by Roger Hayden
The bug-out van, a blue 1977 GMC Chevrolet, was parked in the backyard under a large blue canopy. Weeds had long grown around it, but the vehicle itself was in relatively good condition. Terrance had started it up only a few days ago. He regularly drove it to get fuel running through it, from its thirty-five-gallon tank. He opened the driver's side door, holding onto the hope that he had left. He sat in the driver's seat and took a deep breath. The moment of realization had come: he and his family were pinning their hopes on a piece of machinery over forty years old. Terrance felt that his family's very survival depended on it. He stuck the key in the ignition, almost not wanting to turn it.
“You gonna sit in here all day, old man?” he asked himself. “Turn the key.” He closed his eyes and made himself do it. The engine sputtered then shut off. "Shit," he said. He tried again. The engine choked and heaved.
"Son of a bitch," Terrance said, slamming his fists on the steering wheel. He placed his hand on the shift lever mounted on the steering column, and lowered his head in prayer. A few seconds later, he pumped the gas and brake pedals with hopes of running some juice through the car before trying again.
"One... two... three," he said, and then he turned the key. The engine kicked in and came alive in all of its internal combustion glory. Terrance held the gas pedal down, revving the engine to its top speed, then slowly releasing his foot. The van idled without a hint of a problem. Terrance raised his head in relief. He wiped the sweat from his face with a nearby rag and looked at the van's red liner above. His heart was beating rapidly, and he didn't know if it was because of excitement, panic, or outright exhaustion.
Christina heard the sound of the engine. and came running outside of the house. "You got it working! I can't believe it," she cheered. She poked her head inside and practically jumped into the driver's seat.
"Hop in," Terrance said "Let's go get our kids."
"Do we have enough fuel?" she asked.
"Might have to use some of the reserve, but we'll get there, one way or another."
"Aye, aye, captain."
The blue van slowly lumbered from under the canopy and out of the backyard. They were soon on the road, gaining the attention of every bewildered person they passed.
.
Chapter Ten
Prepper Headquarters
Monday September 21, 6:00 P.M. Milledgeville, GA
The four-bedroom, two-bath home in Milledgeville was an ideal retreat for trying times. The house was supplied with well water, and in the event of a prolonged power outage, several twenty-two-kilowatt standby generators had been installed as a backup power source. James had also installed shielded solar panels designed for low-capacity power storage. In all, there were three diesel fuel generators and ten solar panels. James had spent the better part of the year preserving, drying, freezing, and pickling all kinds of fruits, meats, and vegetables. Even preserved food expired at some point, so he always paid close attention to what he was storing and for how long.
Each room had a bed or two, a dresser, a closet and other furnishings. Having several different families together under one roof for an unknown period of time could be problematic if morale sunk too low. James did all he could ahead of time to ensure that the house was sustainable, livable, and practical for all who would soon be there, taking shelter from the storm. He knew that the Robinsons had three kids—a young daughter and two teenage boys. He had met them before and thought them to be a good bunch, but problems could arise during an extended stay. They would no doubt grow restless after a while, as kids did, adding stress to an already stressful situation. In the end, he just hoped that their parents would keep them under control.
Monday had been a day like no other, starting when James had to flee work in his bug-out truck after canceling classes. If all electronics had been destroyed in a single blast, it could take months, even years, before normalcy was restored. If a high-altitude nuclear electromagnetic pulse (HEMP) had been launched over the greater Georgia area, the radius stretch for towns, even cities.
Such an attack would change everything. He and the other preppers had little faith in the state and federal government's ability to manage a major crisis. The concept of the bug-out house was to live self-sufficiently, and out of necessity. Only time would tell if it worked out in the end.
James spent the latter part of the afternoon in his basement monitoring the radio and trying to find out anything he could. His cell phone no longer worked. Upstairs, his computer was fried, and the television was out of commission. These were appliances that were all plugged in, which could explain their demise. However, the back-up generators still functioned, probably due to the protective metal casing James stored them in. He had turned on the generators earlier and did a walk-through of the entire house, logging what did and didn't work. All the newer electronic appliances were nonfunctional.
The house never had any central air conditioning, except for window units. Each room had overhead fans. The washer and dryer didn't work. The refrigerator and downstairs freezer ran off of large batteries. The toaster and blender still worked. The kitchen appliances were antiques, manufactured over forty years ago. They lacked the complex micro-circuitry of new devices such as computers, flat-screens, laptops, and smart phones.
