Inception of Chaos: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Story

by Holden, J. J.

  Christine gulped.

  Mary’s voice shook as she said, “I remember.”

  “Yeah. Well, everyone else might be eating each other, but that’s just cattle eating grass. We’re their cattle, dammit, and you can’t spare a fucking sandwich? But we’re the good guys,” he said, voice cracking into a whine.

  More than anything, Christine wanted to just hand those four whatever food she’d packed for emergencies in the car that morning. It had become a routine. But…if she did that, and these people realized there really was food in the farm towns, that didn’t bode well for Weldona. Misinformation—the word echoed in her head.

  Bryson, nodding, stepped forward, his fear momentarily lost. No doubt he believed the total strangers with a gun about their lack of ammunition, but Christine couldn’t take that chance with her kids around. Nor could she risk word getting out. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” she said. “The farm towns along the road eastward, here, don’t have mountains of food. We’re a week from making some hard choices, the kind you all have had to make.”

  “No food?” the woman asked, looking up at her man, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Christine said, “No. No food. You have to go north for that. We’re trying to trade with those people, because they trade with Greeley, and those jerks do have food. All the food, because that’s where the trains go to deliver a city’s worth of food every day. But they won’t budge. They’re fighting Denver, too, though. You go there and volunteer to work for the railroaders, you’ll get your meals. If you live long enough to walk there, but that’s your damn problem. Get walking, Denver. North, if you aren’t too stupid to realize that’s where the food is.”

  “Just a sandwich? A jar of pickles—fuck, anything at all?”

  Christine shook her head. “All you’ll get from me is lead poison. I’m counting to ten, and if you aren’t walking away by then, you never will. Ten. Nine…”

  By “six,” the four turned and walked away toward the north. Their pace was slow, no doubt weak from hunger, and Christine only managed to keep her tears away until they were a hundred yards or so away, before fat drops broke loose and rolled down her cheek.

  Mary wrapped her arms around Christine’s waist and hugged her, though she kept her arms under Christine’s, pointedly avoiding impeding her weapon hand.

  Bryson watched the people leave, and as they disappeared over the nearest hill in that low, rolling grassland, he turned to Christine and glared. “You are a damn hard woman, Chrissy, you know that? You got no soul; no heart. How could you do that? I know damn well you have three days’ worth of food in there, just like Fran put in mine before I got the kids and got the hell out of that graveyard waiting to happen. Their story is total bullshit, but those people are hungry, damn you. They don’t even have bullets to hunt rabbits, and those are everywhere. How—”

  “Bryson, shut up.” Christine wiped her eyes with her free hand, but kept her pistol conspicuously in view. “They were telling the truth, or else they wouldn’t be starving out here instead of working back there in Denver.”

  “Eating people, Chrissy. That’s such B-S, and you know it.”

  “Really? Bryson, do you know how long it took the Ukrainians to start eating their dead, when Stalin cut off all their food?”

  “Who? The Russian guy? He fought the Germans. Russia was our ally, and we would never be allies with someone who could do that kind of thing. Sure, they went crazy after with the whole communist thing, but that was after the war.”

  Christine sighed. “Three weeks—that’s when rumors began. By six weeks, the Soviets had to post signs saying anyone eating another human being would be executed—and that didn’t stop a damn thing. What’s the risk of a bullet to the guarantee of starving?”

  “Six weeks?” He looked down, then back up at her. “Really?”

  “No, idiot. Three weeks. Six was when it got so bad, the Soviets had to worry about not having enough farmers for the next crop season. We’re at six weeks, right?”

  “That’s it. You’re a bald-faced liar, and you always were. Denver is not like what they said. I was there. The only true thing those people said was that Denver is strong enough to keep the bandits out. That’s why I’m taking my kids there, and you aren’t going to shoot me, so put that gun away and be civilized.”

  Christine grit her teeth. He’d been in Denver after the CME, but then he’d showed up at Fran’s, under Christine’s nose. Eating well at Fran’s, in fact. But he wasn’t going along with her program, that was clear. She had to convince him, though, for the kids’ sakes, so she took a deep breath and then replied, “They’re safer in Weldona. They’re eating real food in Weldona, too. Just like you were.”

