EMP Resurgence (Dark New World, Book 7) - An EMP Survival Story

by J. J. Holden

  He had spent some time yesterday trying to figure out which way to go if he got the chance to escape, but he was locked in solid. It had proven to be just a frustrating exercise in futility. Perhaps he might eventually be able to chip away at the cinder blocks enough to remove the bars over the windows, and thereby escape, but that would take much more time than he figured he had left on this Earth. The room he was in was fairly large, too, and even had a working bathroom in it. He wasn’t quite sure how they managed that without power. And the bed was comfortable, as was the couch that lined much of one wall.

  For whatever reason, they had not yet begun to torture him. He knew that sort of questioning would begin at any moment, of course, since that was standard military procedure for prisoners where he was from, but in the meantime, they had been treating him well enough.

  They had even fed him, which was rather surprising. Both times, four soldiers had been present, three with rifles ready. He had no chance to escape through them, and so he had complied with their instructions.

  The problem was that, in following their instructions, he had accidentally given away the fact that he understood English. He still refused to talk, still pretended not to understand, but they had merely smirked and spoke to him in regular, conversational English. They were even polite…

  It actually sort of bothered him that they had not yet begun to torture him. It meant they had something else in mind, probably something more gruesome. He wasn’t afraid of dying, nor was he afraid of their questioning techniques, but the idea kept running through his mind that the Americans planned to publicly execute him. For whatever reason, the idea of being the subject of a gruesome spectacle for public amusement rattled him to his core. That idea did cause some fear. He had never been a POW, so he had never experienced those feelings before.

  As he continued to obsess on that hypothetical fear, he paced back and forth across the length of the room, moving from wall to wall and then back again. They probably were watching him, but he couldn’t help pacing, regardless.

  As he thought more and more of a hypothetical scene in which he was publicly beheaded, just as the ISNA fighters did when punishing one of their own for a capital crime, his heart rate sped up. His vision narrowed as adrenaline flowed through him.

  At last, he couldn’t take it anymore. With his jaw clenched and breathing deeply to catch his breath, he stormed up to the steel door and began banging on it with his fists.

  He kept banging for several minutes, and his fists began to hurt. He switched to pounding on the door with his palms, and it made no less noise than his fists had. If this kept up for much longer, he thought, perhaps he might lose his mind. As iron-willed as he was on the battlefield, as fearless as he might be in the face of the enemy, this confinement was something altogether different. His training had not prepared him for anything like this.

  After several minutes, he heard an answering bang from the other side of the door, three hard knocks, and he stopped his tantrum. A man’s voice on the other side said, “Settle down in there, prisoner. If you keep that up, I’m going to ‘accidentally’ drop your lunch before it gets to you, got it? Understanding the Engrish?”

  Jwa heard undisguised irritation in the man’s voice, but he was pretty irritated, too, at having been spoken to in that way. He had a split-second realization that being talked down to was infinitely preferable to torture. Really, it was the unknown, the question of when the torture would begin, that had made him so aggravated and riled up. He suddenly knew that he wasn’t truly angry, but afraid. The anger was a secondary emotion, and if he was any kind of a true Korean soldier at all, then he must have more discipline over himself. More control. Even if he had no control over his situation, he could still comport himself well as long as he yet lived.

  From the other side of the door, he heard the soldier chuckle, and then the clacking of boots on the floor as the other man walked away, leaving Jwa alone with his thoughts once again.

  - 18 -

  1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +638

  ETHAN SAT AT his desk down in the bunker, absorbed in his video games. He had brought several flash drives, loaded with a number of .ISO files, digital copies of his favorite games. His truly favorite ones, of course, no longer worked since the host servers were down and there was no one left to play with, anyway—the era of MMO games was long since over. He pressed the button to unleash missiles at the pirate spaceship attacking him on an interstellar trade route, and he was rewarded with a satisfying fireball and the fantastic sounds of explosions in space. Totally unrealistic, but a lot of fun.

  A soft ping to his left grabbed his attention. He turned to look at the three monitors he had set up, each of which displayed images from four separate cameras scattered around Clanholme. His heart skipped a beat when he realized the motion alarm had come from the camera that covered the hidden entrance to the bunker, disguised as a shrubbery in the vast field between Clanholme and the southern food forest. Very few people knew about that entrance, and none of them had any reason to be using it right now. The image was too grainy and distant, he couldn’t get a good look at the figure, but he got the impression it was a male. With the poor camera resolution, he couldn’t even be certain of that, but at least he then knew that some person was there.

  He carefully made sure his game was properly saved, then shut down the program and grabbed a handheld radio. “Charlie Two to Oscar One, come in.”

  After a brief pause, the voice responded, slightly static. “Oscar One here. Go ahead.”

  As Ethan looked at the monitor, he saw the figure walk in a circle around the concealing shrub that was the only defense set up at that entrance. The figure occasionally reached out to touch the shrub, but Ethan couldn’t be sure what the person was doing. He clicked the button and said, “Possible intruder sighted in sector Sam Three. You are Code Two on intercept.”

  The voice on the other end said, “Charlie Two, acknowledged. Code Two intercept at sector Sam Three, affirmative. Oscar One out.”

