Survive the Day Boxset: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

by William Stone

  “I know what Cecil has done. If he has a problem, you tell him to come to talk to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jake handed his rifle over, then walked inside.

  “We adapt, or we die,” Hatfield said. The words rattled through his head for several seconds. They kept on rattling as he lifted the gun to the target, planting a knee onto the ground.

  He hefted the rifle into place the same way he always did, but it soon became clear that it wouldn’t work. He raised up from the crouch, looked at the target again, and smiled as if the target had changed positions. “We adapt, or we die,” he said to himself, then dropped to the ground again and placed the rifle onto his left shoulder.

  The first few shots were clumsy, crashing into the dirt a few yards ahead of him, the others knifing into a nearby tree. He tried again, still not quite near the target but no longer bringing up the soil. “We’re getting there,” he groaned to himself.

  After lifting himself off the grass, he pulled the pistol from his holster and held it in his left hand, fighting off the sense of awkwardness. After taking a few deep breaths, he fired away, doing better now. He had a ways to go before matching the mastery he’d reached with his right hand, but he soon discovered that the enemy wasn’t the uncomfortable use of his left. It was his inner panic. He needed to stay calm, tell himself that shooting was shooting.

  He also needed to ignore the voice. His father’s voice, the same one that had haunted him as a kid. It was still there, reminding him that he wasn’t good enough. But now, it spoke in a single sentence. A leader doesn’t ask of his men what he won’t—or can’t—do himself.

  The more shots he took, the more the voice faded into the backdrop. It was a whisper now, no longer a scream. And it was a relic from the past that demanded attention. But he didn’t have to give it the attention it wanted. He could move on.

  Maybe someday, he’d win the approval from his father. He wasn’t yet there. But for now, he settled for what he could get. A calming ripple enabled him to shoot.

  The bullseyes returned right along with the confidence. Shot after shot found its intended mark.

  A different voice called from behind him as he heard footsteps through the tall grass.

  “Very nice,” Cecil said. “Versatility is always what you want in a shooter.”

  He turned and nodded. “Morning, Captain Payne.”

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Hatfield,” he answered. The emphasis on “Mr.” was clearly intended as a dig, a reminder that Cecil was a man with a rank, a military background that made him more qualified as a leader.

  Hatfield took it in stride, offered a smile.

  But the captain had more. “Of course, being a strong shooter—however versatile—doesn’t make one able to lead.”

  “True.”

  “Now it has come to my attention that you deliberately instructed one of the homesteaders to disobey my orders.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Would you care to share why?”

  Hatfield chose his words carefully before speaking. “With respect, sir. I feel that under the circumstances, a change was necessary. You see, it occurred to me that the homestead was—and is—up against a group that is more organized than any that had in the past. And that much of that organization revolves around inside knowledge that they have gained.”

  “Hatfield, I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”

  “But I don’t feel we’ve completed it.”

  “I beg to differ with you.”

  “Captain…” while seeking the right words, his gaze landed on the landscape.

  He spotted a few lumps in the distance. One of them moved, creeping closer. It wasn’t clear what they were up to, but there was no time to figure that out. “Get down!” he shouted, dropping to his belly and gesturing for Cecil to do the same.

  They lay in the grass, eyes sharply aimed at the horizon.

  Cecil asked, “Hatfield, would you mind telling me why we are doing this?”

  “They seem to be approaching us.”

  “Who is approaching us?”

  Hatfield pointed, prompting the captain to widen his eyes. “I see. And you feel that whoever it is represents a threat to the compound.”

  “I do. My hunch is that they are waiting for the guards to change—because they’ve been told when the change usually takes place.”

  Cecil said nothing. With his sightline fixed in the distance, he turned. “And you feel the best course of action is to vary our routine, keep them guessing.”

  “Yes, long-term. But for the here and now, that’s a little less clear. I’d say if we take one or both of them out, we’ve got a good chance to send the message we want to send. Let them know that when they approach the compound, they do so at their own peril.”

  Once again, Cecil remained quiet. He nodded to himself.

  Hatfield went on. “Right now, we need a few of our best shooters. If we can catch them off-guard, we can take them both out.”

  “I’ll get you those shooters.” The captain crawled in reverse, then slipped back into the compound.

  Seconds later, two more homesteaders joined Hatfield at the fence, heads low enough to hide them in the tall grass. They fell in line on either side of him.

  “We ready to go?” he asked them both.

  They nodded.

  “Okay, we’re going to move toward them at ten o’clock and two o’clock, keeping as low as you can. I want you both to lift a hand when you’ve locked onto your target. After that, you’re going to listen for my shot. When I take a shot, you both take shots. Got it?”

  “Got it,” they whispered in unison.

  “Let’s go.”

  The three of them spread out, bodies crawling forward in slow motion. At roughly fifty yards away, Hatfield could tell the enemies weren’t ready. They sat there, smoking cigarettes, checking their watches. The two of them passed a pair of binoculars back and forth briefly.

  At twenty yards away, Hatfield could read the confusion on their faces. They didn’t know why they couldn’t see any guards. Nor did they seem to have a clue that they were being advanced upon.