Water sill flowed from the kitchen sink. There was no dishwasher to worry about, but the oven worked just like new. The hot water heater was no longer working properly, which concerned James most of all. The septic tank was buried deep below the house, and seemed to be working fine. After checking everything in the house, James turned the main circuit breaker off and powered down the generators. Power conservation was the key, and until the others showed up, James would do his best.
James sat in the basement, and listened. The radio was free from chatter of any kind. He had heard only from Mark Moss and nothing from the Robinson family. Maybe Atlanta had been hit hard. Sprawling and heavily populated, it was not the place one wanted to be before, during, or after attack. Then again, the attack might not have hit Atlanta at all. James hoped that the Robinson family was okay. He knew Terrance to be a resourceful guy and had faith that they he would get his family to the bug-out house if necessary.
James' mind drifted to his son and grandkids in California. He wondered how they were holding up. He faced a crushing desire to contact them and verify that they were out of harm's way. His mind drifted back to his classroom and the moment when the attack began. Everything had happened so fast. He started to think about his students and colleagues at the University. Things weren't good. He felt sick inside.
What was in store for everyone? Did it end with an EMP attack? What else did they face? A nuclear attack? Biological warfare? There were no answers. The most James could do was to sit by the radio and wait.
The basement itself was heavily stocked with foods and supplies. Its naturally cool temperature was ideal for storing items with a long shelf life. Jars of canned, pickled, and dried food lined the shelves in the small pantry, adjacent to the main room. Other shelves within the basement were stocked with medical supplies, batteries, flashlights, kerosene lamps, matches, soaps and detergents, baby wipes, and gallons upon gallons of purified water.
The basement also had its share of stored weapons, hunting rifles, pistols, and shotguns all stored in a large security safe, along with a sizable amount of ammunition. He had stored weapons and ammo as a last line of defense, if the bug-out house was ever attacked. It was a scenario James hoped, with all his heart, would never play out.
He expected Mark and Janice to show up soon, either at night or by morning. He began to worry about Terrance, as he had heard nothing from him. James leaned back in his chair and took a sip of brandy from his favorite little glass. It helped calm his nerves and he had stored a fair amount of alcohol storage in the basement as well. As he took one last sip, the sun fell slowly below the clouds. Nightfall was approaching.
James fiddled with the radio knob, continuing his search through the channels in
hopes of hearing from Terrance. A few things were clear to him. First, he believed the blackout to be caused by an aerial EMP. Second, the blast hadn't destroyed everything, and the overall complexity of its effects had yet to be fully discovered. It would take more time to figure out why certain objects worked and others didn't. Third, government’s response to an EMP attack remained to be seen.
As questions raced through his head, James heard a tiny coming from the radio. He jumped forward and nearly fell out of his chair in the process. He leaned in closer and turned up the volume. The voice crackled in and out, barely intelligible. James turned the reception knob slightly in an attempt to get a better signal. Suddenly the voice came through with urgent clarity.
"...food, water, and shelter. You have coordinates, hurry before it's too late. Again, this is a message to all survivalists. Calling all survivalists, this is a message for you. At approximately nine this morning, the state of Georgia, as well as several surrounding states was hit by a high-altitude nuclear EMP. The blast reportedly occurred at 130,000 feet in the Earth's atmosphere. The damaging pulses distributed by the blasts have taken out roughly 70 percent of Georgia's power structure, affecting cell phones, computers, and vehicles. Planes already in flight seem generally unaffected as are helicopters and military trucks.
If you're receiving this message, a lot of you already know this. You've been preparing for a situation just like it. Now that it has happened, you, like everyone else, are left wondering what to do. What you need to do is join us. Join our survival camp. No matter how prepared you are, your supplies aren't going to last forever. No matter how well concealed or hidden you are, you won't stay hidden forever. Even if your vehicle is still running, you're fuel won't last forever.
At the survival camp, we don't promise to have an endless supply of anything. But what we do have is an abundance of good people. Survival experts. People that can hunt, kill, and cook their food. People who can purify water. Those who have helpful skills and even those who don't. Mainly we accept those who can contribute, but all are welcome to our camp. If you or your family are interested, prepare to copy as I lay out the coordinates of our location.