  Ethan opened his desk drawer and pulled out his pistol, a simple 9mm semi-auto, and double-checked his magazine. Seeing it was full, he racked the slide to load a round from the magazine into the chamber.

  Then he glanced back at the monitor and saw that the figure was reaching deep into the shrub, its arm buried up to its shoulder. Then one of the two lightbulbs over his desk flicked on, indicating that the secondary entrance had been released. On the monitor, he saw the figure slide the shrub to one side. It was a cleverly disguised planter, really, built on rails. If the clasp was undone, the whole affair simply slid to one side, allowing access to the ladder that led down into the escape tunnel.

  Ethan cursed under his breath. Where the hell were the on-duty guards? On the monitor, he saw the figure enter the vertical tube, climbing down the ladder. He closed the hatch, sliding the shrubbery back over. Ethan cursed again. None of the guards knew that the backup escape tunnel even existed… Only the Council knew.

  He pressed the button on his handheld radio and said, “Charlie Two to Oscar One. Belay my last order. Redirect responding guards to location Bravo One, Code Three. Out.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned his radio off. The figure would be emerging from the tunnel in moments, and he didn’t want the squawk of a radio response to alert them.

  With his pistol at low-ready, Ethan exited the small office area. The figure would be coming down the tunnel that opened up into the barracks bay, so he maneuvered through the living room module and took up a position behind the small kitchen counter that extended from the bunker wall. This gave him a little bit of cover and good concealment. He crouched down low and took aim at the doorway that led from the living room into the barracks—whoever had broken into the bunker would have to pass through that doorway to get to him.

  He realized he hadn’t unlocked the hatch to the main tunnel, the tunnel his backup would be coming through. They could eventually get the access code from someone who knew it, but t
hat would take time. That was the one thing he didn’t have. Or he could go unlock it, but to do so, he would have to turn his back to that doorway and leave the relative protection of the kitchen counter. His scalp tingled as his heart raced faster. This had been a huge screwup. He only hoped he lived long enough to learn his lesson.

  As the seconds ticked by, each seeming practically eternal, he felt his fear rising. He thought back to the battles he had been involved in, latching onto those to give him courage. Before the war, he had been just a gaming geek and a conspiracy theorist, not to mention a rich dotcom sellout. His very first firefight had been alongside the Clan, well before they ever got on the road from his old bunker.

  His second had been during their westward journey from his bunker to Clanholme, when he and Jed had assaulted an invader machine gun nest. They had cleared that out with grenades, but Jed died during that assault. Ethan rolled those memories around in his mind, drawing strength from them. He could handle this. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

  He heard a noise from within the barracks bay, a metal-on-metal clang that echoed throughout the bunker. Nervously, he adjusted his grip on his pistol and tried to hold it steady, aiming at the doorway.

  He caught a glimpse of motion and fired off a quick double-tap, but he was certain that he had missed. His target had just been moving too fast and had caught him by surprise, even though he had been waiting for precisely that.

  A man dressed all in black darted diagonally through the doorway, entering the living room bay and firing a burst from a fully automatic pistol, or perhaps it was an Uzi.

  Sheer reflex caused Ethan to duck down behind the counter. He counted to two, then leaned forward to bring his pistol out from behind the counter and fired another two rounds.

  Seven left.

  He immediately ducked back, just as another burst of incoming fire blew away the wooden edge of the cabinet he hid behind, which held up the countertop. Cabinets were clearly not intended to stop bullets.

  Ethan heard another metallic sound, like bouncing—ting, ting, ting—and saw a small cylinder skitter across the floor, passing him by. He looked at it, wondering what the hell it was, until horror flooded him as he realized it was a grenade. Up close, the sleek black metal object looked every bit as menacing as he had imagined in his dreams. Dreams where he had been tormented with reliving the memory of the people in the machine gun nest… people whom he himself had devastated with a grenade. Along with Jed.

  Ethan’s reflexes took over and he shifted on the balls of his feet to lunge away from the grenade, his mind screaming that he was about to die. He never made it to the other side of the counter, not that it would have stopped a grenade from five feet away—it went off, and he found himself struck with a force like a fly on a windshield, the explosion’s light and noise overwhelming his senses completely.

  For a second, he thought he was dead. For another second, he thought he must be lying on the floor bleeding out. Then he realized that he didn’t feel the agonizing pain one must feel if caught in a grenade blast. He couldn’t open his eyes, and in his ears it sounded like the deafening roar of a train. He could neither see nor hear, but he was alive. Still blind, he rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up with his hands, then got his feet underneath him. He fell over again, his balance completely destroyed. In the back of his mind, he remembered reading that severe trauma to the ears would destroy a person’s sense of balance.

  He paused for a moment on his hands and knees. He realized his pistol was no longer in his hand, and had no idea where it had gone. Slowly, wobbling, he rose to his feet with his hands stretched out to aid his balance. Every time he felt the beat of his heart, he expected to feel his attacker’s bullets ripping into him.

