No Power: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Thriller Super Boxset

by J. S. Donvan Donvan

“H-help me…”

  They froze, turning their heads to the beaten priest. The assaulters had abandoned him at a crossroads of tents. His face was swollen pink and purple. Puffy bruises sealed his eyes and inflated his lips.

  “Please. Help.” He extended an arm in their direction. Blood hardened on his receding hairline.

  Harper and James traded glances. As painful as it was, Harper shook her head. The man cried out again, letting his arm fall to the ground and whimpering. James’s eyes glossed over at the sight until he forced himself to turn away. Ahead, they spotted an open window on the factory’s second floor.

  Inching past the final patrol, they hunkered below the exterior walkway. Moonlight shining through the grate created diamonds of light on their faces. The footsteps clinked above them as shadows crossed over. Unnoticed, they reached the factory’s side.

  Weeds climbed the chipped and faded brick walls. A thick stripe of burgundy paint made a band around the factory’s lower level. The chimneys read Bimberg vertically down the shaft except for the third one whose top was crumpled and spilled bricks across the roof. Heavy chains crisscrossed the factory’s side entrance. Down the building, a four-gate loading dock was visible and spit out into a neglected concrete road.

  The second-story window opened vertically, and dim light seeped out from beneath it. James did a quick scan of the surrounding area and pointed out the dinky, forty-year-old forklift. Placing their palms on the eroded and cold surface, they pushed the vehicle below the opening. Once in place, Harper wasted no time climbing on top of the unsteady driver cage and curling her finger on the window’s frame. With a heave, she pulled herself up. Her legs scrambled against the brick until she was through the gap and landed on the interior walkway on the other side. It overlooked the factory’s main floor and the mammoth machinery within and extended past several second-story office rooms, eventually creating a rectangle around the ground floor with a walkway running down the center. At the back of the walkway, a set of railed stairs climbed into the third story with the dimensions of the middle sliver.

  On the surface floor, a campfire burned. Large crates were stacked and organized in an orderly fashion that juxtaposed the outside. Armed men and women--all rough, all hardened--took inventory of knives, bats, axes, firearms, Molotovs, and more laid out on the nonfunctioning conveyor belt. A different set of women roped together and blindfolded were led into the guarded basement, which, when opened, unleashed a wave of cries and wails. They tensed up, begged, and were pushed inside. The door closed.

  With a clink, James landed beside Harper, getting oriented with the factory’s intricate and sprawling design.

  “We stay together,” Harper stated in a whisper. “We leave together.”

  “Works for me,” James replied and peeked over the railing. “He’s got a literal arsenal in here.”

  “If we take out Brandy, hopefully the rest falls with him.”

  “Hopefully.”

  With each step, the metal walkway creaked or bellowed and made Harper’s heart almost stop. She stayed far from the railway, hoping to avoid any chance of detection. Down the middle railway, two men watched over the workers below. They cradled shotguns and sucked cigarettes in silence. When a woman dropped a box, they shouted swear words at her and told her to work harder. Using the metal plates between the railway, Harper concealed herself from the guard.

  “You think Eli’s in the basement?” James asked.

  “Can’t say, but getting down there is going to be problematic.” Harper gestured to the traffic down below.

  “It’s your call.”

  They reached the back corner of the walkway that would lead toward the third-floor stairs. At the sharp bend, a pipe ran down to the bottom floor, its location tucked away from Brandy’s forces.

  Harper made her choice. Going with the devil she knew, Harper followed the walkway toward Brandy’s office. The stairs going up were walled in and jutted inward to the rest of the factory. As Harper rounded the bend, she noticed the four guards outside the door. At first glance, Harper pulled back, bumping into James.

  “Seen the new girl?” a guard said with a gravel voice.

  “Not yet,” another replied.

  “Sweet as molasses. I’m waiting for Brandy to give me a turn.”

  “Keep waiting. He’s preoccupied with his new toy. ‘Sides, the attack on Brighton got him pretty messed up.”

  “A slaughter from what I heard.”

  “Mary will sort him out.”

  “I hope so. I really don’t want Brandy taking his anger out on us.”