  “So? I ate food in Denver, too. Put the gun away, Chrissy. Now.”

  She flinched at the force of that last word, and the emphasis he put on it. She started to follow his instructions, by reflex, but then froze. She had found the strength to say no when he was cheating with everyone and begging for one second chance after another. She’d said no when he demanded they go to counseling instead of divorce, so he could prove to her she was wrong for leaving him. She’d said no to ten thousand dollars a month in bribe money, outside the courthouse, if she would just let him have the kids and stay separated.

  And she said no, now. “Not a chance, Bryson. Get their stuff out of the car, or I’ll leave you for the cannibals and they won’t need to kill you first, because I’ll do that part for them. You will not take my kids back to that nightmare, even if only half of what they said was true.”

  Bryson smirked. “You’d shoot me? Bull. You don’t have it in you.”

  Christine pulled the trigger without aiming, and without aiming away either. The blast was deafening, rolling across the hills only a moment after a tuft of dirt kicked up two feet to his right. “No more warning shots, Bryson. You kidnapped my kids, and that’s a felony. I have every right to shoot you, but right or not, I’m going to do it if you don’t give me my freaking kids.”

  This time, Christine decided, ten seconds was too long. “Six. Five. Three—”

  “Damn you. Okay, okay. I’m going. Just wait.” He moved toward the hood to go around to the Mustang’s far side.

  Christine merely followed him, staying at least eight feet back. No way he was going to get a chance to snatch her weapon.

  He opened the doors. “Kids, your mom—”

  Hunter bolted from the car, followed by Darcy right on his heels. The two sprinted around their father, and ran to Christine. Darcy threw her arms around her mother, as Mary stepped back to give them room.

  Hunter said, “Mom, that was the most badass shit I ever saw!”

  “Language,” she said, glaring, but also smiling. “Thanks. I would do anything for you two kids. It’s why I’m so strict, you know. To keep you safe. I hope you see now why I worried so much.”

  Darcy nodded, her face buried in Christine’s collar. “Yeah, Mom. You’re a hero! You faced off with bandits and made them run away. I want to be just like you when I get older.”

  Hunter, hugging her, nodded, and then stepped back. “Mom, I swear we didn’t know Dad was going to take us. He said we were going to town hall for some meeting, then turned the other way and sped up. We wanted to jump out, I promise. Please don’t be mad.”

  Christine glared at Bryson. “I know, sweetie. But you’re coming home, now, where it’s safe.”

  Bryson said, “You’re wrong. Those mobs are going to mob all over Weldona. Denver stood up. We have to go there, and when I get back, the first thing I’m doing when the government fixes this is to call my lawyer. You put them in danger when you broke Martial Law to get out. Martial Law!”

  “So did you, when you came to Fran’s in the first place.”

  Bryson looked down. “Lawyers, Christine. I can afford better ones than you.”

  She shrugged. “So do it. When the lights come back on, you can say ‘I told you so,’ but until then, get in your car and
leave. You aren’t welcome, anymore. Not with stunts like this, you self-centered prick.”

  Bryson stomped to his car and put his hand on the handle. There, he froze. “Crap. My car is broken down. Can I get a lift to Weldona, to hire a truck? Someone will take cash.”

  Christine’s eyes went wide. “Are you serious? Stay out here and rot, you—”

  “Mom!” Darcy leaned back so she could look her mother in the eyes. “That’s Dad you’re talking about. You can’t leave him. I know he can’t come back, but we have to do something for the car, or can we just go find him an empty one?”

  Hunter shook his head. “We don’t steal, sis. Maybe we can trade the car for a ride for him.”

  There were no cars on the freeway, nor on the roads. None running, anyway. All the cars that still ran had already run away from this mess.

  Christine said, “What’s wrong with the Mustang?”

