Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story

by Holden, J. J.

  Christine nodded, happy to have an excuse to get away from the two cops. Their answers were unsettling, to say the least. “Sure, Fran.”

  Her mother led her to a door under the stairwell leading upstairs, which took them down into a full basement. There were no windows down there, but rows of low-power fluorescents kept it well lit. One corner was occupied by a small workbench with a variety of power tools, and small shelves loaded with screws and nuts and a few toolboxes.

  The rest of the basement was completely occupied by several lines of wire workshop-type shelving units, bolted to the concrete floor. On those stood more cans and jars of food than Christine could have imagined, along with 5-gallon water jugs.

  She let out a low whistle. “This is impressive. How much food is down here?”

  Fran grinned openly. “By my calculations, I figure it to be about five years of food for one person.”

  “Damn. Did you do all the jarring and canning yourself?”

  “I sure did, of course.” She grinned, and her eyes sparkled. “But that’s not the best part of what’s down here.”

  Christine raised one eyebrow, and waited for her mother to explain further.

  Fran turned to one of the shelves lining the basement walls, reached under the second shelf from the bottom, and did something, Christine couldn’t see what.

  There was an audible click, then the shelf moved, gliding silently to one side to reveal what looked like a solid iron door. Actually, it looked like one of those submarine doors from the movies, with rounded corners, complete with a big spoke metal wheel in the center.

  She bent down and pressed buttons on an adjacent keypad, then gave the metal wheel a hard wrench. It spun slowly, and when it had turned about a quarter of its circumference, it emitted a grinding noise.

  Then, Fran pulled on the door, and it swung open to reveal an unlit hallway that stretched into darkness about ten feet beyond the door.

  Christine muttered, “What the hell is this?”

  Fran smirked. “Isn’t it obvious? Come on, follow me.” She then stepped over the door ledge the hatch created, and entered the hallway. Immediately, lights clicked on in the ceiling, one after the other.

  With all the lights on, Christine could see the hallway was a good twenty feet long, ending in another hatch. She followed Fran to the second door, and her mother repeated the same process as before to open it. That door swung inward.

  Christine walked up to the hatch and looked inside, then gasped. The basement had been big, but this was bigger. There was a set of stairs leading down to the floor, which gave her an elevated view of the room. It had to be twice as big as the basement, which was almost as big as the house itself. This room, too, was full to the brim. Unlike the one behind her, though, the tools in here weren’t the kind that plugged in. A much bigger workbench occupied one corner, but the shelves surrounding it were lined with all manner of mechanical tools Christine didn’t recognize. She was so curious to see those that she almost missed all the other shelves that stuffed the bunker. Those, Fran had stuffed with more cans and jars, sacks of this and that, and big plastic barrels.

  Fran turned to face her and said, “All the food in here is either canned or dry goods, with a fifteen to thirty year shelf life. You may have noticed, this room is deeper than the other. I figure I have nearly twenty man-years of food stored down here. Or, you know, one year of food for twenty people.” She grinned. “This was a fallout shelter, in the fifties. It’s the reason I picked these properties, and why I didn’t tear down the one house.”

  Christine spotted a door in the center of the back wall. “What’s back there?”

  “You have to promise me you’ll never go back there, Chrissy. That room has a manual pump to a well, bunks for eight people, and my armory.”

  Christine’s head whipped from gazing at all the shelves to stare at Fran. “What do you mean, ‘armory’?”

  Fran shrugged. “Just what I said. You know I don’t have much use for laws, so they aren’t exactly what you’d call ‘registered firearms,’ but that’s kind of the point. If the damn cops show up trying to steal my food, they won’t find my arsenal, and they won’t find all the rest of this food. I can sacrifice what’s up in the basement, if we had to, but this is why I’ve been so keen on getting you out here since I first heard about the C-M-E event coming.”

  Christine said, “Are you crazy? You have two cops upstairs, right now. What do you think they would say if they found out about this?”