  He was close enough to lock on both of them, rifle a little uneasy on his left shoulder, but he was fine with it. He took unhurried breaths, ignored any sounds slipping into his aural field. It was time to execute.

  Looking to his left, he saw a hand briefly go up, then back down again. On the right, he saw the same. From this distance, he heard his targets gasp and point. He fired, once at the target to his left, missing. But another shot followed, tagging him on the crown of his head.

  More shots echoed through the morning sky. The targets didn’t have a chance. They grunted and groaned, taking a few more desperate shots but hitting nothing.

  Hatfield gestured for the homesteaders to move on them. They did, getting there just in time to see two bodies soaking in blood and sucking in frenzied gasps.

  Without a word, the two at his side rose to their feet, but Hatfield knew better. Fifty feet off to the side, he spotted a rifle poking through a bale of hay and shouted, “Get back down!”

  The homesteaders obeyed, but it was too late. One of them caught a glancing blow to his shoulder and dropped to the ground. With the other homesteader, Hatfield crept forward, gun raised, but everything else hidden in the grass. He fired several shots at the bale, only stopping when he saw the rifle fall and heard a guttural grunt.

  He looked back to the fallen homesteader. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, he just nicked my shoulder.”

  “Cool.” He slowly lifted a hand in the air, checking to see if that drew more gunshots. He heard and saw nothing. “All right, guys. Let’s get back to the compound, but don’t let down your guard. Guns up and eyes open, got that?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  It took about five minutes to return to the homestead. Once there, Hatfield helped the wounded homesteader hobble inside. Gasps filled the hallway as they ushered him into the dor
m room.

  Inside the makeshift hospital, Cecil lifted himself off the bed and moved out of the way. He gave Hatfield sharp eyes and gestured him to the side. “Gentlemen, I need to see this man out here for a second.”

  In the hallway, they found a quiet corner. “Mr. Hatfield—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, Cecil, and I assure you, you have every reason to be concerned.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, but trust me. We took out three of their guys. The only trade-off was a flesh wound that should be easy to treat.”

  Cecil turned, stole a glance at the young man in the dorm room, then returned his gaze to Hatfield. His face slowly eased back to calm. “That’s good to hear. Look, it took a lot of guts to challenge me out there, but in the end, it may be a good thing that you did. You were right; we need to change things up.”

  “Glad you feel that way.”

  The big man released a smile. “Yeah, sometimes even a grouchy old captain needs to be challenged from time to time. Just don’t make it a habit.” He turned and lumbered down the hallway.

  Hatfield got the feeling the captain was joking with his last line. But he couldn’t be sure. Clearly he didn’t like having his authority undermined—even if it was necessary.

  22

  Nathan crouched in the tall grass, staring at the two bodies, their uniforms soaked with red and their faces twisted into horrifying masks. He and Zan both gazed toward the compound, eyes on fire. “The guys at the barn still hungry?” the leader asked.

  “They sure are. What’s the next move, boss?”

  “First, we need to find out how this happened,” he answered, nodding toward the dead bodies. “I’m beginning to think we can’t trust our three friends.”

  “You think they sent us into a trap?”

  As he pulled a pistol from his pocket and loaded it, a devious grin landed on Nathan’s face. “Only one way to find out.”

  The two men headed back to the barn. Zan kept his distance, knowing that whenever he saw that demonic look on his boss’s face, things would soon become very unpleasant for somebody.

  The two men said nothing as they marched to the barn. Once there, they heard the structure echo with shouts and howls. Stepping closer, the reason for the ruckus became clear: A fight had broken out with three gangbangers beating a fourth with a thick steel rod.

  The hollering continued even as their leader stepped closer to the fight, arms angrily crossed, gun out.

  “What’s going on?” Zan asked somebody in the crowd.

  “Dude was holding out! Hiding a sandwich while the rest of us were sharing our tiny rations.”

  Hearing this, Nathan shook his head, watching the sandwich smuggler get his final breaths stomped and struck out of him. He casually lifted his gun to the ceiling and fired two shots. The screams stopped immediately. All eyes came to him. “Guys, this is a bad, bad idea! It’s bad enough we have guys getting shot approaching the compound. But now we’re losing more men in some stupid fight.”

  “Well,” a gangbanger said, “the guy was holding out on us, hiding food while the rest of us are starving!”

  Nathan nodded. “Look, guys, here’s the thing. Right now, we’ve got those guys in the compound outnumbered—at least two to one. But you keep beating each other to death and we’re going to lose that advantage!”

  One of them stood up, addressed his boss. “What good is an advantage if you have no food?” A chorus of “yeah” followed.

  “You’re right,” Nathan said. “We have a problem. And you know who’s going to get us out of it?”

  No answer. Their boss lifted his pistol and pointed to the three former homesteaders.

  Hands shaky with fear, Andy asked, “I don’t understand.”

  “I do!” Zan said. “You got us into this mess by giving us bad information on how to take out the guards! I say you don’t get any food for the next week—even better, no more food at all!”

  Excited “yeah” came next, but Nathan lifted a hand and shook his head. “No, no. Like them or not, we need those sons-of-bitches.”