  Harper peeled back. If James took two and she took two… Harper shook her head. Too risky. Clinking. Footsteps.

  James poked her. The guards on the middle walkway were headed their way. The hairs on Harper’s neck stood up. Her hand went to the machete. James’s fingers went to his knife. The guards got closer, and Harper had an idea. She slunk under the lowest rail, dropping to where her fingers supported her from the grated walkway. As she suspected, steel beams ran the bottom of the track. Below her, a tattooed woman cleaned a handgun with a towelette. Another counted rationed cans of food.

  Harper stretched and constricted the metal beam. Using her core strength, she brought her legs up to where she hung like a sloth. James followed the example, struggling to sling himself up, but eventually getting into a position like Harper’s. The support beam rattled as the watchmen passed overhead and bummed cigarettes off the door guards.

  Feeling the strain on her arms and fingers, Harper moved up the center bar a good six feet before reaching back over to the walkway’s lip. One hand at a time, she moved herself to the base of rails and climbed up. James got his fingers back to walkway’s lip but started slipping. Scooping down, Harper caught his hand, planted her feet below the bottom rail, and pulled. Stifling a groan, she got James far enough up to grab the first rail and get up the rest of the way. He landed in time for the guards to start turning back.

  Unified in thought, James and Harper bolted into a silent sprint, shaking rusty flakes on the workers below. By the time they looked up, the Murphys had popped open the swinging front window and slipped below.

  Tucked between two adjacent windows, they pressed their backs against the brick. The vastness of the encampment looked back at them. The steel bridge jutted a few feet out from the second floor and arced around the factory. Making the jump would not only be risky, but the guard with his back to her would hear. Above, light from the third story sent its beam just past them. The final floor itself projected out of the factory like a barn’s loft or steeple’s bell tower.

  Harper’s feet scooted across the six-inch edge that ran around the building’s face. As her boots scuffed against the brick, a small chunk creaked and dropped yards from the front door guardsmen. She froze, her stiff boots working against her balance. The guard scratched the back of his head, none the wiser. A gaggle of people moseyed through the camp only a head’s turn away from Harper.

  Steadying her diaphragm, Harper continued her tremulous amble across the brick rim. Her husband moved alongside her, taking cautious steps. Harper conjured a contingency, but it was lackluster at best. The moment any gaze caught them, she would either have to jump, freeze, or smash through the factory’s foggy windows, none of which were pleasant choices. In what seemed like a few seconds’ haze, she had reached the corner of the building, miraculously unseen. Whether through skill, dumb luck, or the intervention of a higher power, she and James were still alive, but the reasoning didn’t calm the horror in Harper’s burning chest.

  Around the corner of the building, they found a line of pipes--corroded, untrustworthy, and their only option--to land on. The metal yawned under their weight. They scooted farther down the wall, stopping about a third into the building. James tilted his gaze to the angled roof.

  “I could boost you,” He said.

  Harper pondered for a moment, then nodded.

  James knelt the best he could while balancing on t
hick pipes, and Harper stepped into his palm. Her fingers reached the slanted roofs, found their placement, and pulled herself up. James grunted, the pipe bowing beneath him, as he pushed. Sending one leg over, Harper lifted herself to the slick roof. Before she pressed on, she extended a hand to her husband. With a heave, they assisted each other on the slant just as the pipe snapped from its hinges and dinged on the dirt. They hiked up the metal, occasionally pressing their hands against the roof to prevent from slipping. The roofing met up with the loft-like third floor that had windows on the sides and front. Harper opted for the small side windows at the wall’s top with sure, quiet steps.

  Lacking any means to open them, the window consisted of four panes joined by a plus sign. It peered downward into a large office.

  There he was.

  Eli.

  Her sixteen-year-old son was strung up on roped wrists like an animal to be skinned. Red dartboard rings were spray-painted on his slender torso. His disheveled brown mop tumbled over his eyes. Feather-tailed darts embedded his flesh and leaked crimson tears into the rim of his belt. A dog bowl full of chum rested next to his bare feet.

  He didn’t move.