  Fran walked up to stand close to her daughter and gave her a wan smile. “I’m showing you this in part so you’ll feel better about being here. Safer. But also, I want you to know that you’re my daughter, and I love you. If anything happens to me, I wanted you to know this is here. I trust you with this, even if I don’t trust your judgment with men.”

  Christine almost smiled, but then decided her mother hadn’t been joking. “So we’re back to talking about Bryson, are we?”

  Fran let out a short, sharp breath. “No. I’m done arguing with you. You’re a grown woman; you’ll do what you want, even if I don’t agree with it. I think it’s stupid, and I think you need a man to help protect you and the kids in the best of times, but especially now.”

  “I did what I had to, Fran.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I’d lie to anyone else, if I thought I had to, but I won’t lie to you. You made a mistake, divorcing him. But you already know how I feel about that, and I’m not going to bring it up again. The important thing is, I trust you knowing about this place. These are resources we might very well need, and soon, if things don’t get better right away.”

  “They could. Denver’s mayor thinks so.” Or so he said, came the unsettling thought.

  Fran huffed. “I don’t think they will, though, because if Denver’s mayor thought that supplies were coming anytime soon, he wouldn’t be doing any of the trash he’s been doing, detaining people and stealing food from the people smart enough to have some saved up.”

  “Fran, you can’t tell anyone else about this place. It’s not safe to have anyone know about this, not even the kids. If word got out about your stockpile… Just promise me, okay?”

  Christine’s heart pounded faster, and she willed her mother to agree. They might no longer have had a warm relationship, but she was still her mother, and really would be in danger if anyone found out about the stockpile.

  Fran only rolled her eyes, though, and said, “Don’t be silly. You’re the only other person on Earth who knows about this place. I want to keep it that way, so you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Never, no matter what. I want it to still be here when we need it.”

  Christine swore a solemn oath of silence, and she meant it.

  When they went back upstairs, she tried desperately to act like nothing had happened, but every time David looked at her—which seemed quite often, if it wasn’t just her imagination—her fears told her that he knew something was up. She would have to watch herself around him.

  It wasn’t until after they had rejoined the others that Christine recalled what Fran had said about trusting her. Maybe their relationship wasn’t completely broken, after all. Time would tell, but she swore to herself that she would earn that trust, at least.

  20

  David waved as Fran left, and watched her walk down the driveway until she was out of sight.

  Sitting beside him, Orien said in a quiet voice, “Now’s our chance to escape. If we’re here when she gets back, leaving is going to cause a scene.”

  David nodded, chewing his lip. His partner was right, though. Fran seemed to be a hard-bitten, tough old lady who wouldn’t lightly take no for an answer. Not that she was a threat, but he could do without a lot of drama and even more volume from their host.

  He said, “It’s a bit late in the evening. Fran made it sound like everyone in town will be at that meeting, so I don’t know what it means for the gas stations being open. Not that anyone has told us where one is, yet.”


  But was that truly the reason he hadn’t yet left? Gas? Self-doubt was an unfamiliar feeling, and distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Yeah, that’s kind of weird,” Orien replied, though he gave no sign of noticing his FTO’s discomfort, to David’s relief. Orien continued, “But how big can this podunk town be? I’m sure we can find a gas station, even without Google Maps.”

  “You’re sure eager to leave.”

  “Um, yeah, I thought that was clear. Aren’t you?”

  David put on a wan smile, though he didn’t reply.

  In truth, it didn’t really matter where he was—he would always be a cop first, and a civilian second. But Orien had a woman back home, and they both had duty stations and a duty to be stationed… There, not here.

  Orien nodded at David’s silence and said, “All right, then let’s say goodbye to this charming family and their weird hitchhiker.”

  David stood, but a tension grew in his chest at the thought of leaving them with the one called Wiley. Orien was right about that, too. Wiley was weird, and something about him set off David’s “cop instincts.” He had been wrong about people before, though. Maybe the man was just the nervous sort.

