No Power: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Thriller Super Boxset

by J. S. Donvan Donvan

  It felt like the only thing to say.

  “Yeah.” Church’s dark eyes moved from his whiskey glass to Harper. “It was because of them I could pull the trigger. After they left, it was because of them.” He reared his head to the balcony and small town outside. “This would’ve been my last year as mayor. Admittedly, I didn’t get much done. These people were self-sufficient and didn’t need reform. Until the blackout, I was just a prepper enthusiast. Now I’m their leader.”

  Harper fumbled with words, unsure what Church needed. She chose silence.

  “You’re wondering why you’re here.” Church cleared his throat. “You’ve proven yourself to this community. To me. I want you on my council. You will influence decisions in Brighton and hold an air of authority over these people. You will treat them as you treat your own family. You will sacrifice time, effort, and perhaps your life to keep them safe. Their needs will come before your own in any circumstance.”

  He raised a hand to keep her from speaking, and continued.

  “If you accept, there is a two-bedroom house down the street that was abandoned by its owners after the EMP. Dustin had it renovated recently. That will be yours. Lastly, the duffels that you donated upon entering will be returned to you. Some of the gear has been given to Brighton’s cause, but you will find that a large portion of the weapons and medical supplies are still there.”

  “I-I...” Harper stammered. “I don’t know what to say. I was just doing my job.”

  She couldn’t hide her smile. Finally, peace.

  Church locked his fingers on the table. “Do you accept?”

  “Yes.”

  Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong!

  Harper nearly leapt from her chair. Her heart bashed against her chest.

  The harsh chapel bells tolled. Their low, clanging noise burst into the room.

  Wide eyed, Church pulled himself from his seat and rushed to the balcony.

  Harper heard a muffled voice from down below. Church quickly returned and headed for the gun cabinet.

  “What’s happening?” Harper asked, rising from her seat.

  The cabinet doors swung open. With grasping hands, Church reached in and pulled out his glossy black tactical rifle. With a motion, he cocked the rifle. “Intruders.”

  He yanked out a fine wood-stocked rifle with scope and tossed it to Harper. The weapon landed in her hands. Without another wasted breath, they were out the door and into the street.

  The farmers, laborers, women, and children swarmed onto the road, their previous excitement morphed into panic. Trudy and Dustin met them halfway to the wall.

  “They just showed up,” Dustin explained as they darted to the Fence. “No warning or nothin’.”

  A woman screamed, “Should we hide the children?”

  “Are they insurgents?” another man asked.

  Church growled at Trudy. “Calm them down.”

  She nodded firmly. Her gray ponytail swirled as she turned back to the crowd. “Group up. Get your weapons. And absolutely no one is allowed outside the Fence!”

  Her voice faded as they neared the wall. James, Sawyer, and the other guards stood on the watchtower, binoculars in hand. Three strong men slid a large rectangular log into two wooden hangers, one on the massive swinging door and the other on the inner wall, to lock the gate in place.

  Church hiked up the rickety stairs that ended at the flat wall-walk and two front watchtowers. Harper and the others followed.

  About two football fields away, dozens of figures lingered in a crooked line. Their shadowy silhouettes expanded across the rolling ridge of a green hill, the cracked asphalt road, and a growing hayfield spotted with a distant ranch.

  “It’s too dark.” James cursed and put down the binoculars. “I can’t see how many or if they are armed.”

  Sawyer bit his nail. “Is this a normal occurrence?”

  “First time,” Dustin replied, taking the binoculars from James.

  “Ah. Not very reassuring.”

  Church moved into the watchtower. “Stop standing there like idiots and take cover.”

  They crouched behind the four-foot battlement on the wall-walk. Church rested the rifle on the wooden railing of the watchtower. Choosing a target, he aimed through the scope. “What have they been doing?”

  “Just standing there, mostly,” James replied, peeking his head up from the cover. “It started with just one guy, and then more showed up.”

  “Have they advanced forward? Any signs of hostility?” asked Harper.

  James shook his head. “No and no.”

