The Last War Box Set_A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller

by Ryan Schow

  “Great,” I mutter.

  Looking at me, he says, “I know, right?”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “About four hours.”

  Later that evening, as the shooting dies down, then stops completely, there’s a finger tap on the front door. Rex pulls his gun, I grab the old lady’s shotgun, and Macy appears with her tactical assault sock in hand.

  “Yeah?” Rex says into the closed door.

  A muffled voice on the other end. “It’s me, Stanton.”

  Oh, thank God!

  Rex opens the door to Stanton. He looks like nine kinds of hell. Moving inside, he shuts the door behind him. He’s covered in soot, blood from an open cut on his right eyebrow has dried in a long line down his face, his elbow is road-rashy and his pants are torn at the knees. He’s even missing a shoe, which has his dress sock looking worse for wear.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “What didn’t happen? Good Christ. It’s worse than a war zone. It’s…it’s indescribable what’s going on downtown. Drones are everywhere. You look up and it’s like the whole sky is full of them!”

  “I didn’t hear you come up,” Rex says.

  “Your bike?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I stashed it around the corner. Not sure if you know what was going on, but all that gunfire was the cops basically getting slayed by a bunch of thugs holed up in a church.”

  “We’ve been listening to it all day,” Macy says.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” I tell him with a kiss. “Now go take a shower then let me look at those wounds.” What I really want to ask him is if our home is still standing, and if so is it inhabitable.

  “Have you got something?” he asks. “Because there is all kinds of crap packed into the cuts. Dirt, soot, fibers from my pants and shirt for sure.”

  “I had a chance to go through that backpack that belonged to the couple downstairs. The medical backpack. It’s like a hospital you can wear.”

  “I just need ointment, antibiotics and some Band-Aids.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, relieved that he’s finally home.

  When he comes back out, he needs his leg stitched, his head wound glued shut and ointment on his elbow. Naturally I’m ready for him. It’s not a pretty sight, but Macy steps out of the room and Stanton just sits there and takes it, grimace and all.

  At the dinner table, by candle light, we eat and talk. Rex has gone home, so it’s just the three of us. Ever since he walked into the house, I’ve been dying to know about our condo. I’m not hopeful, but until he tells me otherwise, I’m trying to stay positive.

  “It’s gone. Our condo, the building, the entire block. Even the Fairmont is sitting in a pile of rubble where it once stood.”

  I’d like to tell you I handled the news with a bit of grace, but I’d be lying. I don’t take it well and it’s showing. Setting down my fork, I walk away from the table, unable to finish the miniscule amount of food I’d put on my plate. Standing in the bathroom with the door shut and locked, trying not to hyperventilate, my body decides that now’s the time to let it all out.

  The prickle of tears hits me and I feel myself making the ugly cry face. Gigantic, warm tears leak from my eyes and my heart opens up with a kind of grief I can’t explain. This moment makes everything real.

  There is no home to go to.

  No more things.

  Our entire life was in that condo. All our valuables, my clothes and jewelry, Macy’s baby books, our computer which had our whole photographed life saved on it. Pictures from our wedding, our honeymoon, vacations, the for-no-reason-at-all photos (my favorites)…everything. We even had an extra hundred thousand in emergency money in a floor safe that’s now probably pulverized, according to Stanton.

  When I’m all done, when my body is exhausted from the upheaval of emotion, I return to the table where Macy and Stanton are still sitting.

  “So it’s all gone?” I ask, hiccupping, my eyes still damp, my body feeling as weak as it’s ever felt.

  He looks up at me with heavy eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sin.”

  The three of us finish eating in silence. Well, the two of them let me finish since they’re already done. Stanton blows out the candle as soon as my plate is clear, but none of us leave the table. Where else would we go? Besides, I can tell he’s got something to say.

  He’s just not ready yet.

  “I need to talk to you guys,” he finally says. Then, after a long contemplative pause: “I know this new world scares you. It scares me, too. Whatever’s making those drones…do what they’re doing…it’s clear they don’t want the city or its inhabitants to survive.