  He shook off the thoughts, however. If he wanted to get out of there that night without a big row with Fran, they had to go before she returned. And how long could a town meeting last with five people there, or whatever? It was a small town, whatever the number really was.

  David raised both hands, palms out. “Folks, we are happy you made it here safely, and we appreciate your hospitality, but we have duties to get back to.”

  Christine smiled, while her two kids, Hunter and Darcy, frowned. Wiley’s face was a mask.

  She said, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? It’ll be dark in a couple hours.”

  “Quite sure,” Orien replied for him. “Thank you, though, ma’am.”

  David waved at the kids, took a parting, long look at Christine—she really was quite attractive, especially when she smiled—and headed out the door with Orien right behind him.

  Once he had sat in his Bronco, though, thoughts of Christine fled, and he felt good, thinking forward to how they’d get back on the road, out of that town, away from those people and the entanglements they brought in their baggage… Not even his doubts about Wiley marred his momentary enjoyment. He couldn’t save everyone, and Wiley only gave him a feeling, anyway. Impressions weren’t admissible in court as evidence, after all.

  Once buckled, Orien said, “Okay, Sarge. Let’s get this crap-show on the road.”

  David pulled onto the road, turning left, to head deeper into town.

  “Where are we going?” Orien cocked his head.

  “Did you see gas stations on the way in? I didn’t. Our best bet for gas is to find the one near the town center. If there is one, of course.”

  David headed the SUV in that direction. After roaming a few blocks, however, he’d found nothing. He pulled over at a little roadside food stand, but it was closed. A sign, handwritten in Sharpie on printer paper and taped to the door, read: Gone to meating. Back 10:30PM.

  Orien chuckled at that, but David saw no cause for amusement. If they found a gas station, it wasn’t likely to be open. Small towns rolled up the sidewalks early normally, and with everything going on, plus a town hall meeting…

  David pulled out of the parking lot and continued driving around town, earlier happy mood fading fast. Surprisingly, driving around town only took about twelve blocks. Not one of those blocks had a gas station. “What the hell kind of town doesn’t have fuel?”

  Orien shook his head, staring out the window blankly. “It’s not even a one-horse town.”

  “Well, we don’t have enough gas to guarantee we’d reach anywhere that has a guaranteed gas station. I’m not driving out of here on fumes and prayers, and I don’t relish the thought of running out in the middle of nowhere, not with all the horrid crap people are doing to each other.”

  “And it’ll only get worse, if the trucks and trains don’t start showing up soon.”

  David glanced at Orien, certain his rookie partner was smirking, but he still carried only that vacant, far-away stare. Actually, he looked kind of spooked. Well, calling attention to the man’s fears wouldn’t help anything, so David just let it go.

  Instead, he said, “Let’s find some wandering locals and see if they know where there’s an open station.”

  A block and a half later, David stepped on the brake pedal—he stopped so fast, the tires chirped.

  Orien looked at him, questioningly.

  David just pointed out the passenger window.

  There, a post office sign stood. How he’d missed it in the first place was a mystery, but then again, it was a very small sign.

  He climbed out of the SUV and walked up to it. Of course it would be closed, but perhaps it’d have a phone number listed.

  Instead, just another handwritten sign: No mail came. Go home.

  “How charming.” David turned and went back to his vehicle, and pulled out.

  Only a couple of minutes later, though, he saw a group of two people enter a building, followed by another group of three people. The building was large. Big enough for a town hall meeting, in fact…

  “Hey, Orien. Let’s pay a visit to the town hall thing Fran mentioned. Everyone seems to be going, so we can probably find someone who knows, or who can just give us some gas.”

  Orien shrugged, his eyes coming into focus again. “Good idea. It can’t be hard to find.”

  “You blind? It’s right over there,” David replied as he pulled into the parking lot, with less than a quarter tank of gas remaining.