  Instead, he felt a cloth abruptly pressed over his mouth and nose. His attacker had slid one arm around his neck and was holding something over his face with the other. Ethan struggled with the strength given by life-and-death adrenaline surging through his body, but after being hit by the flash-bang, he was no match for the man who held him from behind.

  Lightheadedness struck him, and the bright light he saw even through his tightly closed eyes grew black around the edges, the darkness crawling toward the center, obliterating the bright after-light that had been all he could see. The lightheadedness grew as the blackness met in the middle, so that all he saw was darkness, and he felt like his brain was spinning in his skull. Then, the blackness overcame him.

  * * *

  The first thing Ethan became aware of was the feel of dirt and rocks beneath him, pressing into his muscles and his spine. The ringing in his ears was now faint, and over it, he could hear what sounded like voices. They might as well have been very far away, or underwater. Just a garbled murmur. He willed himself to open his eyes, and to his surprise, he saw blue sky. Nothing but the vast, blue sky. He still had spots in his vision from the flash-bang, but he could see again. He wondered how long it had been since the grenade went off, and then marveled at why he would be thinking of such a thing when his life was so obviously in danger. And why was he still alive, anyway? He moved his head to look around, the muscles sore and aching at the slightest movement.

  All around him were Clan guardsmen, and his eyes went wide. He felt a flood of both relief and confusion.

  One of the guardsmen knelt next to him, and Ethan locked eyes with him. His mouth was moving, but all that came out was the same murmuring noise. Ethan narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on trying to hear and understand what the man was saying. Slowly, the ringing faded and the garbled voice became more clear.

  “…okay, sir? Can you hear me?”

  As Ethan’s awareness grew, he realized the man had one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He said, “What happened and where am I?” He couldn’t really hear himself speak, so he tried again and repeated himself, but stopped when the guardsmen flinched and looked away. He realized he must be yelling. He tried a third time, this time trying to whisper. He couldn’t be sure he had succeeded, or that any noise had come out at all. It could’ve gone either way.

  The man grinned and patted Ethan’s shoulder. Very faintly, Ethan heard him say, “Thank God you’re all right. You don’t need to scream, though, I’m right here. Are you injured?”

  Ethan wasn’t sure whether he was or not. His senses were dulled, still suffering the effects of the grenade and what he could only assume had been chloroform on the cloth. That was the only thing that made sense of all of this. And if it was chloroform, then he had been unconscious for at least fifteen minutes. Probably longer.

  He sat up, drawing his knees up toward his chest and wrapping his arms around them for support as he looked around. He saw that they were merely ten feet from the hidden bunker entrance, which now lay open and exposed. Great, so all these guardsmen now knew where the hidden access was. He would have to make sure to swear them to secrecy.

  Ignoring the guardsman’s question, and still dazed, Ethan checked over himself for wounds, looking at each arm, his chest, his legs. He saw no blood, and all his parts were right where they were supposed to be. How strange.

  Then he noticed another person lying down a dozen feet or so to his right, dressed head-to-toe in black BDUs with a black shemagh wrapped around his face and neck. He was also lying in a pool of blood, a large bullet hole in his BDU top. It dawned on Ethan that this must be his attacker.

  His senses continuing to clear, Ethan looked back at the guardsman who knelt next to him and said, “What happened, here?”

  The guardsmen said, “We got the order to rush to this sector, and we saw that shrub move. Then this guy popped his head out, and somehow managed to drag you up that ladder in there in a fireman’s carry. It wasn’t an easy shot with you in the line of target, but we took our chances.”

  Ethan felt shaky, the after effects of adrenaline rush, trauma, and chloroform. “I appreciate you not shooting me,” Ethan said, trying to smile. “Radio in and put the compound on high alert, then pass alon
g my orders to the OOD to send everyone out searching to find where this guy was taking me. He must have a vehicle or a horse nearby, or there may be others. I want everything cleared, out to one mile from the compound.”

  The guardsman saluted, then rose to his feet and walked a short distance away as he pulled out his radio. Ethan turned to the nearest guardsman and glanced him up and down. Yes, the man was large enough. “Help me stagger my ass back to HQ, will you? I need to talk to Frank.”

  * * *

  0745 HOURS - ZERO DAY +640

  Jaz awoke with a start, but stayed motionless. Her stomach ached from where she had passed out with her toga yanked up around her waist. She kept her eyes closed until her mind cleared a bit. She felt something in the bed with her, and a flood of nightmare images from only a few hours earlier nearly overwhelmed her; she bit her bottom lip to keep silent as a wave of nausea passed.

  As she waited for the sleep fog to clear, she realized that whatever was in bed with her wasn’t moving. She heard a faint snoring and her heart dropped. Jack.

  Cracking one eye open, she saw he was passed out beside her on the bed, lying on his stomach.

  Jaz glanced around—Chump was gone. She knew he must have left to go scrounging, though she wasn’t sure when he would be back. He could return at any moment…

  The thought made her heart race.

  Jaz took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. She had to think clearly.

  Then a thought hit her—the keys. Jack always kept her padlocks keys in his pocket, or at least that’s what she remembered. She struggled to remember which pocket he kept them in, if at all. Unsure either way, she decided to start with the pocket closest to her. There was only one way to find out…