  “A few have weapons,” Church said. His rifle probed the field of strangers. “Men and women. Late teens or older. They’re scrabbling about. Some have backpacks. Harper, get your rifle ready. We’ll drop this scum before they advance.”

  “No one needs to kill anyone,” Harper defied him. “We need to assess, find out what they want, and deal with the problem.”

  “How are we supposed to figure that out?” complained James.

  Sawyer smirked. “I have a sneaking suspicion they’ll tell us.”

  The figures stepped forward. Laughter, hooting and hollering, and other exciting cries poured from them. Moving together, the dozens of shadowy figures encircled the wall like a black flood.

  Chapter Eight

  Neighbors

  In a disheveled mass, the strangers walked forward without haste or worry toward Brighton. Their laughter and dialogue faded as they neared the twelve-foot curtain wall. Harper peeked out from the wooden battlement. James breathed heavily as his eyes bounced from stranger to stranger. His warm carpenter palm constricted against Harper’s own. Their connection only lasted an instant before Harper slid her hand away and rested it firmly beneath her cold rifle. Knives, axes, handguns, and other makeshift weapons clacked against the intruders’ bodies as they walked. Though not all were armed, their number caused a shiver to scurry up Harper’s spine.

  Church manned one of the two front watchtowers that stood four feet higher than the rest of the wall. More men climbed up and joined them, filling the wobbly wall-walk with two dozen spectators.

  “How many guns do we have?” Church growled, watching the figures through his sniper scope.

  “Plenty,” Harper replied. “But bullets are a completely different ball game.”

  Dustin bent the bill of his hat and slid it over his greasy head of brown hair. “You tell me where to find ’em, and I’ll get ’em for you.”

  “Are you serious right now?” James exclaimed. “They outnumber us two to one.”

  “Guns are in Trudy’s cellar,” Church told Dustin.

  The country boy nodded and bolted down the stairs, vanishing in the center of town.

  “Yeah, let's shoot at our neighbors. I’m sure that will leave a lasting impression,” Sawyer said sarcastically. “I’m going to check on Karla.”

  Church continued looking through his scope, but his voice was ever commanding. “You’ll stay here until instructed otherwise.”

  Without a word, Sawyer crouched back down.

  Harper moved next to Church and whispered, “I agree with James and Sawyer. Inciting an unnecessary assault seems like a stupid idea. Maybe there’s an alternative.”

  “You vowed that you’d defend this settlement,” Church growled. “And you will defend this settlement.”

  “Church.” Harper grabbed his shoulder. “As your council member and friend, please opt for a peaceful resolution. We are not ready for a fight. Think about your people. Think about the children. Many will die if they’re foolish enough to jump this wall, and people do stupid things when they are afraid.”

  Church glared at Harper until she removed her hand from him. “If we shoot, they scatter.”

  “Maybe,” Harper said honestly. “Or they charge.”

  “Hey,” James yelled. “One of them just raised a white flag!”

  “Let’s talk to them,” Harper said before Church could aim again. “If they're a threat,
we take them out. Deal?”

  Church paused for a moment, gritted his teeth, and then nodded.

  Harper and Church moved between both of the watchtowers and looked down at the strangers. Dirt smudged their faces and arms, and mud caked their shoes and socks. Knotty hair twisted in the morning air. Sparse beards, sunken cheeks, and bony ribcages were the first three signs of negligence. The youngest looked to be around fourteen. He had a faint yellow mustache sprouting from his upper lip and a deteriorating bandage wrapped over his left eye. The others had cuts, scrapes, and bruises. A cough spread between them, and a man struggled to get the final drop of water out of his dirty plastic bottle. He failed, letting the bottle fall on wet grass and get trampled underfoot.

  Swaying back and forth, a white T-shirt on a crooked stick poked out from the center. The sun rose from beyond the Earth’s bend.

  “That’s far enough,” Church shouted.

  The strangers came to a shambling halt. The command rippled down the advancing side masses until the people formed a misshapen crescent moon roughly forty yards from the Fence. The flag bounced through the crowd until its bearer broke through the mob.