It's very secure and removed from densely populated areas. Our position is represented in degrees and can easily be found by using a map and compass. We are located at 41 degrees north latitude and 96.7 degrees west longitude from the Oconee River landmark in central Georgia. This is the place you need to be, with other survivalists like you. We have plenty of food, water, and shelter for everyone. You have the coordinates; hurry before it's too late. One more time, this is a message to all survivalists..." And on the message went.
It had gotten James's full attention. He dutifully copied the coordinates onto his note pad just in case. He switched the channel again in hopes of finding Terrance. The urgency of the radio message seemed strange so early in the EMP strike, but the message did help verify what James thought. It meant that there were other people, just like them, who were out there preparing for the worst. There came a time when one had to accept fate. When one had to accept that things were not going to be the way they had been. The choice between denial and acceptance was clear for James. He wanted to live in the now.
Chapter Eleven
Survival Camp
In a darkened room, slightly illuminated by a single lamp on the table, a man named Russell sat in front of a large and sophisticated radio unit. He hovered over the microphone like a radio talk-show host. Only he had no show to perform. His job was to send a pre-written transmission over the radio every ten minutes, spreading the benefits of "Survival Camp." He pushed the microphone away, propped his feet up on the table, and leaned back.
His dark, stringy hair hung over his forehead and into his eyes. He was a thin man with a sunken face, and though he couldn't have been more than thirty, his face was already deeply etched with wrinkles. He was satisfied with himself, but his expression didn't show it. He brushed his hair aside with his free hand, and he simply stared ahead, cold and expressionless. In the shadows behind him, several other men sat at desks scribbling into notebooks and examining maps of the state of Georgia. They dressed like a dated militia in old camouflage pants, black, long-sleeved shirts, and boonie caps with wide brims to protect against the sun. One of the men, named Kyle, with a graying beard, made some marks on his map then rose from his chair and walked over to the radio. He placed a hand on the Russell's shoulder, gaining his attention. Russell turned around quickly and took his feet off the table.
"Whoa, didn't see you there," Russell said.
"How you holding up?" Kyle asked.
Russell coughed. "Doing fine. Just sent another broadcast."
"Good, here I wanted to show you something," Kyle said, placing the state map on the table. He ran his index finger across the map and continued. "We're looking at this entire area potentially becoming some kind of fed refugee center. That's what I gather anyway."
"Based on what, exactly?" Russell asked.
"Based on the fact that Georgia ranks twenty-fifth in the state bankruptcies. Fifteenth in unemployment, and currently it has one of the largest welfare rolls in the country. In short, we're living in a ticking time bomb. I give it a week."
Russell ran his hands over his scraggly face. "Jesus... this EMP business is the real deal. Who are we looking at here, Russia?"
"No idea. In all honesty, my sources warned that it was going to be a dirty bomb, not this EMP business."
"We need more people here, and we need them here soon. Not just any dipshit off the block either."
"You specified survivalists, right?" Kyle asked
"Yeah, of course," Russell said, sounding annoyed. "Survivalists, preppers, hunters, gatherers, all of that shit. I know what I'm doing here, thanks." Just as Russell wrapped up, he began to cough violently. His coughs were startling and painful sounding.
Kyle placed his hand on Russell's back and gently patted. "Russ, maybe you should take a break, you know?"
"Nonsense," Russell said, his eyes watering. "We get some more people here, and then I'll relax a little."
"At least get some sleep," Kyle said.
"I can't sleep. I've tried for the past three days."
"You're a wreck," Kyle added. Then he began walking away.
Russell propped his feet back up on the table. He grabbed the microphone and pushed the transmitter button on its base. He stared down at his ledger and repeated the written words once again into the mic, just as he had done before.
The exciting story continues in The Pulse: Episode Two -
The prepper pact continues to battle the unpredictable and volatile climate of their home towns while trying to flee to the safety of their bug-out house in Milledgeville, Georgia. But nothing comes easy, the journey is riddled with obstacles in world gone mad. Terrance and Christina try their best to hold their family together during crisis, as Mark and Janice do their best to adjust to distressing circumstances. At the bug-out house, James welcomes his friends upon their arrival, and the prepper pact is nearly complete, but not before a visit from some unexpected outsiders. Meanwhile, word of a “Survival Camp” reaches James and his group, and they have to make a decision after an unforeseen tragedy hits the bug-out house, leaving them lost, helpless, and at the mercy of a dangerous and indifferent world.
Table of Contents
Chapter Four
Chapter Seven
Chapter Ten
