Unexpected World: The EMP Survivor Series Book 1

by Chris Pike

  “Well?” Dillon asked.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “It’s a wise choice. Thank you for not protesting.”

  “I know my limitations, and staying here alone wouldn’t be a good idea. What do you need me to do to help you get ready?”

  For the next several hours Dillon and Holly prepared for the trip. There was food to pack, like salt and nonperishable items, along with cooking utensils, tasks he gave to Holly not because he was a chauvinist, rather she would be better at that and know where the items were located.

  Holly was better at some things, while Dillon at others, and besides, now was not the time to argue about who did what better.

  Holly seemed to understand Dillon’s non-verbal way of thinking, and she went about the task of collecting food and utensils with incredible finesse.

  After she had finished Dillon complimented her on the choices and the ability to pack the items into the bag he gave her.

  Next on the list included water filtration and sterilization, clothes, medical supplies, weapons and ammo, sleeping bag, a poncho if it rained, so many items to consider.

  Fortunately, some of the items could be used by both of them, such as a tent and cooking utensils, so that provided room for other necessary items. Dillon packed most of the firearms, meticulously counting ammo and magazines they would need. So as not to leave Holly out in the cold in case they were separated, he packed her a cache of ammo as well.

  Holly packed clothes and necessary hygiene items such as soap and dental floss, because it would take up less space than a toothbrush and toothpaste. Besides, as gross as it may sound, dental floss could be reused. Good oral hygiene was necessary because a toothache could result in a serious infection which would migrate to the sinuses, then to the brain, resulting in a hard death.

  Dillon rummaged around the house and barn looking for anything useful, Buster right along with him, sensing both Dillon’s and Holly’s rising anxiety level and purposeful movements. Buster had seen this before when Dillon prepared for a trip, and while the dog could not understand where they were going or why, he understood it was important.

  A new adventure would soon begin, and for a city dog used to sleeping all day, his new life had become invigorating. It was exhilarating to be needed, to be useful. He was doing what a dog should do: be a companion and use his superior canine abilities to alert his pack to danger. Buster scanned the woods for any movement, kept his nose close to the ground searching for snakes or other vermin, tasted the air for unusual wafting scents, and lastly, at night stood guard as a sentry, listening to the sounds of the night.

  Little did the dog understand, but this new purpose in life and newfound determination to live as his canine ancestors did would one day protect the viability of his new pack.

  Chapter 31

  Dillon decided it was best to wait a couple of days to let the antibiotics do their work, so his journey to find his daughter was further delayed. He saw to it that Holly rested, ate well, and kept the arm clean.

  Three days had passed since Holly started taking the antibiotics, and whenever he touched her arm checking on the wound, his thoughts went back to that first night at his house when she looked at him with doe eyes. It had become the proverbial elephant in the room neither one of them wanted to deal with.

  Hell, maybe those goo-goo eyes she made at him wasn’t lust after all. Instead of being misty, her eyes could have been glazing over because she was in the throes of a fainting spell.

  But she hadn’t fainted.

  She was the one that leaned into him, pressing herself against him, and what guy wouldn’t take that as a clue alluding to something else?

  When he wrapped his arms around her, she didn’t fight him off, or even squeak a protest. She had done the opposite, holding him tighter. When he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, setting her down on the bed, it wasn’t to tuck her in. The signals she sent him were loud and clear and a foghorn couldn’t have been louder.

  Then again, he wasn’t the one that had a crying fit and needed to be consoled and comforted.

  What followed could only be considered unadulterated lust and the need to connect with another human being. If they had been teenagers he might have been tempted to the don’t you want to know what it feels like in case you die tomorrow? ruse some used to deflower virgins. Or in the case of adults, the possibility tomorrow wouldn’t come at all. The sweaty, lustful romp did them both good.

  Her reaction the morning after surprised him, and now that they had spent almost a week together he wasn’t sure what to think about it. Maybe he was overanalyzing, because he tended to do that with cases. Even the tiniest details had to be thought out, but God Almighty, some women were difficult to figure out.