  He was a tall man with slicked-back blond hair, a shaven jaw, and a large knife sheathed on his belt. Despite seeing the rifle barrels sticking out of the watchtowers, he moved forward while holding the white flag up high. “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I said far enough!”

  He stopped thirty feet from the Fence’s front door and speared the flag stick into the dirt. The white shirt nearly tore free but then fell limp when the breeze ceased. He wiped his dirty hands on his jean jacket. Beneath that was an undone blue plaid button-down and black tee. Harper gawked for moment, taken by surprise as she recalled a troublesome memory.

  “My name is Brandy,” the man said. “I’m looking for a Good Samaritan. Thought you’d be able to help. My friends and I are starving, you see. No water either. We need a place to rest. I know we’re asking for a lot, but without your help, I don’t think we’ll make it.”

  The weary people looked up at them with teary eyes.

  “Help, please.” The plea echoed down the line. The people shambled forward like a troop of living dead.

  Everyone on the Fence tensed up. They exchanged worrisome glances with one another as the horde advanced.

  “There must be at least three dozen of them,” someone said.

  “More,” another farmer added.

  “We’re strapped on supplies,” Church yelled at the crowd. “If you have something to barter, we’ll negotiate. Otherwise, you best back off.”

  Brandy raised his fist. The pleas surrounding him subsided, and the tide of movement stilled only feet behind him.

  “We’re not asking for much,” said Brandy calmly. “Honestly, a meal--cold is good enough--and a night inside shelter would suffice. Then we can discuss a trade. I don’t have food, but I have other goods.”

  James leaned over to Harper. “Can’t we give them something? I don’t know… like a care package. We have the supplies now.”

  Harper shook her head, not removing her gaze from Brandy.

  “No.” Her voice quivered. “We know this man. He attacked our Humvee, James. It’s the same guy.”

  “What?” James squinted at Brandy. “Are you sure?”

  Harper nodded. “The bowie knife in his belt. I remember it. He must’ve escaped Church’s ambush.”

  “Anyone could own that knife,” James argued.

  “It’s the hair, too. Nothing’s changed apart from the bandana. You gotta trust me on this, James.”

  James frowned, sending his beard downward. “Church, what’s the play?”

  Brandy swiveled to the side and gestured to the crowd. A tall woman with long brown hair, alluring eyes, and a thin-strapped tank top stepped forth from the mob. When she came into arm’s reach, Brandy gingerly took her hand. She waddled to a stop next to him, clenching her protruding stomach. He smiled sympathetically at her, raised her hand with his own, and shouted to Church. “This is Mary. She has an innocent life growing inside her. A baby girl. Without food, both of them will die, and I’ll be guilty for not trying to scavenge for food, and you’ll be guilty for not supplying it.”

  Church cocked his rifle. “We know what you are. We know your ploy. You’ll leave. Now.”

  “Your eyes must be failing you, old man. We’ve never met.”

  “Don’t play games with me,” threatened Church.

  Brandy untangled his fingers from the pregnant woman’s hand. “Whoever you think I am, whatever you think I’ve done, you’re mistaken. I’m a leader, like you. I watch over my flock, who are too weak and feeble to take care of themselves. If you were in my situation and I in yours, I wouldn’t hesitate opening that door. If I didn’t, you’d want to tear down that wall and gut me like a pig.”

  Dustin returned quietly with a wheelbarrow full of shotguns and rifles. He signaled the spectators one at a time to come and collect.

  “Are you threatening me?” Church’s sniper crosshair drifted up Brandy’s head and landed at the point between his sunken blue eyes. His finger curled over the black trigger.

  “Hypotheticals.” Brandy smirked. “So this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to open that door, get me and my friends a hot plate of food, and treat us with a little human decency.”

  “You will turn your people around and walk away. Or we will kill you all where you stand.”

  “A regular cowboy, this one,” replied Brandy. “Is this who you follow? A trigger-happy lunatic more keen on shooting a pregnant woman than helping one?”

  The farmers on the wall-walk turned their attention to Church, awaiting his reply with sullen stares.

  Ferris put his gun down. “I won’t kill an infant, or any woman for that matter.”

