Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story

by Holden, J. J.

  The gunman said, “It doesn’t matter what you meant, Cobi, because no one’s going to hear your side. They’re going to hear how the dead guy over there plotted with you to keep the cops here by force. It’s too bad you got killed when the shooting started, though.”

  “What?” Cobi’s voice cracked halfway through the single word.

  David said, “No one’s going to believe you, mister. They’ll find out the truth.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The fax says it all. You and Cobi knew, and you did nothing to stop a murderer from walking around among us. You’ll be lucky if they don’t string you up. They sure won’t let you leave, not until after the mob gets to us. You’ll have to fight with us, then, and whatever happens to me after, I don’t give a damn. My kids are going to live, and you’re going to make sure of it, cops. You murdered my friend, so I don’t give two damns about you going home. I just gotta kill this dick and drop the gun. Then what? You going to murder an unarmed man? Don’t think so. My friend had a gun, so you can sleep at night, but I won’t.”

  David’s eyes clicked over to Wiley, and for a moment, Wiley was worried he’d give him away, but David immediately looked back to the gunman. “Wait. You don’t have to do this. What if I drop my gun? My partner and I can just set down our weapons. You can walk out, with Cobi—alive.”

  Two more feet…

  The gunman spit on the floor. “All you cops carry backup guns. Everyone knows that. Sorry, Kelley, but the mayor has to go. Then, I’m going to drop my gun, but whatever happens to me after that, it doesn’t matter. I already told you why. Sorry, Cobi. One…”

  Orien spoke up at last, and took one step toward the gunman, sliding his pistol into its holster but leaving his hand on it. “Screw this. Look, man—”

  “Shut up, bastard, you shot my friend.”

  “You gotta let him go.” Orien took another step, ignoring David’s order to back up. “You can’t do this. We can talk it out. Your friend deserved what he got, and you know it, but you don’t have to.”

  The gunman’s head whipped to the side, toward Orien, bringing his face into profile from Wiley’s vantage, and his eyes narrowed as the muscles on his jaw stood out.

  Wiley recognized that look. He’d seen it in prison. Anger, desperation, more anger… This was happening, now, but if Wiley shot him, the bullet could go through and hit Cobi…

  Just as predicted, the long-haired man shoved his gun out, toward Orien. David had no clear shot, and Orien would never get his weapon out in time… Wiley let out a roar and closed the distance in one rushed step.

  The gunman jerked, startled, and his revolver went off, just as Wiley smashed his pistol upside the man’s head with all the adrenaline-fueled strength he possessed, the impact making a bone-crushing, sickening sound on impact.

  The gunman crumpled, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he fell to the floor, limp, with a thud.

  As Orien reflexively looked down to see if he’d been shot, Cobi and David stared at the now-limp gunman. Then Cobi spun on him, screaming, “You jackass! He could have shot me.”

  Wiley shrugged. “His gun was pointed at the cop, not you.”

  David came out from behind his desk, weapon now pointed at Wiley, though the “killer” among them merely stood still, looking down at the gunman on the floor.

  Cobi, red-faced and pale at the same time, said, “Screw this. I’m going home, and I’m getting drunk.” He headed for the front door, and David and Orien were too busy pointing guns at Wiley to stop him.

  Besides, Wiley mused, where would Cobi go? Where could he go? If the cops needed him, they could find him.

  Over his shoulder, David called after Cobi, “Go home, have a drink, but pack some clothes. You’ll need to stay somewhere safe, tonight.”

  Smart dude, for a cop. Wiley nodded. “Yeah, the town folk are going to blame him for all this. Small town people do seem to like to blame each other for things, it seems.” He fought to keep his voice calm and neutral. Looking David in the eyes, Wiley continued, “You do know they’re going to blame you, too, for setting all this in motion by deciding to leave.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “They can’t be the only ones who talked about this, just the only two brave enough to do the hard part. Until it blows over, you need to be careful. But I guess you don’t have to worry about them being pissed—I mean, since you’re leaving just in time to do nothing to help them.”