  Trying to push those thoughts out of his mind, Dillon rode further with Cowboy, becoming acquainted with the ranch roads, the natural contours of the land, ponds, and the seasonal branch lined with trees. Knowing the intricacies of the land would come in handy one day. Not only was the ride cathartic, it was mandatory. As he rode down to the branch, he had to weave his way around trees and brush. When he came to the dry creek, Cowboy took the lead and walked along without any prodding. The horse acted like he was taking a walk in the park. Obviously, he knew the country well.

  It was quiet and dark under the canopy, only a few lonely rays of sun squeezing through.

  Dillon had been riding for over an hour and the time alone had let him clear his thoughts. He decided they would have to leave in the morning. A good night’s sleep would do him good and since supplies had been packed, that was one thing he had to check off his to-do list. He had tried to plan for every contingency possible, although what was in store for him, he would never have imagined.

  Chapter 32

  The trek through the countryside to find Cassie had taken longer than expected. Dillon and Holly had to be careful to skirt cities and other places where an ambush could be possible, so traveling the way the crow flew was next to impossible. Their route tripled their travel time, and by the time they came to the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, they had already been on horseback for three days, with still more to go before they were in the vicinity where the plane probably went down.

  Deciding it was too dangerous to cross the bridge, what with seeing armed people on the bridge who probably wanted a toll to pass, Dillon and Holly turned south.

  He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word ‘crash’. It seemed so final. So deadly.

  If Cassie had been injured and was lying somewhere in the wilderness, she’d wouldn’t have had a snowflake’s chance in Hell. If something had happened to her, Dillon prayed it was quick and merciful.

  Going over the various scenarios was too taxing on Dillon’s mental state, so he instead concentrated on something he could control.

  A couple of hours later, and as luck would have it, he and Holly came upon a fish camp located on a bayou where an old man was sitting in a rocking chair chewing on a long stem of grass.

  “Howdy,” Dillon said.

  “Howdy,” the old-timer replied back. “What brings you this way?”

  “I’m looking for my daughter. She was on an airplane that went down somewhere in south Louisiana.”

  The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin. “About a week ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw a plane about that time. Flying too low, lower than I’ve ever seen one. I watched it for a while until it disappeared.”

  “What direction was it going?” Dillon asked.

  The old man pointed to the east. “It’s going to be a rough ride to where you need to go,” the Cajun old-timer said. “A bizness man stumbled through here yesterday, lookin’ somethin’ poorly. All scratched up. Clothes torn. Nearly fainted from thirst. Said somethin’ about he was the only survivor of a plane crash.”

  Dillon glanced at Holly, who returned an equally deflated expression. “Was he sure he was the only survivor?” Dillon asked.

&nbs
p; “That’s what he said.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Left this mornin’. I fed him, gave him some water. Said he was walkin’ home.”

  “Where was home?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Hmm,” Dillon said. “He was headed in a different direction than we were.”

  The old-timer scratched his white beard. “He was real lucky, ‘cause where the plane went down, it’s bad. Real bad. Swampy, woods and vines so thick you need a machete. Then there’s lots of gators. If you catch one, though, it’s good eatin’. Bring me some if you come back this way.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Dillon said with a chuckle.

  “Nuthin’ lasts long in the swamp, ‘specially bodies,” the old-timer said. “Hogs eat ‘em, gators, cougars too. I heard one screaming the other night. Sounded like a woman.” He shook his head. “You can try to find your daughter, but there won’t be nuthin’ left of anyone by now. Nature’s way of cleanin’ things. Won’t even be any bones left.”

  Dillon dismissed the ramblings as the musings of an old man. “Did the man say anything else?”

  “Somethin’ about a whole team of soccer players was on the plane. He felt bad for them because they was young and was excited about going to some match.”