  More rifles clacked to the ground. Ferris stood defiantly then led a group of men off the wall.

  “Your people are abandoning ship, Captain,” said Brandy, taking a step forward. “Maybe you should join them before you go under.”

  Church frowned. He didn’t take his finger off the trigger, but he didn’t shoot either.

  Harper rose from her cover. “If you really care about your people, you’ll walk away. Whatever you think we do and don’t have isn’t worth the bloodshed. There are a number of small towns nearby. Admittedly, most are slim pickings, but the Piedmont is rich with fertile soil and acres of farmland. With a little hard work, you’ll be able to make a life for yourself.”

  “Answer me this, sweetheart. How many of us do you think your old man could drop before we climb that wall?” asked Brandy. “I’m only going to ask one last time. Open the gate!”

  The dozens of strangers planted their feet, readying for a sprint. Their hands slid over the handles of their weapons.

  Trembling, the farmers on the wall took aim, forming a firing line with guns only holding a shot or two each.

  Harper supported her rifle on the top of the battlement. “I’m sorry, but we can’t help you.”

  Brandy chuckled. He yanked the yielding stick from the dirt, smiled at Harper, and smashed it over his knee. Wood splinters exploded in the air. Casually, he dropped the two halves. The white shirt sunk into soupy mud.

  “In twenty-four hours, that gate better be open. If it’s not…” Brandy clicked his tongue a few times. “Unlike your mayor, I don’t make empty promises.”

  He twisted his back and cut through the crowd. Mary followed behind him, blocking any shot Harper or Church could’ve made. Brandy’s people funneled in behind him. After a moment, Brighton’s neighbors had dissolved from view, leaving trampled grass, crinkled trash, and the presence of foreboding fear.

  Chapter Nine

  Twenty-Four

  Quiet ruled the Fence. The farmers of Brighton lowered their weapons and stood from cover. The sun cast its crimson-and-orange rays across the silver clouds while the moon lingered for a little while longer. Church slung his tactical rifle over h
is broad shoulder. Stringy gray hair stuck to his temples, jaw, and neck. The large man turned to Harper. “Town hall. Bring everyone.”

  He stomped down the stairs. Each wooden step creaked under his heavy-duty boots. No one else moved or even dared trade a glance. Harper clicked the safety on her rifle. “You heard the man. Get moving.”

  The men clambered across the wobbly wall-walk and dashed down the stairs. One farmer dipped his gun back into Dustin’s wheelbarrow. Harper caught his tan forearm. “You’re going to be needing that.” She turned to the people. “All of you are going to be needing your weapons! Do not surrender them. If anything, you should be arming yourselves more.”

  James dragged his feet to Harper. “How--”

  Harper put a hand up. “We can talk later. Right now, the meeting.”

  “I’ll get Eli.” Her husband’s lazy walk formed into a jog toward the motel.

  Harper ran her hand up her hair, feeling her auburn roots, as she observed the twelve-foot wall. For a moment, the patchwork appeared janky, and the stature left something to be desired. She bit her cheek and headed for the town hall. Tables, stacked chairs, smoking hearths, and the smell of charred squirrel stayed in the street’s center. The out-of-place Christmas banners flapped between power lines, and the laughter that filled the kids’ section was replaced by eerie silence.

  Trudy held the town hall doors open in the same fashion she did with Pastor Bruce’s chapel. Only this time there weren’t service pamphlets, only dreadful frowns.

  Light spilled from the tall windows, revealing dusty particles dancing in the air. The residents of Brighton tracked mud over the red carpet and planted themselves into the two columns of padded chairs. Harper spotted James and Eli sitting in the front row. They saved her a spot, but Church grabbed her attention from behind the curved council desk on the raised floor that overlooked the people. Harper smiled sadly at her son while she climbed the steps and took a seat at Church’s right side in the same chair Levi had once claimed. Sawyer and Karla snuck into the back row.

  Trudy closed and locked the doors behind her with a loud click and made her way up to the council desk. The people traded whispers and yawns. Some were still sobering up and fumbled in their chair.