  21

  As soon as the two police officers left, Christine waited until the door closed, then turned to Mary. “Can you watch the kids for a while? I want to follow Fran to this town hall meeting. I haven’t been here in a long time, and if things do get worse out there, it’ll be important for me to know who matters in town, politically, and see who has whose ear.”

  Mary paused, then glanced at the kids. Hunter had already moved on to playing some card game by himself, while Darcy had pulled out a book. “Sure, I can watch them. What time’s bed?”

  “Ten for Darcy, eleven for Hunter. If she gives you too much hassle, you can let her stay up until eleven, also, just so I don’t leave you with a huge headache.”

  “Thanks for that. Yeah. You go, and figure out what’s up in this little town of yours.”

  Christine smirked at Mary. “It’s not my little town. But I think my family is safer here than in Denver. Bonus, Bryson won’t ever think to look for us here, so I don’t have to deal with that jackass anymore.”

  Mary shook her head slowly. “You sure don’t like him.”

  “Tell me about it.” Christine grabbed her light flannel overshirt and headed for the door. “Kids, Mary is in charge. Don’t give her any flack about bedtime, either.”

  “Kay, Mom,” both said in unison, just before she closed the door and headed out into the evening air.

  The town meeting hall was more packed than Christine had ever seen it, but that wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances. Rows of folding chairs had been erected, and people wandered the floor, gathering in the usual little small-town cliques as the social butterflies made their rounds.

  But the biggest knot of people surrounded a younger man Christine had never seen before. She stared for a couple of seconds, burning his face into her memory. He’d be the Alpha of this pack, more than likely.

  Then, she looked around the room for her mother. Fran was standing off to one side near a wall, talking to four other people—farmers, by the looks of their dirty overalls and worn boots.

  She walked up and stood beside Fran, but didn’t interrupt.

  Fran was saying, “…And so you see, that’s how we avoid ever having to use expensive fertilizer. That’s stuff you just can’t get right now.”

  Another man, whom Christine recognized as
an old schoolmate, though she couldn’t put a name to his face, replied, “Yes, ma’am. That’s so. And if they don’t deliver soon, I’m screwed for my winter wheat. Then, come spring and early summer, my cow and goats go hungry.”

  Fran nodded, her face a mask of sympathy. “Everything is interconnected. But the simpler you can make the web of inputs and outputs, and the more channels you can make to get inputs creatively, the healthier your soil’s going to be. If they don’t restore everything soon, my eccentric hobby is going to be the only way to survive more than a year or two on what we can all grow. Oh, hey, Chrissy. Didn’t see you there. You remem—”

  The last part of her sentence was drowned out by the raucous noise of a gavel smashing repeatedly into the podium up front.

  The man Christine had seen schmoozing earlier was standing behind the podium, leaning on it with both hands. “Okay, folks, that’s enough of the jibber-jabber, as Mr. T used to say,” he said in a voice that drowned out the hum of conversation in the room as he delivered the misquote. “Time to figure out how we’re going to save our fine town and beat this challenge. Have a seat.”

  He stood straight and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at the room as though daring someone to keep talking rather than taking a seat.

  The hum died instantly, and even Fran headed to the chairs, lightly grabbing Christine and pulling her along with her. “C’mon, Chrissy. Do as he says. That’s Jacob Jones, the homeowners association president, and he might as well be the mayor. If we had one, he’d be it.”

  That was odd. Fran was not the “do as he says” kind of person… Christine eyed the speaker more thoroughly, then.

  Jacob Jones looked to be in his late twenties. He was well dressed in “business casual” attire, the only one in the room wearing pressed khaki pants, and his white dress shirt and blue tie just peeked out over his somewhat casual, loose-knit sweater. Short brown hair, perfectly styled. She decided that she would have pegged him for a career petty bureaucrat even without seeing his eyes, a deep hazel color that drilled holes into anyone who didn’t seem to be moving quickly enough to get to a chair…