  “Soccer players you say?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Dillon thought for a moment. “My daughter mentioned something about a plane full of soccer players. That had to be her plane, so if one person survived, there could be others.”

  “If that’s what gets you through your day, so be it.” The old-timer paused and looked wistfully at Buster. “My hound dog, Gus, up and died last month. He was a good dog, like that there dog you have. I gave him a proper burial. Back yonder,” he pointed, “behind that shed. Didn’t want the gators or coons to eat him up. Even carved him a headstone with his name on it. If you don’t want that dog I could take him off your hands. I need me another good dog.”

  Dillon shook his head. “My daughter gave me the dog, so he’s got a special place in my heart.”

  “I understand,” the old-timer said.

  “Thanks for your help,” Dillon said. “We have to get going. My daughter is still out there somewhere.”

  “Before you go,” the old-timer said, “let me get ya somethin’ for your dog to eat.”

  “I appreciate that,” Dillon said.

  The old-timer hobbled off the rocking chair and hobbled over to the shack. When he came out, he had a ten pound sack of dog food and a handmade fish trap.

  “I don’t do much fishing anymore, knees and legs are too bad to walk far. This fish trap caught me a fair share of fish in its time. Take it,” he said, handing it to Dillon. “It’s old, but it still works good. I baited it with hog meat.” He explained how to work it, and told Dillon it would come in handy where they were going. “Look for a clearing rimmed by trees about three miles east of here. Go a little further and you’ll come upon a lake. It’s good fishin’ there.”

  “Thank you,” Dillon said. “My dog thanks you too.”

  The old-timer nodded and bid them a safe trip. “You better get going, get your camp settled, and set your fish traps before it gets dark. The woods aren’t forgivin’. You remember that.”

  Later that day Dillon, Holly, and Buster found the clearing the old man spoke about. Riding further, they found the lake. It was mid-afternoon, and Dillon decided to make camp among a grove of trees not far from the lake. He tied the horses to a tree and left them food to eat. He’d let them graze when he got back.

  While Holly went about setting up shelter, Dillon made the short hike to the lake to set out the fish trap.

  Coming back to the campsite, he poured Buster a big bowl of dog food. While Buster ate, Dillon sat on a log wondering how long he would need to leave the trap. He was hungry and fresh fish and the protein it provided would do both him and Holly good.

  Buster, sitting at Dillon’s feet, his head resting on a boot, gazed at his owner, taking in his posture and mood.

  “You’re a good dog.” He reached toward his dog, took a handful of coarse hair and loose skin and massaged his dog’s back. “Well, boy, what do you think? Should we stay here or go round up some grub?”

  Buster thumped his tail.

  “That’s what I thought.” Dillon debated whether or not to wait until Holly came back from gathering greens. Earlier she told him she had spotted clover and wild persimmons, and a good patch of cattails. It wasn’t a chef’s salad with all the trimmings, but it would help to fill their bellies and provide vitamins they needed.

  Dillon checked the shadows falling on the land. In an hour, the sun would set, so unless he wanted to go hungry, he needed to check the fish traps.

  The short hike to the lake would be easier without the horses, so he left them where they were.

  Dillon wore an undershirt and a checkered flannel shirt over that. His worn boots kept his feet warm and he had his jeans tucked into the boots.

  Deciding he didn’t need the outer shirt, he shrugged it off, folded it, and placed it on the log.

  He added another log to the fire, poked the embers with a longer stick, placing the log just right so that it wouldn’t smother the fire.

  Before he left, he found a stick and scribbled the words checking fish traps in the dirt. He hoped Holly would see it so she wouldn’t worry about him when she returned.

  “Come on, Buster,” Dillon said. “Let’s go get us a mess of fish.”

  He slung his AK over his shoulder, made sure his Glock was secured in the holster, and set out for the lake. With Buster by his side, Dillon moved through the canopy of trees and vines, his footfalls silent on the spongy earth.