  Bryson’s lip curled into a snarl. “I hired the wrong mechanic, that’s what. I don’t know. It did this before, though, so I took it to the shop. Ran great for a while. Now, it sputters whenever I step on the gas. Push hard enough, it stalls out completely, but if I don’t push, the sputtering is so bad it’s going to rip out the tranny.”

  “And you said it did that before?”

  “Yeah. Guy charged me over a grand for a rebuilt original carburetor, but I think he used one from some pick-and-pull.”

  No, a rebuilt wouldn’t crap out in weeks. It would have failed sooner, or not at all. She ran through the simple checklist she knew of. “Battery?”

  “Radio and headlights work, and the engine turns over.”

  “Does the engine rev up? Do the RPMs shoot up, right before stalling?”

  Bryson’s nose wrinkled, as though he smelled something rotten. “Are you rebuilding transmissions, now? I thought you were a lawyer’s secretary, or was it dictation?” He said the last word with a vague…wrongness.

  Christine ignored him, largely because she caught Hunter and Darcy watching them, out of the corner of her eye. The wide-eyed expressions both wore were worth any amount of Bryson’s narcissistic, sexist garbage. What the hell had she ever seen in the man? She’d been close to leaving him before she found out she was pregnant with Hunter, though—

  She shook her head. Water under the bridge. “Okay. Let me under the hood.”

  “Again, paralegal, not mechanic.”

  She turned to face him directly, squaring off against him. “I grew up on a farm, where we had to work to keep things running. You grew up on a McMansion, and just bought new stuff when the old one wore out. Just open the damn hood.”

  He grumbled, but did as she told him, for once. Probably sensed she was nearing the end of her patience. He’d always had that talent, which gave him precisely one talent.

  She told him to start it, and as he turned it over, it caught, sputtered, then roared to life. From what he’d said, it would die if he tried to accelerate hard, and had been getting worse since it began, to the point where it had died completely today while trying to climb back up the embankment.

  She started by feeling the hoses. Hot ones were hot, not hot ones were not hot. Nothing unusual—until she heard a faint sss. She moved around the engine compartment, listening, and narrowed it down… The fuel hose, coming into the compartment from the firewall.

  She stood up, climbing out from under the hood. “Mary, please get the first aid kit from Fran’s car.”

  She didn’t mind getting under the hood while Mary was watching Bryson, and half hoped to get the chance of seeing her smash his arrogant face into the fender, but she kept watch herself until Mary returned with a big, green fabric case.

  Christine unzipped it and pulled out two ketchup-packet sized plastic packets with petroleum jelly. She tore them open, then spread the Vaseline wannabe jelly over the length of the fuel hose. If it had pinched farther back, she’d never have heard it… It was about time luck shined on her for a minute, and hoped it kept doing so for another couple minutes.

  Sure enough, the hiss stopped, and the “raspy” engine sound smoothed out.

  “You fixed it?” Bryson looked annoyingly surprised.

  “No. Give me your shirt.” She held out her hand, and though he refused at first, he caved when she threatened to leave him behind, regardless of what the kids might wish. She used his shirt to wipe as much jelly off the hose as she could. The first aid kit had folded paper towels she could have used, but why use her supplies when she could ruin a $150 shirt Bryson loved?

  The kit also included a sort of plastic-backed adhesive athletic tape. This, she began wrapping around the fuel hose, overlapping each row with the next. When she got to the firewall, she went back up toward where it hit the engine, but made sure to keep it a couple inches back, lest it melt and catch fire. She paused to consider adding more tape…

  No. She closed the hood and tossed the kit to Mary. “Bryson, you’re fixed. When you get to Denver, if you do, replace that fuel hose. This should get you home, at least. I suggest you stay there.”

  Bryson, however, was busy watching something else—Mary walking back to Fran’s car. Christine coughed, and he did a double-take. “What? Oh, right. Replace the hose. Thanks for fixing it. You should have just left me here to die, though, Christine.”

  She shook her head, despite agreeing. “You’re the father of our children. I don’t want you dead.” She wouldn’t have cried about it, though. “However, I suggest you don’t ever come back to Weldona. Fran’s a great shot, and she will never forgive you for showing her who you really are.”

