modern history.
“In addition to the president’s words, FEMA has released a list of guidelines to people waiting for assistance. These leaflets have been distributed to many affected areas. The guidelines provide stranded residents safe directions to the nearest emergency centers.
“They also provide helpful tips on food rationing and water purification, among other suggestions, to those remaining in their homes. They discourage eating raw meat or expired food and trading or bartering with strangers. A national crime wave has reportedly debilitated several urban areas, hindering aid and assistance.”
Suddenly Josh walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “What did I miss? Can we go home yet?”
Rob turned slightly and shook his head then signaled to Josh that he was still listening to the broadcast.
“In their latest report, members of the EMP Commission estimated an additional two months before power grids can be restored. Some government officials, however, demand a swifter response.
“With only a limited number of functional vehicles on hand, the federal government and military are relying solely on air travel, which has remained largely unaffected by the pulse. Officials have urged motorists in possession of working vehicles manufactured before 1980 to donate them to the nearest emergency management office for temporary use.”
Rob nearly laughed as he jotted.
“Two more months?” Josh asked, shocked. He looked forlorn standing there in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
Rob turned to him again. “They don’t know for sure. It’s all speculation at this point.”
“When do you think they’ll fix it?” Josh asked.
“Soon, I hope, but like he just reported … Now let me listen to this,” Rob said, struggling to keep up with the announcer.
Shrugging him off, Josh looked around the cabin. Sunlight beamed in through the windows. The tranquility of their natural surroundings had been nice for the first few weeks. Now he was sick of it. He longed to see his friends. He longed to play video games. He even longed to return to school. He wasn’t the only young person among the cabin group, and there were others who felt the same as he did.
“Latest casualty numbers are currently unknown. Major Law enforcement operations have been organized to control prison breaks and rioting at correctional facilities nationwide. Thousands of hospitals were recently provided sustainment power from military generators recovered from an underground location, unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse.
“Eighty percent of the nation’s fuel reserve has also been consumed in efforts to maintain emergency ope
rations and support. The transportation agency stated that the unprecedented spike in usage will be replenished once normalcy returns to affected areas. The U.S. has since requested the tripling of fuel imports from NATO partners.
“The lack of economic activity in the U.S. has reportedly destabilized markets worldwide, spearheading a global financial crisis. The United States and parts of Mexico and Canada are currently experiencing the same crisis, leading many experts to believe that dispersal of the electromagnetic pulse was deliberate. More developments to come. This has been a broadcast for the Emergency Alert System.”
Rob dropped his pencil and lowered his head. It was real. They were on their own—that much he knew. “Oh my God…” he said under his breath.
“Dad?” Josh asked. “Can we go into town today?”
Rob ran his hands through his hair and then squeezed his eyes shut.
Josh knew his question didn’t sit well, but persisted anyway. “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you think it’s time yet?”
Rob pointed to the radio, his voice rising. “Did you not hear a word they said?”
“Can’t we just check it out? I don’t see what the big deal is with doing that.”
Rob could hear shuffling in the back room. Mila was getting up. At the risk of furthering an argument in their already small and confined cabin, he approached Josh and placed his hands on his shoulders to calm him. “Our actions affect much more than us right now. There are other families here, and we all have to be on the same page at all times. Understand?”
“Not really,” Josh said in a dispirited tone.
“I know you want to go home. I know that you want everything to go back to normal. I do, too. But every move we make has to be planned and agreed upon by the people here.”
“Why?” Josh asked, looking up.
Rob removed his hands and scratched his scruffy chin. “If you and I were to take the car or even walk into town, others will see us. Bad people who would harm us. They could ambush us or follow us up here, putting everyone’s lives at risk. Do you understand now?”
“I guess,” Josh said, looking down.
“Hey, look at me,” Rob said. Josh slowly lifted his head and looked up at Rob, sadness and discouragement in his eyes.
“We’re going to get through this. I promise.”
“What are you two arguing about?” Mila said, entering the kitchen. She was wearing plaid pajamas, and her shoulder-length black hair was tied in ponytail.
Rob looked over to her as she leaned against the sink. “Just having a father-son chat,” he said, patting Josh’s bushy, disheveled hair. “Josh, why don’t you go get your sister up so you two can get started on chores?”
Josh shifted away, despondent.
Noticing, Rob tried to brighten his spirits. “Get your chores done, and we’ll go fishing later. I promise.”
Josh’s face beamed. “Really?”
“You got it.”
“Awesome,” he said, running off toward Kelly’s room. Josh had always enjoyed fishing. He had a knack for finding the right spots along the Hudson, where there was no shortage of bass, carp, and catfish.
“No chores or fishing until you eat breakfast!” Mila shouted from the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Rob said to her with a smile and a hug.
“Morning,” Mila said and kissed him on his cheek. She looked at the counter and noticed his shorthand scribbling on the notepad. It was a skill he had acquired some time ago, for reasons not completely known to her. He was impulsive sometimes in his random pursuits.
“Big news day?” she asked.
“Something like that,” Rob answered, leaning in closer. “We need to call a camp meeting today … with everyone.”
“That important, huh?”