  If this had been a normal hunt, during normal times, Dillon would have set out early in the morning before daybreak, when the land was dewy and clean. Buster would have been by his side. They would have stayed out for an hour or so, adhering to state hunting laws. Afterwards, they would have walked a short ways to his truck, where a thermos of hot coffee would be waiting. He’d pour a bowl of water for Buster and share jerky with his dog.

  Only a few months ago that’s what he had done.

  Now? He hunted or fished when he was hungry. He did this to survive, not for leisure.

  Dillon and Buster walked on.

  Always aware of his surroundings, he glimpsed a wary squirrel perched on a low limb of a cypress tree. The squirrel chattered its displeasure at his presence, yet remained perched on the low limb.

  Buster stopped and took the stance of a pointer. The mutt had some good genes in him after all.

  “Good boy,” Dillon said, praising his dog.

  If Dillon had something other than an AK, perhaps a 22, he could have taken a shot at the squirrel, because the AK would have obliterated the squirrel. It would have been a useless shooting and a waste of ammo. The minute amount of meat on a squirrel would barely compensate for the effort and amount of calories expended. What he needed was carbohydrates, and hopefully Holly could find some wild yams.

  Dillon passed under the chattering squirrel and continued to where he’d set the fish trap.

  They followed an animal trail, patted down by countless trips of four legged creatures. He spotted different types of animal prints, and Buster nosed the ground, checking the scents. There were armadillo, raccoon, turkey, deer, and more wild hog tracks.

  Closer to the lake there were crawfish mounds. They bypassed those and continued on. Coming to the edge of the lake, a splash caught his attention and he turned in that direction, spying a couple of turtles on a log.

  Buster sensed they had reached their destination. The big dog went over to a fallen tree and sniffed the bare branches. Nosing the length of the tree, he stopped and pawed at the ground, snorted once, and sat down.

  “Whatever is in there, we’re not going to eat it,” Dillon said. “We’re after fish, not a skunk, so stay back.”

  As if understanding, Buster eased away from the tree.
Dillon stood at the water’s edge, letting his eyes search for a spot to put his AK and his boots. He needed to wade into the water a ways to where the fish traps were and didn’t want to get his boots wet or take a chance with the AK. He hadn’t seen any evidence of humans so felt safe leaving his AK and boots nearby. Scouting around, he found a sturdy tree where it wasn’t too wet and leaned the AK against it.

  Buster had a keen sense on who was friendly and who wasn’t. He’d smell a person long before Dillon saw anyone.

  Although Dillon had stressed over whether or not to take Buster on the trip, leaving him behind to fend for himself had not been an option. Nobody wanted to feed an extra mouth, especially someone else’s 70 pound dog that could eat as much as an adult.

  The trip had invigorated Buster. Brain stimulation Dillon had called it. It’s what dogs were meant to do. To be outside in the natural environment, working or claiming the land, herding livestock, flushing varmints.

  There was a light breeze stippling the water, and Dillon scanned in all directions. He took off his boots and socks, placed them on a log, then rolled up his pants. He stepped into the water and slid his feet along the bottom one step at a time, testing the bottom for firmness.

  When Buster waded into the water, Dillon pointed at him with a flick of his arm, commanding, “Stay back,” using a tone the dog understood.

  Buster reluctantly went to the shore, sat down, and whimpered.

  “I won’t be long,” Dillon said. “Stay there.” The fish trap, made out of sticks and string, was crude, yet effective, letting the fish in, but not out. Dillon had staked it with a study branch so it wouldn’t float away.

  Wading in the water, he took his time getting to the trap, trying not to get too wet. Hurrying was a thing of the past, as were a lot of things. The trek to find his daughter had taken him longer than he anticipated, and if he took much longer, he might never find her.

  Since she was a child, Dillon had tried to prepare her for various catastrophic scenarios. Living on the Texas Gulf Coast they had bugged in several times due to hurricanes and the resulting power outages.