  54

  Mary sat passively, watching, as Christine had a meltdown.

  Christine shrieked and pounded on the vinyl dashboard. She grabbed the steering wheel and shook it hard enough to rock the car. Then, she let go and leaned back into her seat, putting hands over her eyes. “Ohmygod, Mary. Why? Tell me why.”

  For the love of everything decent, Christine would have paid money to get a reaction from her friend, but Mary said nothing. She just…sat there. Like a lump.

  Christine lowered one hand just enough to peer over it at her friend. “Did you forget how to speak English? Make the words, Mary. It’s not a conversation if only one person talks.”

  Mary lowered her gaze. “I wasn’t aware this was a conversation. You seemed to want to do the talking, so I let you. Should I have an opinion, now?”

  Christine had to hold her breath to keep herself from saying something she’d regret. She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly… “Okay. Sorry. I’m feeling some kind of way about all of this, and I did not mean to take it out on you. Please, Mary, would you tell me what you think about David leaving with his tail between his legs the day before we all need him the most, like the rat-bastard coward he is?”

  Mary’s mouth ticked upward at the corners. “Tell me how you really feel.” She paused, then shrugged. “I don’t blame him. If you were a Denver cop, and you had orders to go help thousands more people than you could here, and by following orders, you might well save your life, you might have made a similar choice. If you didn’t have kids here.”

  Christine counted to five, in her head, before replying, “Well, I’m not a Denver cop, and I do have to stay here; I do have kids, and they are here. So maybe you could understand how I’m feeling, instead.” Her voice sounded tight and brittle in her own ears.

  “I do understand. I want him here, too. I’m afraid we’re going to die, too. I want your kids to live, too. I’m just saying, I get his choice. And, well, he has orders. What should he do?”

  The crappy part was that Mary was right. He had orders, and he had even fewer roots in Weldona than Christine had. He could leave if he wanted, but he only had a short window of time in which to do so, if he was going to do it at all. But of course, that wasn’t really what had her so upset. A big part of it was just feeling so…helpless. Nothing going on was in her control, and she hated it. “Things just feel so out of control, Mary. I don’t handle that well. But you know, David has lived with us for almost two months now. I thought we were friends. I just feel like a friend wouldn’t do this to another friend.”

  Mary nodded. “I totally get it. You really do suck at letting go, not being in control. But maybe a friend would realize what a tough choice he has to make, too. As tough as your choice to risk leaving Denver in the first place.”

  Mary paused, then added, “I kind of wish we’d never come here. Denver kicked that mob’s ass and sent them packing. If we had stayed, we’d be safe, just eating canned pasta or something. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I came with you, but I kind of wish I was with you in Denver, where he’ll be soon.”

  Christine sneered, but only on the side of her face Mary couldn’t see. Well, “if wishes were fishes, they’d all eat like kings.” But they weren’t there, and it didn’t do any good wishing they were.

  Then, Christine froze and all thoughts of David vanished. No… She and her family weren’t in Denver, but…

  Mary said, “What are you thinking? You sort of went away there, for a moment.”

  Christine turned her head to face
Mary directly, and her lips flatlined. “Well, why don’t we go away? Why can’t we be in Denver?”

  “Because we’re not.”

  “But we could be,” Christine said, a faint smile creeping out. “David said it himself: the roads are only going to be safe enough for him to punch through for maybe a day. It’s not a day-long drive, Mary. With only a tiny bit of luck, we could march right back into our lives, away from Fran, away from the mob, away from the danger to my kids. I could keep them safe…in Denver.”

  Mary didn’t answer right away, just pursed her lips, considering Christine.

  Christine waited, and in her head, dared her friend to come up with one good reason to stay.