  “Or maybe we don’t,” Zan said, leaning back, half-grin on his face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe that bad information was given to us on purpose!”

  Nathan’s face sharpened. He leaned closer to Andy. “Is that right? Were you three trying to sabotage our mission?”

  “No, not at all!” the redhead shrieked.

  “I bet he’s lying!” Zan said.

  “He might be, but I can tell you one thing: if they blow their chance at redemption, they’re dead—all three of them.” With sadistic glee, Nathan watched the three of their faces buckle with twitches.

  “Look, sir,” Grace said, “We’ve been totally honest with you, I swear!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Um… Nathan,” Gary said, “What chance at redemption are we getting?”

  “Your last one,” he said. “You are going to tell us how we’re going to get access to their food.”

  “We told you, all you have to do is get inside the compound and… you know, defeat them.”

  “The problem is that would require the kind of mind most of these Cro-Magnons don’t have! So we need a plan B to get food!”

  Nathan leaned back and waited. “You know, guys, I’m not exactly known for having an endless supply of patience. You make me wait more than a minute, and the redhead gets it. Then the brunette. Then the girl. And I count fast.”

  “Um… well, you can go after the guards and—”

  He made a game show buzzer sound. “Wrong answer. We tried that before and lost three men. Forty-five seconds left.”

  “You could just attack the place!” Grace said.

  “Another no-go. If we don’t find a way past the guard in the yard, we can’t get in. Thirty seconds!”

  With quivering lips, Grace said, “You’ve got the three of us!”

  “What good is that?” Zan asked.

  “Three hostages,” she said. “You can threaten to kill us if they don’t give up their food to you.”

  “That could work,” Zan said.

  “Maybe or maybe not,” Nathan said. “If these guys are helping us, they might figure the three of them are better off dead than alive.”

  Grace frantically shook her head. “Trust me, it will work. I promise you!”

  “Time’s up,” Zan added.

  Nathan paused, his gaze shifting from face to terrified face. Could they be trusted? Would this idea work? He didn’t know, but they needed a plan B. “Okay, guys. Let’s try this. We threaten to put a bullet into each of their heads if they don’t surrender every scrap of their food. But if this plan fails and we wind up with so much as one casualty, we will make good on that threat. Let’s go!”

  The gang shouted and screamed their way out of the barn, pumping fists and waving rifles. Nathan turned with his finger on his lips. As the volume dropped, he pointed to the ground. The guys crouched and moved forward, slipping just below the level of the grass and creeping up slowly.

  Nathan had to clamp his mouth shut to conceal his laughter. He loved where this was going.

  The ringing of the perimeter bell brought the compound to immediate silence. Although he’d been told about it, Hatfield had never heard it before or been involved in a situation where it was deemed necessary. So he knew this was serious.

  Within a fraction of a second, the scramble of feet against a hardwood floor soon replaced the quiet among the homesteaders. Orders were loudly shouted, and the clank of weaponry echoed everywhere.

  He raced to the hallway, barely avoiding the stampede of the homesteaders on their way out. “Okay, guys!” Cecil yelled. “You know the formation. As we’re missing some guys, we’ll have to make adjustments, but we’ll make those on the fly. Just get out there the same way you would ordinarily. If you need to change body positions, you change body positions! Everybody got that?”

  The answer was a collective �
�yes, sir!” that nearly rattled the floor. Lost in the maze of bodies, Hatfield wasn’t sure what to do. The captain headed toward him. “Trevor, I’m going to need you as my rover.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That means you rove around in the rear, acting in a backup capacity.”

  “Cool, let me get a rifle—”

  Cecil shook his head. “Your pistol still loaded?”

  “Only two shots left.”

  “Probably won’t need more than that. Let’s go!”

  “Captain, you think it’s a good idea to go out with the same formation as usual—especially when these guys out there may know exactly what we’re up to?”

  “Yes, I do. We don’t have time to get cute.”

  “What I mean is, perhaps if we—”

  “Mr. Hatfield, what the compound needs right now is not a contrarian but a leader. As long as I’m here, that’s my role! Is this understood?”

  Choking back his objections, he answered, “Yes, perfectly.”

  “Then let’s get out there and execute.”

  With a nod, he waited for the guys to get into formation. But before getting there, two shots rang out, followed by pained yells.

  During a barrage of profanity and scurrying bodies, Hatfield pulled out his pistol and crept toward the injured guys as they writhed in the grass, one clutching his elbow, the other, his foot. He grabbed one of them by the waist and started to drag him toward the compound. “No, no! I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “It hurts like hell, but I can still shoot,” he hissed.

  He screamed toward the one holding his foot. “How about you?”

  With gritted teeth, the wounded homesteader glanced at the other who’d been injured. After a series of pained grunts, he said. “I guess if he can make it, I can make it.”

  The silence beyond the fence caught Hatfield’s attention. A voice from thirty-five or forty yards soared through the sky. “Guns down, hands up! Now! Or you get more casualties. We’ve got way more men than you! And we have three more you may have forgotten about.”

  As the gang moved forward, their advantage became all the more evident.