Survive the Day Boxset: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

by William Stone

  Gio scooped up the rifle, and they all charged ahead, yelping like a pack of wild dogs as they moved forward.

  A second guard raced toward the danger, but he was too late, got a body full of bullets before he could even raise his rifle. His death meant another weapon was gained as they howled into the hallway, hearing nothing but terrified shrieks.

  It didn’t take long for them to gather up a bounty of food and supplies. They grabbed whatever they could get their hands on as frightened nurses, patients, and doctors cowered in the corners, their eyes begging to be spared the nightmare.

  Within minutes, they gathered in the hospital’s parking lot, breathless and laughing like teenagers with fake IDs. They’d collected their take in a giant bag. As they waited for the last two to trickle out, they looked inside.

  But Nathan’s eyes were elsewhere. He stared at the huge rectangular building on the other side of the river, a mischievous grin slanting his face. He nodded.

  “Not a bad day’s take, huh boss?” Gio asked.

  “We’re just getting started, guys.”

  Gio turned, found the building that held Nathan’s attention. “You know what that place is, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I sure do,” his boss answered. “Adamson State Penitentiary.”

  “You’re not planning on robbing the place, are you?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. That’s the place where we build our army.”

  Ducking in the weeds outside the building, the gang waited patiently, ready to strike at any moment, but knowing it would take time for the moment to get there.

  The guards outside wore faces that hung low from worry. They must have known how perilous their power was. Without electricity, without gas, without computers, they were dangerously close to losing their grip on control.

  Cigarettes in between their lips and a twitch in their hands, the two guards leaned against the railing on the steps, guns down, but eyes up and ever alert. “How long you suppose this is liable to go on?” one asked the other.

  “Another hour or so, I imagine. I hope so anyway. That generator we’re using is gonna run out of juice after not too long.”

  “Let’s hope our friends inside don’t know that,” the second one said, jerking his head toward the prison. They shared a nervous laugh, then stomped out their cigarettes and went inside.

  Gio leaned over to his boss, whispered. “You think we got a chance of just storming the place?”

  “We’ll have to be a little more tactical than that, but yeah, we’ve got a chance. Ordinarily, we wouldn’t be able to get this close. They’d have monitors on us, and we’d be staring down armed guards right now. But without monitors, they can’t see us. And even if they could, they’ve probably got all their correction officers on hand—in case something crazy happens.”

  Nathan slipped away from the pack and crept to the door. There was no chance of him being to see anything, but he could possibly hear something to give him a sense of what was happening—and what might be on the verge of happening.

  The moment seemed loaded with tension. No laughter, no chit-chat. Nothing but an amplified voice barking out instructions that he couldn’t make out. The voice seemed tense, clinging to any semblance of control.

  He turned and waved the pack forward. Once there, he whispered to them, “All right, guys. Quick question: how many have friends or relatives in here? Be honest.”

  Every hand went up.

  “Great. Here’s what I need from you: you see any faces you recognize, pull them aside, tell them to join up with us. Don’t waste time making a sales pitch. They say ‘no’ or start asking too many questions, you move on to the next. We need recruits, and we need them right now. Got it?”

  “What kinds of guys are we looking for?” one of the guys asked. “You want guys with a history of violence? Or do you want to avoid the ones with too much violence in their past?”

  “We’re not picky,” he answered. “We can’t afford to be. If they’re in here, we want ‘em. Now let’s go!”

  They quietly ducked inside, followed the dim light down the hallway, and kept going. Stealing a glimpse of the cell blocks, Nathan could feel the tension all the more intensely. It was clear that the inmates could launch into full-tilt bedlam at any second. All they needed was a spark.

  He reached over, grabbed the first rifle he could get his hands on. After lifting it into the air, he pulled the trigger. Nothing.

  “You have to cock it first,” Gio whispered.

  Nathan sent a scowl to his second-in-command, then tried to yank the middle section back like he’d seen in movies. But instead of making the click sound the movie stars made, it slipped from his hand.

  Gio tried to swallow a giggle but couldn’t. “Dude, it’s not a shotgun.” When he got another scowl from his boss, he covered by saying. “And I totally make that mistake all the time myself.” He reached for the rifle. “Let me show you.” He demonstrated by pulling down the trigger guard.

  Nathan took it back, then aimed at the ceiling and tugged the trigger three times. The gun jerked back against his body unexpectedly. But it had the intended effect. The low murmur filling the hallways gained in volume and intensity. Laughs became howls. Talking became screaming. Grunts of dissatisfaction rose to loudly shouted demands for vengeance and blood.

  The guards backed up without delay, their heads swiveling, their eyes wide.

  In the distance, Nathan spotted a guard who hadn’t backed up—and seemingly couldn’t. He was being choked from behind by two lean hands poking through the cell bars. Body shaking from laughter, he said, “Right on time!”

  He crept closer and could now see a second pair of hands had reached forward and yanked the keys from the belt in spite of attempts made by other guards to rescue him. When a series of loud clicks filled the air, he said, “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  As the gang took off, Nathan backed away slowly, unable to lift his eyes away from the beautiful chaos he’d helped create. He felt like an artist proudly gazing at the masterpiece on his easel.