  At last, Mary said, “David could be driving into a hell that gets him killed. Doing the same thing seems like a bad idea. And a bad risk. We can stay here; we can fight. I don’t think you should let your need to be in control of everything endanger your kids, Chrissy.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just good at organizing things. I can organize what we take with us so we travel light. Extra fuel and everything we need, but nothing we don’t. I can manage this, Mary.”

  Mary didn’t hesitate a moment before replying, “No, you can’t. You cannot manage chaos, and that’s what’s out there. You’ll be rolling the dice with your kids’ lives. But you are good at organizing things—so stay here and organize this place to survive the storm. You don’t go out in a hurricane because your house could collapse, because it also might not and because might collapse is worse than for sure getting blown away in a tornado.”

  “Hurricane.”

  “Whatever. Look, that’s not the only thing—but it ought to be the only thing it takes to make you change your mind, because it’s not just your own life you’re gambling if you leave. But think of this town, Chrissy. These people took you in when they didn’t have to. They’ve opened up to you, despite the history between you and them, and your reputation as a kid. They’ve fed you and your family while people out there starve. You owe them, and you need to make good on that debt.”

  “No, Mary, look—”

  “No, you look, Christine. If you love your kids half as much as I do, and if you like me half as much as I like you, then you’ll stay put. Figure it out, make it work, make it right. But stay.”

  Christine watched her friend’s expression, and met her gaze. She expected Mary to look away, but she didn’t. If anything, she set her jaw tighter. At last, Christine said, “That sounds a bit like an ultimatum.”

  Mary blinked, but didn’t look away. “Take it how you want. I’ve said what I need to say. You’ll do what you will, and I’ll just go from there. But if you don’t mind, I have laundry duty today, and it takes all day. If you want to sit here screaming some more, I can just walk home, though.”

  Home. She called Fran’s house her home. And, oddly, hadn’t Christine herself had that same thought in the last few days? Maybe Mary was right…

  No. No, she couldn’t let Mary decide her kids’ fate for her. That was Christine’s job, not Mary’s. But her friend had given her much to think about. Christine was no longer so certain. Well, she’d have to decide quickly, if she wanted to pressure David into escorting her to Denver—if she decided to leave, after all.

  Wordlessly, Christine started up the car and pulled out, heading home. No, heading to Fran’s home, dammit. And yet, she wasn’t so sure of that distinction, anymore. Maybe she should take a couple hours to think about it some more. Yeah, that was what she’d do.

  As Christine pulled into the driveway, the first thing she noticed was that David’s SUV wasn’t there. For a half-second, she worried he’d left, but decided immediately that he wouldn’t leave without at least saying goodbye to Fran and thanking her for the room and board.

  The second thing she noticed was Fran rushing down the front steps, her arms waving wildly like her hair was on fire. She didn’t seem to be on fire, however.

  Gawd, what drama will it be, this time?

  Christine took a deep breath to brace herself as she stopped the car, turned it off, and stepped out. “Hello, Fran. What’s—”

  “They’re gone!”

  “Who is?” Christine’s stomach dropped. No, no, no…

  “The kids are gone, and Bryson took them. The kids were out back, and when I went to bring them a snack, I found this note!” Fran thrust a small slip of paper at Christine’s face.

  Christine snatched it.

  Franny – I thought we were friends, but you let that psycho stay and told me to go. Well, I’m gone. And I’m not letting my kids die in the middle of B.F.E. You and Chrissy, have fun with the mob. Taking kids west. I would have taken you, too. Guess you shouldn’t have betrayed me. Tell Chrissy I hope she makes it out alive. Guess she shouldn’t have kicked me out either, huh? —Bryson

  Christine dropped the note and sprinted into the house. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into her room, and into her closet. There, she pulled out a small, black, leather purse, and grimaced. The ugly weight of the pistol Fran had given her was, today, more than welcome. If they ran into looters… Well, she was getting her kids back, and she’d do it before that sonuvabitch drove right into some mob and got her kids killed. And if she had to shoot the bastard herself to keep them safe, well, they’d just have to get some therapy when the world finished falling apart and things went back to normal. In the meantime, they could hate her—at least they’d be alive to do so.