  Harper covered her mouth and couldn’t stop the moisture collecting in her eyes. James clenched his fists, his face blood red and his body trembling. His nostrils flared as he went for his rifle. Harper’s hand stopped him, no less distraught, but unwilling to risk the alarming sound of gunfire. By the way his face shifted from rage to dread, Harper knew James understood her reasoning. They turned their eyes back to their son and the enemy inside.

  The room was long, with shelves, antique dressers, armchairs, and a couch tucked beside a massive, pillow-covered bed. Road signs, jewelry, weapons, and hunting trophies decorated the walls of her adversary’s domain. Stacks of other looted items decorated the floor alongside unhung museum paintings. Brandy sipped his Scotch at a casino blackjack table flanked with dining room chairs. He pressed his fingers at a dart’s point until blood trickled down the metal. Mary, his pregnant significant other, stood behind him, trimming his hair with tiny scissors. A state map graffitied by Sharpie circles and Xs sat open on the table. Mary finished, fetched a mirror, and held it before him.

  “Perfect,” Brandy said, admiring the woman’s work and his own chiseled jawline.

  Mary shrugged. “Meh. Could be better.”

  “What does the dog think?” Brandy asked and swiveled around to Eli. “Dog!”

  “Just let me go home,” Eli said weakly.

  Brandy pulled himself from his chair, pinching the dart between his fingers. “Speak up. I’m having trouble hearing you.”

  The boy lifted his head. Dark circles lined his red, sleepless eyes. “I want to go home.”

  “Aw,” Mary said. “That’s adorable.”

  Brandy paced around Eli. “Animals like you, dog, don’t get what they want. Especially after their previous owners were so… inconsiderate. Take your mother for example. She denied my people food and hospitality. Then she proceeded to gun them down. Suffice to say, dog, you have a lot to atone for before you get what you want.” He reeled the dart back. “My advice is to find comfort in your captivity and dream of a better tomorrow.”

  The dart zipped through the air, sticking Eli in the red circle painted on his chest.

  The boy howled.

  Brandy chuckled. “I told you I’d get the bullseye, Mary. Maybe I should paint a target on his forehead. These things are not long enough to kill him, right?”

  Mary wrapped her arm around her man, putting her chin on his shoulder while she eyed the boy. “Keep him handsome. He has such nice features.”

  Brandy stole a kiss and pulled away from his woman. “Be grateful I’m engaged to a sweetheart, dog. If I had it my way, we’d be playing darts all night long. We could get matching scars, too.” Brandy lifted his shirt, revealing the stitched bullet wound above his hip bone.

  “Engaged?” Mary raised a brow.

  “Sorry. Soon-to-be engaged.” Brandy leaned in close to Eli and hiked his thumb back to Mary. “The good ones are always hard to get. Remember that before you go chasing any Sally on the block.”

  With swift motions, he ripped the darts from the teenager’s torso. Eli screamed, thrashing in his binds with each harsh tug. When Brandy finished, he headed to the blackjack table and casually placed the fistful of bloody darts next to the white card squares.

  “To business,” Brandy said, looming over the map.

  Mary joined him, pressing her body sweetly against his. “I talked to Herschel the other day. He’s taking care of the west woods.”

  “I heard. Latin is on the east and Norman’s finally hitting the north.”

  “We can move more scouting parties to the south. The roads aren’t getting as much profit as they once did.”

  Brandy sighed. “You’re right. We might find more livestock around these towns. Trade is going well.”

  “It’s the oldest trade in the world, baby.” Mary kissed his neck. “It will always go well.”

  “This is why I love you,” Brandy smiled at her. “It’s that twisted, brilliant brain of yours.”

  “Behind every great man, there’s a greater woman,” Mary smirked.

  “Not great yet. Not until these pests are dead and gone.” Brandy jabbed his finger at a red X. A wave of anger flushed his face as he spoke to the map. “I don’t forget, Brighton, and I sure as hell don’t forgive.”

  Chapter Six

  Assembly

  “Harper,” James said, not taking his eyes off Brandy. “We need to kill this guy.”

  His tone was something Harper had never heard from her husband. A cold seriousness laced with fierce determination.