  13

  Hatfield wasn’t sure what to expect when he stepped inside. The riflemen had been cordial with him and his family—but not exactly friendly. They seemed to see him as an important figure by virtue of who his father was, but beyond that, he was just another stranger. The other six—his family and the three VVs—were probably seen as worse than that. Seeing other people as nothing more than a potential drain on resources was often an unfortunate by-product of that lifestyle. His father was no exception, although he generally felt bad about it.

  With the rifleman at his side, they all waited in a well-stocked living room. It was sparse and not exactly pretty. Survival isn’t always going to win you a fashion prize, his father used to say. He must have been involved in designing the living room.

  At his side, Hatfield heard his wife ask, “Can we see to her wrist now, please?” her voice was strong but careful not to come across as pushy.

  The rifleman answered, “In time.”

  It didn’t seem like a good sign that the rifleman hadn’t even offered them a seat on a couch. Instead, they just stood there, waiting, not even having been told who or what they were waiting for.

  So when the chunky guy in his sixties emerged from the back room, face exploding into a smile, it caught them all off-guard. “Trevor Hatfield!” he yelled, arms spread for a bear hug. “It’s like I’ve known you all my life without knowing you!”

  He looked like a Santa Clause in camouflage gear. Long, white beard, friendly face, a paunch hanging over his belt. “And this must be the lovely Hatfield clan!” He introduced himself as Captain Cecil Payne, the homestead leader, then greeted each of the family warmly, his face growing slack with worry when he spotted Tami’s reddened wrist. “Oh, my! Let’s get this thing taken care of, shall we!”

  Tami was taken down the hallway, Jess going along.

  “How about a tour while they take care of that and get dinner rea
dy for our esteemed guest!”

  “Sounds great! Ready for that, Justin?”

  “I sure am!”

  Cecil walked past the three VVs, no words—only a sour grimace.

  Once outside, the tour began at the barbed wire. “Now, you may be wondering about our fence, and yes, your daddy did always prefer a wooden fence for the sake of privacy. But we always figured this far out, how much privacy do we need? Well, the answer was a lot. So we just planted some buffalo berry seeds. Should break the wind a little, plus shield us away from prying eyes!”

  Hatfield was impressed. And he stayed that way through the rest of the tour. They saw their chickens and hogs in the back yard, their worm bins. The infrared dryer with the garden, as well as the weather stick connected to the balsam wood tree.

  As they headed indoors, Hatfield asked a question that had been gnawing at him for a while. “Did you know my father personally?”

  “I did. And, looking back, I cherish every second of that acquaintance.”

  Flooded by memories—both good and bad—Hatfield found himself getting choked up. With a wry laugh, he said, “Sometimes I feel like I didn’t know my father personally.”

  Cecil laughed with him. “I hear you. The sergeant was a good man, as wise as they come, but he wasn’t always the most instantly lovable.”

  As they walked into the back door, the sound of chaos rising in the distance caught his attention.

  Nathan watched the combat unfold from a safe distance. It wasn’t his job to do the dirty work of hand-to-hand fighting. Let the foot soldiers do that. He was the field general. Patton, Sherman. The leader. He stood there with his binoculars around his neck, rifle raised.

  Roughly a football field’s length from him, the gang shouted in victory. Now at least a hundred strong, they raced toward him, pumping fists and screeching into the night.

  “Pretty formidable gang we’re building up, guys!” he said.

  “Sure is. It’s only a matter of time before this town is ours,” Gio said.

  Nathan smirked. It amused him that he was thinking the same thing. But in his mind, the statement was the town is mine—not ours.

  “Listen up, men!” he yelled. “This world we’re living in has changed pretty dramatically. But the biggest changes are yet to come. The police have been de-mobilized by the lack of power. The National Guard has was called in, but they can’t be everywhere at once. That is why this outfit, this army of mine, is going to take over!”

  They all shouted triumphantly.

  Just as the leader was about to speak again, Gio cut him off. “That’s right, guys! We’re going to take over! And the most important thing to keep in mind is that we are the leaders, Nathan and me. So you’d better listen to us if you know what’s good for you!”

  More ecstatic screams.

  But Nathan didn’t like it. Once again, Gio was using words like we and us in ways that made him uneasy. Did he think of himself as the co-leader of the gang? A co-general of the army? He wasn’t. At best, he was a lieutenant. Second-in-command.

  Worse yet, he hadn’t finished. “Nobody is allowed to move until we tell you! And that’s something you better all get once and for all, or you won’t be around long! Right, Nathan?”

  His boss was unhappy and didn’t pretend to be otherwise. He saw this as an opportunity, a chance to make lemonade from the lemons life had given him. “Gio makes some very good points, guys, but I have to disagree a little with him.”

  Gio turned, curious.

  Nathan went on. “He says the most important thing to keep in mind is that we’re the leaders, the two of us. That is wrong. This is the most important thing to keep in mind.” He reached into his holster and yanked out the revolver he’d stashed away, aimed it at Gio’s head, and shot him.

  His body jerked into a wild dance before lurching forward and dropping to the ground.