  She ran down the stairs, purse in hand, and headed for the car without waiting for Mary. Still, she was relieved to see her timid friend made it into the car before she peeled out down the driveway.

  Fran hadn’t even tried to get in her way.

  55

  David shifted his aim to the killer in the room. He had to shake off the unpleasant memory that flashed through his mind, a snapshot of the man he’d killed. He was a killer, too… But that had been different. He was a cop, doing his job. Wiley was a murderer. “Don’t move, Wiley. Put the gun down.”

  “They seem mutually exclusive.” Wiley stood, pistol in hand, dangling at his side.

  “Put the weapon on the floor, step away from the weapon, and then stop moving.” David refused to let himself be drawn into an argument over word choice.

  Wiley pressed the magazine release with his thumb, letting the magazine drop heavily to the floor on his right, then set the pistol down gently on his left. Standing again, he took a step away from the weapon, toward the office’s back door—the one that led to the outside…

  David heard himself say, “Do not attempt to flee, or we will fire.” To Wiley’s flank, Orien had re-drawn his own pistol, holding it at the low-ready position, but not aimed directly at Wiley. David would talk to his partner about that later, not in front of a perp.

  Wiley replied, “You gotta let me go, man—”

  “Not a chance,” Orien snarled. “We don’t let murderers go free, mister. Get on your face! Do it now.”

  Over David’s front sight, Wiley froze until a shiver visibly ran through him. His lips flatlined, and his jaw muscles stood out. “You don’t understand, man. Those guys I killed were bad dudes.”

  “No excuse,” David said, fighting to keep a rising anxiety from his voice. “You didn’t just kill them; you slaughtered them. But either way, ‘they were bad dudes’ isn’t any excuse in the eyes of the law. Now, get down before I put you down.”

  Wiley shook his head, glaring at David. “Okay, but listen. Those so-called victims, they murdered my sister. My younger sister. Everything I did to them, that was just what they had done to her while they tortured her to death. What the fuck would you have done?”

  Orien snapped at Wiley, making a sound like a single bark from a dog. Then he said, “Why do you people always lie about what you do? I saw the news, and I should have recognized you. But I remember one thing—when the cops took you down, they found duct tape and gloves and wire, and pictures of three little teen girls. And maps, man. Maps to their houses. You weren�
�t done killing. You probably killed your sister first, then her boyfriend and his buddies. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Wiley didn’t look at Orien, keeping his eyes on David. “Those were pics I took off the dead guys. Future victims. What they did to my sister, they’d done it before, I guarantee you. And they were going to do it again. I saved those girls’ lives, and you’re a dick for saying I killed my own sister. I loved my sister. She was in the news, maybe you remember her—Rose May?—and you damn cops did nothing. I told you where her killers were, and still you did nothing. No warrant. No stop-and-talks. Nothing. Just have a nice fuckin’ day, and sorry about your dead sister. I hate you, and everyone like you. At least I did something to protect those girls, but you didn’t give two flying fucks.”

  David froze. Rose May? The name rang a bell… Then he remembered. And shuddered. The girl had been a Jane Doe, at first, an unidentified victim. Tortured to death in the most gruesome ways he’d ever heard of in a decade and a half on the force. The M-E who’d examined her had reported it took her three days to die.

  Would he have done any different? But no, that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t in that situation; Wiley was, and Wiley had made the wrong call. “You should have waited for the police, Wiley.”

  Wiley took another half-step closer to the office’s rear door. “I did. They were gonna snatch their next little girl the next day. How long should I have waited? Until they’d killed one more? Three? Five?”

  “Stop moving, asshole.” David nodded to Orien and said, “Get behind him. Block the door, and—”

  Wiley bolted toward the door.

  David froze—he couldn’t pull the trigger, though he tried. Was his safety switch on? Dumbfounded, he looked down at the pistol.