“Important enough for some big decisions to be made.” He reached over and grabbed his notebook.
Mila turned around and opened the kitchen cabinet above the sink and pulled out a coffee mug. “You could have at least boiled a cup of coffee before all of this.” She filled a three-quart coffee boiler with water from the faucet and placed it on their small Bunsen burner stove.
“Ah! Get out of my room, Josh!” Kelly yelled from down the hall. “Mom!”
Josh’s hurried footsteps clopped along the hardwood floor as he fled to the kitchen, laughing and holding a red pistol-shaped water gun.
“What are you doing?” Mila asked, surprised.
“He sprayed me!” Kelly shouted from her room.
“Give me that,” Rob said, taking the water gun from his hand.
“What? You said to wake her up!” Josh pleaded.
“Not like that!”
Josh ran off laughing as Mila crossed her arms and shook her head. Rob turned to her with a look of exhaustion on his face. “How’s that coffee coming along?”
“It’s coming,” she said.
Suburban Gulag
In two short months following the EMP, Nyack, the quaint inner suburb frequented by tourists because of its proximity to the Hudson River, had a new identity and a new name: “Tartarus,” chosen by its new leader and self-proclaimed mayor, Arthur Jenkins. Most of the homes and businesses had long been raided and vandalized. Food, weapons, and other critical supplies had been rounded up by Arthur’s men.
Their headquarters was located at an abandoned warehouse, where they stored valuable supplies under twenty-four-hour guard. They had food, water, weapons, and booze. Everything was free for the taking, and the convicts loved it. But they couldn’t run the entire town themselves; they needed support. For those who remained in Tartarus, the offer was simple: contribute to the new system or pay the consequences.
Arthur had no problem using force. Residents who objected were taken from their homes, confined, and made to work. There was, however, one major problem. Their supplies were dwindling. Without vehicles, no goods could be shipped into town, and the shelves remained empty. The inexplicable absence of law and order gave the convicts unbridled freedom to pillage as they saw fit. But in order to survive, they’d have to find more supplies.
The people of Tartarus were divided into three groups: freemen, servers, and prisoners. The freemen were made up of Arthur’s loyal gang of convicts. The servers were those who willingly provided labor and supplies for the community. And the prisoners were those taken against their will and placed into forced labor.
As supplies got lower, the “freemen” often conducted drunken raids throughout the town, taking in more prisoners. Those who could, fled their homes in hopes of finding a place not being run by criminals. No one could be sure such a place existed.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
It was no ordinary Saturday morning. Arthur had lofty ambitions, and he knew that Tartarus wasn’t going to last forever. At some point, the power would come back on and with it, the eventual end of his reign. He needed a plan, and that plan was isolation. No one coming into the town, and no one getting out. He would need a wall.
He walked down the front steps of one of the nicest two-story homes on Cedar Creek, an affluent street where many freemen had claimed residence. Without running water or electricity, most homes offered little more than shelter, but they took them nonetheless.
Dressed in an ill-fitting bathrobe, Arthur looked up, gauging the weather, and holding a morning mug of coffee. He rubbed the stubble on his face and then ran a hand through his thick gray hair. The sky was a vibrant orange, and he relished the temporary peace before the day kicked into gear.
He walked out into the yard, where the grass reached past his slippers to his calves. His right-hand man, fellow convict, and neighbor, Larry, told him of finding several manual push-mowers. That was one job that would keep the prisoners busy for a while. Nothing, however, was as important to Arthur as building the wall.
The front door opened behind him. He turned and saw his wife, Teresa, standing on the front porch in a pink bathrobe with her short red hair in curlers. She was petite—about half his size, but to
ugh as nails, a strength he admired deeply. She walked down the steps and joined him in the yard.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Well, you know I don’t sleep like I used to,” she replied. He put his arm around her, and they hugged. “You hungry? I could put some Spam on.”
Arthur laughed. “I never did care for the stuff, but we can’t be very picky today.”
Teresa noticed his slight distraction. “What’s on your mind?”
Arthur dropped his head, ending his sky-gazing. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about how this is all going to play out.”
“What? The wall construction?” Teresa asked.
Arthur nodded.
“I knew it,” she said proudly.
“It’s not going to be easy, and I don’t know if we’re going to have it up in time. Rumors are going around about the power coming back. Once that happens, we lose everything.”
Teresa stroked the felt of his robe. Her wedding ring glistened in the advancing sunlight. “Now’s not the time to doubt our vision.”
“I’m only looking at reality, Teresa.”
Teresa moved away from him, frustrated. “The reality is whatever we make it. You want the wall up faster, make it happen. Put this town to work.”
“It’s not just the labor. The supplies alone …” Arthur began.
“You’ll get more supplies!” Teresa’s eyes shone with conviction. He said no more.
Teresa had waited six years for him, never leaving his side. She had sacrificed enough, Arthur believed. He rarely looked to pick a fight with her.
“Well, I better get ready,” he said, stretching.
“I’ll go heat some Spam up on the grill,” Teresa said, walking away.
His eyes followed her up the stairs of the porch as she walked inside. Just as he was about to follow, a voice shouted to him from down the road.