  A collective gasp fell over the guys. Mouths fell open in disbelief. “The most important thing to keep in mind is that no one—not even my second-in-command—is indispensable. Anyone can be killed once they fail the group. And there is no more certain a way to fail the group than to think you share the group's power with me. Is that understood?”

  He got a chorus of “yeah” in reply. Just what he needed to hear.

  After stepping inside, they spotted the two VVs engaged in labor, one mopping the kitchen floor, the other constructing a shelf. Jess greeted them, a homesteader at her side along with Tami.

  Within seconds, somebody had a question for Cecil. A tall, slender dude, clean-shaven, asked him, “We got any penicillin?”

  Puzzled by the question, the leader wrinkled his brow. “Everything we have is in the medical bag. You know that.”

  The guy turned to Jess. “I guess that means we don’t have any. What was that other thing we needed?”

  Jess said, “Well, you could use some kind of antibiotics. I see lots of swollen lymph nodes around here.”

  “What kind of illness does that suggest?” Cecil asked.

  “Well, it can mean lots of things. Most likely a cold, but you may want to check for other things as well.”

  “Darling, we’ve mostly made do with what we have. And so far, we’ve gotten by.”

  Jess said nothing more as Cecil, her husband, and her son walked past. But Hatfield knew his wife well enough to know the matter wasn’t done—at least not in her mind. He figured she was being diplomatic, and for a good reason.

  “Smells to me like we made it back just in time for dinner!” Cecil called. “I’m sure the Hatfields would be very happy to join us.”

  They all gathered around the table and took seats. Hatfield noticed his daughter’s wrist was now in a cast and properly wrapped.

  They said grace, Jess keeping her mouth shut about her preference for waiting until after the meal to do so.

  Cecil said, “Dear Lord, thank you so very much for our guests of honor, the Hatfields. May he enjoy this meal as much as we have all enjoyed the teachings of his wise father, the good Sergeant Ernest Hatfield. Amen.”

  When the lid off the centerpiece was lifted, it revealed two roasted chickens. In addition to the Hatfields and Cecil, there were five others at the table. Clad in vaguely military gear, they were in their late twenties, hard and lean.

  Mouth full of roasted chicken, one of them asked, “How is it we never met this Mr. Hatfield?”

  Hatfield mushed the awkwardness away with a grin. “I expect it’s because I’d moved away by the time you met.”

  “But you never found out about this homestead being built, then completed?”

  Unable to dodge any more, he said, “I was estranged from my family.”

  “For how long?”

  Then came the hardest words to say. “Until my father’s death. I corresponded with my mother after that.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung over the table.

  Cecil filled it. “Your father was a fine man. He oversaw the construction of our homestead and was very particular about its dimensions as well as its self-sufficiency.”

  That put a smile on Hatfield’s face.

  The leader then had a question for him. “Have you and your family given any thought to where you will head to after your meal?”

  Hatfield’s face soured. It didn’t seem like a good sign that he asked that question. To him, it seemed the man was hinting that he and his family needed to pull up stakes and leave after dinner. He exchanged a glance with his wife, then flatly answered the question. “I’m afraid we haven’t.”

  More uneasy silence followed. Jess tried to lighten things up by changing the subject. “So… how many live here in the homestead?”

  “Twenty-seven altogether,” Cecil answered. “We don’t all eat dinner at once because the table wouldn’t seat us all.”

  With a smile, Jess added, “I guess that’s why we don’t see our friends here—the good Samaritans that met us on the road out there.”

  Tension creased Cecil’s face. He strok
ed his beard, searching for words. Clearly, a nerve had been struck. “That’s not entirely true.”

  “What do you mean?” Hatfield asked.

  The leader said, “We understand the immense gratitude you must feel for those individuals—they did, after all, help you out of an unpleasant situation—but the plain truth is that they violated the rules. And that simply cannot be tolerated.”

  Hatfield watched his wife’s gaze fall to the table. He said, “That’s a little disappointing. I feel my father would have—”

  Cecil lifted a hand. “With respect, your father is not here. I am the leader, and as such, I must make hard choices.”

  Hatfield nodded. “I guess that’s why we’re being asked to leave as well.”

  “I’m afraid so. We have great reverence for all your father did, but he made it very clear that the only way to maintain an environment like this is to restrict our resources only to those who are essential.”

  Jess’s face grew sharp, perhaps with rage or maybe sadness. Her husband wasn’t sure, but he grunted. “We understand.”

  “Well, frankly, I don’t understand, Captain Payne,” his wife said.

  “Honey, what’s done is done,” Hatfield said. “Let’s just focus on plan B.”

  “But didn’t your daddy will this place to you?” she asked.

  Cecil answered for him, “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Hatfield. You see, at the time he made his will out, the Sergeant wasn’t sure if his son was living or dead. And he assumed the reason for his… let’s just say, early departure was unhappiness with the lifestyle of a survivalist. So it would have never occurred to him to will the property to your husband. Nor, to put matters bluntly, did it occur to him to make provisions in case he wanted to bring his family back to stay. Now out of the kindness of our hearts, we—”

  Hatfield lifted a hand in surrender. “Captain, we appreciate your hospitality. No more explanation is needed.”