  “Is that a threat?” Bryson squared his shoulders.

  If experience had shown Christine anything, he was about to make some speech about his manliness, or something equally stupid. No one was manly enough to stop bullets, and Fran was not one to cross the way Bryson had. But she’d saved his car—the rest was up to him. “No, not a threat. A suggestion. I’ll see what I can do to get her to let you pick up the kids at Winter Break, but you aren’t welcome there until then. If the lights come back on, you can FaceTime them.”

  He climbed into the driver’s seat. Backing out, he rolled down his window. Glaring, he shouted at Christine walking away, “If my kids get hurt between now and then, I’m going to take it out of your hide, and put you back in your place.”

  Christine turned around to snarl something back, but he was already peeling out, rooster tail of dirt geysering out behind the Mustang, and he headed northwest. He didn’t bother looking at his kids, much less waving at them, though they frantically tried to get his attention through Fran’s rear windshield.

  “Guess he cares more about being pissed at you than saying goodbye to his kids.” Mary opened the passenger door. “You want to drive back?”

  Christine smiled. “Sure.” She certainly did. Frankly, she felt six-foot-four and bulletproof. Yep, she had her kids back, safe no less, and it had turned into one hell of a fine day. She’d have to get around the crowd, but by the time she got that far, they’d probably be somewhat near Weldona, and she could circle north.

  A fine damn day, indeed.

  59

  Walking briskly toward David’s SUV, Wiley tucked his recovered pistol in his back waistband. His entire hand ached as his fingers unclenched from the grip, and he was going to have some serious bruising. His hand hurt already, and he was not looking forward to the adrenaline wearing off. It was going to hurt like a bitch, when that happened. The smart move, he saw clearly, was to get the heck out of Dodge and leave the village before the adrenaline crash hit.

  He used the key to unlock the car door, because David always locked it when he got out, but now it was just one more movement to send a dull, roaring ache up the back of his hand from his swollen knuckles to his puffy wrist.

  Damn, maybe he should have pulled that punch… But then again, David had made it clear, the blow had to be believable. Well, Wiley had delivered a believable blow all right. A grin spread across his face. Boy, that had felt go
od.

  He slid into the driver’s seat and slid the key in. The SUV turned over easily, and Wiley leaned his head back, just for a moment, closing his eyes—a wave of nausea washed through him, courtesy of adrenaline levels crashing. It would have been nice to sit there for five or ten minutes, just to let the crash level off.

  A rustling sound caught his attention. Before his thoughts caught up with his senses, he threw himself forward in the seat and reached for the pistol in his waistband, but sitting as he was, the weapon sat pinned by the tight jeans fabric. At the same time, an arm flashed into view from behind, and his seat rocked. He brought his hands up to block the knife strike, again by reflex, but it was the wrong reaction. There was no knife aiming for his throat, and the hand moved in a blur to cover his nose and mouth with something soft. A cloth.

  A chemical smell.

  Wiley grabbed the arm and pushed. Inch by inch, the chemical-covered rag moved away from his nose and mouth. All he felt was a little light-headed. Was it chloroform? If so, it wasn’t knocking him out like it was supposed to, thank goodness.

  Once he got his left arm between his face and the hand with a rag, he let go with his right and reached back. All he had to do was work that pistol loose. Damn it, putting that in his waistband had been a stupid move…

  The hand dropped the rag and relaxed. Wiley’s left arm, pushing hard, jerked forward.

  An arm slipped around his neck from the other side.

  Oh, crap.

  Wiley clawed at the arm with both hands, pistol forgotten. He felt the arm grow slick as his nails dug deep into the flesh of whoever it was, but his attacker didn’t let up. Pressure on the right side of his head told him all he needed to know—he was in a sleeper hold, pinned back against his seat by an unknown attacker in the back seat.

  He tried to rip the hand from his neck, but a second later, half his view was black, tunnel vision setting in. His muscles were no longer responding like they should have, and he felt like he was swimming through mud.