  “I talked to a guy down there who says the Bay Bridge is impassable. He says the drones have taken out the center section of the Golden Gate Bridge. He says they don’t want us leaving. I can’t argue his logic. I know this is me humanizing them, which I can’t do, but they clearly have an agenda and it’s not looking good.

  “So what I want to say, what I have to say, is that we can’t be the people we were last week. We can’t afford to think civilized thoughts anymore or we won’t survive. The word is that this isn’t an isolated incident—”

  “You mean other cities are getting hit, too?” I ask.

  He nods, solemn, slowly.

  “This isn’t an attack on the city,” he continues. “I think it’s an attack on humanity, and though this might be a bit presumptive, maybe even an assumption based on not enough facts, it’s obvious that life isn’t going to be the same for awhile.”

  “Machines can’t make decisions for themselves,” Macy argues.

  “Actually they can,” Stanton tells her, and I know this to be true. “I pray that’s not what’s happening here, but the more this persists, the more it’s looking like an extinction level event is underway. It’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap,” Macy says. “Do you know how insane you sound right now?”

  “Have you seen the National Guard? The Air Force? Any military assistance at all?” he argues, a little heat entering his voice. “Has the television or the internet returned? If no one has a clue about what’s going on then it means they have no idea who’s behind these attacks either, and if there’s no clear enemy and no clear solutions and no help from the government or local law enforcement, what does that tell you?”

  “That we’re on our own,” Macy quietly concedes.

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” I ask.

  “Dig in, weather the storm, be the kind of people we were never taught to be, the kind we never wanted to be, the kind of people God would not want us to be if He could speak to us now.”

  “You want us to become…savages?” I ask, horrified by what I’m hearing.

  A long pause, then: “Yes.”

  No one says anything for a spell, then finally Stanton breaks the silence. “We need to get a good night’s sleep, then we have to fortify this place in the morning, talk about maybe finding someplace more permanent. Someplace more suited to long term sustainability under war time conditions.”

  So that was our big evening talk. Our big “come to Jesus” meeting. Stanton basically scared the crap out of me and Macy. Now Macy’s asleep and Stanton’s asleep and here I am, worrying away my sanity.

  How much more of this can I take? I don’t think I can do this.

  I shouldn’t have taken a nap earlier. It’s thrown off my sleep schedule, which is beyond aggravating right now. The world is finally as quiet as a tomb, but I’m just laying here, cold, with no reprieve from my thoughts—thoughts that are quickly turning to some sort of anxious desperation.

  Around two or three a.m., I hear a noise.

  I get up, slide the curtains back a sliver, then peek out the window. A group of guys are walking down the middle of the street, not bothering anyone, but not in bed dreaming of sheep either. They’ve got b
ackpacks and guns. They’re dressed in warm clothes with beanies on their heads. Are they leaving town? Should we be leaving town, too?

  Is there even a way out?

  I go back to bed because it’s freezing and my body is finally letting go. The heater struggles to a start and I’m thinking, thank God for the little things. It coughs out a few minutes later.

  In the morning, I wake up to Stanton and Rex talking to Macy about the guns we have. She’s standing in the kitchen in a shooter’s stance with the Sig Sauer stretched out in front of her.

  “You don’t want to pull the trigger,” Rex is saying. “You want to let out your breath, then squeeze.”

  “What’s the difference between squeezing and pulling?” she asks, one eye shut, one eye looking down the barrel.

  “Pulling raises the barrel, squeezing tracks better.”

  So for the next half hour she dry-fires the pistol, practicing on squeezing rather than pulling. Then it’s Stanton. And then it’s me. After that it’s a rationed lunch and more gun training. Then it’s taking the weapon apart and putting it back together again.

  When the afternoon is over and I’m feeling beyond tired again, Macy says, “So now that I know how to shoot a gun—”

  “You haven’t ever actually shot it,” Rex says.