  Harper watched her targets, Brandy and Mary, chatting of conquest, expansion, and the demise of her newfound home. Beyond them, Eli dangled by his wrists. Puffy puncture wounds trickled blood down his bare chest. In a bout of frustration, he thrashed silently. Hope escaped him via a stifled whimper, and he returned to his docile state.

  Harper picked at the window with one of James’s knives. The blade chipped paint, nothing more. A hulking smash or screaming bullet could shatter the glass, but what good would come of a failed retreat? Harper huffed. She needed a sound suppressor more than air.

  “Let’s just do it,” James whispered. With wide, distant eyes, he shifted his rifle from his back to his hands. “My son will not spend one more second with this creep.”

  He aimed the long barrel at Brandy’s immaculately-styled blond head. “I’ll take him. You take the woman... unless you want him.”

  Shutting her eyes, Harper placed her palm on the cool rifle barrel and lowered it away from the window.

  “No.” With a single word, she tore out her own heart.

  James gawked at her. His surprise turned to rage-induced trembling. He spoke with concise words, suppressing his boiling anger. “Babe, we miss one hundred percent of the shots we don’t take.”

  “It’s life or death, James. One shot, one scream, and this whole camp is on us.”

  “Screw them. We made it out of DC, we made it out of Brighton, what the hell can they can to do to us that’s not already been done?”

  Before Harper could respond, the door to Brandy’s long and cluttered room opened. Two guards entered. Brandy stood from his seat, invited them in, and offered drinks. After exchanging smiles, the men cheerfully accepted and took seats at Brandy’s table.

  “Now there are four.” James complained.

  “The boys are getting anxious,” one man said. “They lost a lot of friends at Brighton and demand recompense.”

  Brandy finished his Scotch. “And they’ll get it. Did you bring the cards?”

  The man nodded, fishing a deck of cards from his pocket. “The others will be here shortly. We doing high stakes?”

  Mary sighed and sauntered over to a couch where she lazy collapsed on the comfy cushions.

  Brandy smiled. “Always. The girls downstairs are mostly untou
ched, if you willing bet yours.”

  “They’re getting sold anyway,” the second guard said, aiming a dart at Eli with one eye closed. “You mind if I take a shot?”

  Brandy shuffled the cards. “Leave the face. Mary likes him pretty.”

  “Mary,” the first guard said with a smile. “Join us. It’ll be fun.”

  The pregnant woman stretched out on the couch and fluffed the pillow behind her head. “Not tonight, Chuck. I don’t want to mop the floor with you like I did last week.”

  The men laughed. Eli grunted as the dart pierced his chest. The laughter grew louder.

  Harper’s instinct was to shoot them all, but she overcame the temptation. She knew she wouldn’t make it through the camp alive, and she hated that reality.

  A light drizzle fell upon her and the window. The slanted roof slickened beneath her boots. Using her hands to guide her, she slid down away from the third-story window and to the pipe which she had climbed previously. James stayed behind. The soft glow of the candle-lit room shined up on him. He took aim with the rifle. Harper anticipated the gunshot. Part of her prayed for it, but nothing happened. The men inside kept on laughing, her son wept, and James lowered his weapon.

  Harper flipped to her front and climbed down the remnants of the fallen pipe. Her arms and legs were numb and though she moved, her body didn’t feel like her own. It was a bad dream. Her true reality hid in the Smoky Mountains, with her husband and son, enjoying an evening meal while discussing the day's hunt and laughing at old times. Her father was there and the mother she barely knew. Everyone was safe. Alive. Thriving. Heck, maybe Church would show up with a fistful of rabbit.

  Eleven feet off the ground, Harper dropped, cushioning her fall on an untamed bush. Twigs and light barbs slashed her wet skin. Rain and blood mixed crystal and crimson. She grimaced and crawled out of the shrubbery while James took his plunge.

  Go back up there. Save your son, a voice screamed in her mind.

  She walked on, thinking, plotting, ready to pay any price when the time came. The numbers didn’t favor her. Fate didn’t favor her. Harper would force their hand. She’d break it if she must.