  “Yes, I know. But now that you’ve taught me how to do it, do I have to give up my sock?”

  “Keep your sock as backup, honey,” I say, not sure if she’s being smart-alecky or dead serious.

  “She can get rid of the sock anytime she wants, Cincinnati.”

  “But it smells so good,” Macy jokes, and then we’re all laughing. Well, we’re all laughing until the note slides under the door.

  “I’ve had enough of this crap, Stanton,” I say, the mood suddenly shot.

  “I got this,” Macy says, telling everyone to sit tight.

  “Like last time?” Stanton says.

  Macy snatches up the note, doesn’t even bother to read it before stomping upstairs. Stanton grabs the Sig, goes and stands just outside the door, listening. When he comes inside, he says, “I think it’s just some kid up there.”

  A half hour later, Macy comes back down with a boy her age, maybe a year or two older. “Guys, this is Gunner. He’s waiting for his parents to come home.”

  Gunner is a tall lanky kid with shaggy black hair in need of a haircut. He looks painfully shy, and maybe a bit embarrassed.

  “If they’re not home by now,” Rex says, “chances are pretty good they aren’t coming home.”

  “Rex!” I say.

  He shrugs his shoulders, makes a face.

  “Sooner or later he’ll see it, I’m just saving him time.” Looking at the kid, Rex says, “C’mon man, you have to know what’s going on out there.”

  He stands there, looking sheepish. Is it bad that I’m thinking, of all of us, he’ll be the first to go?

  “Speak up Gunner,” Stanton says.

  “I haven’t been out of the house, but I’ve been sick, so…”

  “So you know there’s a war going on outside, right?” Rex says. “Man versus the machines and man is losing? That kind of thing?”

  He looks down, his face losing color by the minute.

  “Do you have food upstairs?” I ask. He looks up, nods. “Well if you run out, you come down and see us, okay? Same goes for water or medical supplies.”

  “Why would I need medical supplies?” he asks, his voice too small for the times.

  “In case you catch a stray,” Rex says.

  “A stray?”

  “Bullet. All that gunfire yesterday was the cops shooting at the idiots in the church. I’m talking about gang bangers, not parishioners, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Oh,” he says, then he turns and wanders out the front door.

  “No more notes!” I call after him.

  He stops, says nothing, then heads back upstairs. Stanton, Rex and I trade looks. Macy shuts the door then turns to us and says, “Talk about a dead man walking.”

  Rex looks at Stanton, then back at Macy with new eyes and says, “You know Stanton, I think little Macy here’s going to be okay.”

  Let’s hope so.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It feels like years have passed. Decades. In reality, it’s only been a couple of weeks since the attack. With only one thing to do (survive), the days seem much longer, the nights measurably shorter. Surviving with no amnesty from drone flybys and the effects of the bombing, this war is taking its toll. Macy seems to be adapting the best, and Rex is solid, but me? I’m struggling.

  But not as bad as Stanton.

  Lately my husband has become increasingly agitated. I think it’s from seeing the material summation of his life sitting in ruins. If we are our jobs, our houses, our cars…all our pretty little things, and they’re all gone, then who are we really?

  At some point in time, we’re all going to have to figure this out.

  To make matters worse, the water stopped working a few days ago. Talk about a devastating blow. What’s next, the electricity? My mind starts thinking about spoiled food, lights, heat. So now we’ve rationing out the food a little better because, well…the attacks are ongoing and we’re not sure they’ll ever stop. If they don’t, this city is bound to fall, and at that point you can pretty much say goodbye to the Bay Area for the next hundred years.

  What has surprised us most is that it’s not over by now. Maybe it will never be over. We can’t stop it. And there’s no fast food solution. No “call this person and get it handled” type of possibility of getting this matter done and over with. The drones seem to have an endless supply of ammunition and all we can do is hunker down and hope they don’t bomb the neighborhood anytime soon.

  It’s inevitable though.

  As for that easy solution to the drones? People have taken up arms against them. In the battle of guns versus bombs, however, Rex says bombs almost always win. He would know. He’s done two tours in Afghanistan.

  Some of the people we’ve talked to, those we’ve met (to their reluctance) on the block, they keep talking about things like emergency services, FEMA, the National Guard. After the shootout at the church, we found a slew of dead cops stripped of their uniforms, their guns and in some cases their radios and cars.

  Now these scumbags have guns, badges and uniforms, so we don’t trust that the cops are really the cops. We’ve been warning people about that, but mostly people are trying not to die of dehydration, starve to death or lose the roof over their head, the one that could be shelled at any minute.

  The thing is, when you’re on your own and the future looks dim, downright forlorn, most of these people aren’t thinking about things like hope and long term survivability. That’s why we don’t talk to many people. We need to stay positive.

  So that’s my goal—not to lose myself, or get lost in all of this. I don’t expect it to be easy, even though it’s a noble, foolhardy cause, but this is my focus. So I try to set aside my fears and I try to stay upbeat, and most of all, I do my absolute best to have faith in the future, the odds be damned.

  The way we’ve been planning for our future is by building our water stores and rationing our food. We’re collecting dry goods where we’re able to, and we’re storing water for later. It’s not safe here, though. We know that. What we need to do is find a way out of this city. Find someplace safe. Someplace rural.

  So yeah, we’ve got lofty goals, but whatever. We’re optimists in training.

  Today Rex, Macy and Gunner are out scavenging for food and munitions. Me and Stanton are on water duty.

  In your standard residential hot water heater, on average, you can always find between fifty to eighty gallons of water. We know this because Rex knows this.

  A few days ago, in an abandoned home two doors down, we checked their water heater and found it nearly full. No surprise there. It’s exactly what Rex said we could expect. Using a couple of orange Home Depot buckets, we humped as much of the water
back to our house as we could and started the purification process. In other words, we started boiling it. Pot by pot.

  Once the purified water cools enough, we transfer it into our ever growing collection of sealed glass containers. The ones Rex, Macy and Gunner have been collecting. We’ve come up with a pretty impressive array of them by now. In fact, they’re all over the home.

  It’s in this moment that I decide to mention the elephant in the room: Macy’s constant pleas to carry a gun of her own.

  Rex and Stanton are all for it. But me?

  Not so much.

  “Just because you think she can shoot doesn’t mean she’s ready for the soul swallowing burden of taking a life,” I say. “You and Rex can’t turn her into either of you.”

  This stings Stanton because it reminds him of the two boys, the old lady. He’s still having a hard time of that, especially at night when there’s nothing to do but ponder the things you’ve done, and everything you’ve lost.

  “I’ll tell you what I told her,” Stanton says “which is exactly what Rex told me. And I hope you’re internalizing this because this is how it has to be for all of us. If someone’s in your face and you don’t feel right about them, if something feels off, you have to shoot them. Don’t even think about it. Just do it. Follow this rule, and we have a chance.”

  “You forget I spent my career saving lives, not ending them,” I say, breathless and beyond uncomfortable with the idea of what I feel is unjustified homicide.

  “Those days are gone, Sin.”

  “All I’m saying is she’ll never be you or Rex,” I explain. “She won’t be able to do it, or handle herself if things get hairy.”

  Barely meeting my eyes, he just nods in complete silence as if to say, Yeah? We’ll see about that.

  “I just think you two are pushing her into this with a false sense of confidence.”

  I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but honestly, I’ve been too quiet about this for far too long now.

  “Yeah?” he says, turning to face me. “How so?”

  In the kitchen, four pots of water are now at a rolling boil, there are the consistent concussions bursts of buildings and houses being flattened, and there is the sound of automatic weapons being fired. Outside, birds don’t chirp, dogs don’t bark, and there are no planes or trucks or laughter to remind us of better times. Stanton is just looking at me, ready for an answer.