These Times of Sedition: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller (The Abandon Series Book 4)

by Ryan Schow

  “Honestly?” she asked.

  “I’m headed back to the White House. There’s a group there who are getting people out of harm’s way. I work with them.”

  “You said you’re getting people out of harm’s way?”

  He nodded, proud. “We’re getting the women and children to safety first. After all, women and children are the most valuable people in our society. They’re also great tools our enemy would love to use against the warriors of the world. Men like me and your friend, Isaiah.”

  “You know Isaiah?” she asked.

  “I know of him,” he said.

  “Can you take me there?” she asked, thinking of Adi and Kennicot.

  He flicked the smoke aside. “If you want me to, I will. But I’m leaving now.”

  She was torn between Isaiah and this man. Where Isaiah offered her only danger, this man was offering her safety. Make a decision!

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  “How are you on the back of a bike?” he asked.

  “Like a bicycle, or a motorcycle?” He pointed to a motorcycle tucked in between two cars up the street. She nodded, then said, “I’m good.”

  She followed him to the motorcycle, thinking she’d check things out then come back for Adi and Kennicot. Maybe even Isaiah could come with them if he wanted, if he was still there. Just to be sure she wasn’t acting in haste, she fixed the punch dagger to her right side, attaching the sheath to her belt.

  When it was time to get on the bike, she saddled up like a pro. He kick-started the bike, worked the throttle, then held the two of them perfectly balanced. She wondered if he was a good rider. A lot of these guys looking for EMP-proof transportation would likely ride or drive whatever was available just to have something. But that didn’t make him good…

  “How are you on a motorcycle?” she asked over the noise.

  He shifted the bike into gear, took off smoothly, then said, “I’ve been riding for more than a decade.”

  She slid her arms around him, then said, “Thank you for doing this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What did you say your name was again?” she asked.

  “Farol,” he said. “Farol Walsh.” Her heart damn near stopped beating. Farol Walsh? She didn’t know what to say. He was one of the four names Savannah had given her! Finally he turned his head and spoke to her over his shoulder. “This is about the time you tell me your name.”

  They were slowing for a corner. Instead of answering him, she pulled out the punch knife, slid it comfortably into her hand then drove it into the side of his neck. She gave it a rough twist, then pulled it out and continued stabbing him in the same place. The arterial spray blasted her in the face, spraying her eye. Instead of stopping, knowing time was of the essence, she stuck him over and over again.

  Farol quickly lost control of the motorcycle and they toppled over. The bike slammed down on her leg and they slid to a stop into the gutter. Scared he would retaliate, scared she was trapped under the bike with him, she continued stabbing him wildly, inciting a flurry of curse words and shouted insults that were not hate-based but fuel for this lunacy. She couldn’t see well enough because his blood was in her eyes, but she knew where he was, so she kept going, determined to stab him until he was dead.

  He put his hand up to try to stop her, but she went after his arm and his hand. She sliced open his palm, causing him to draw his arm back. He was slowing down, though.

  Keep pushing, she told herself.

  Using the last of her energy, ignoring the blood in her eyes and the pain in her leg, she kept after him. He made one final attempt to get out from under the bike and save himself, but she gave it every last ounce of effort, stabbing everything she could: his legs, his kidneys, his arms and hands. She stopped when his body stopped moving. He wasn’t dead, though. Not all the way.

  “Why?” he finally asked, the last of his blood pumping out of his neck.

  “Because of your name,” she said. “You’re a traitor.”

  The blood leaking from his neck ran down to a trickle. That’s when she realized he was dead and her leg was hurt. Was she injured or just stuck?

  A homeless guy came over and looked down at her. He was keeping his distance, though, his eyes full of concern. “There’s something wrong with you,” he said.

  She wiped the blood from her face, blinking quickly to clear her eyes. “No kidding,” she said. “Can you help me up?”

  “Why did you kill him?” he asked.

  “Help me and I’ll tell you.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me now,” he said, refusing to help her. “Then I’ll lift the motorcycle off of you.”

  “The voices told me to do it,” she said.

  He seemed to think about this, then he said, “What voices?”

  “A beautiful Hispanic girl.”

  He made a bitter-beer face, like he was working his mouth around as he tried to figure things out. He then said, “I guess that makes sense.”

  He spit on his hands, rubbed them around, then said, “You try anything funny, I’ll scream.”

  She nodded, held his eye, then took a deep breath and hoped the guy wouldn’t bail on her at the last minute.

  Making that face again, he said, “Well, alrighty then.”

  And with that, he leaned down and picked up the bike, allowing her to drag her leg free of the wreck. She slowly moved her toes. Everything was good so far. Rolling her foot right and then left, she confirmed there was nothing wrong with her ankle. Turning on her side enough to examine her knee, she saw a dirty pant leg with some of her skin showing through. There was blood, but not a ton. She moved her knee and sighed with relief when she moved it just fine. It hurt, but it was functional.

  “Gimme your hand, missy,” the old man said. She did, despite him spitting on it earlier.

  When he pulled her to her feet, he had his eyes on her, making sure she didn’t have the knife. He spotted it on the ground, picked it up, then turned it over in his hand.

  “This is scary,” he said, handing it to her.

  “Yeah, well it saved my life,” she said, sliding it back into the sheath. “It might have saved yours, too.”

  By then, he was already walking off.

  “Thank you,” she called out.

  After he gave her a conciliatory wave, she lowered herself before the dead man and began to check his person for weapons. She found a small-caliber revolver with six rounds in the wheel. Pocketing the revolver, she stood and looked around, saw some people watching her. None of them looked particularly threatening. Without further ado, she began limping back to the super-secret hideout with the racists and gender shamers.

  By the time she got back, half an hour or more had passed. She knocked on the door using the same secret knock she’d heard Isaiah give earlier.

  A moment later, the idiot she had pushed down earlier opened the door, saw her, then quickly glanced left and right before letting his eyes settle back on her.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  She had Farol’s blood all over her face and hands, but she didn’t care. “Is Isaiah still here?” she asked.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, lightly scratching his face.

  “Answer the question, Muppet,” she said.

  “Yeah, sure. He’s here.”

  He shut the door. She waited only a minute for Isaiah. When he opened the door, it was with deep concern in his eyes. “My God, Marley, what happened to you?”

  “I found a guy Savannah mentioned. She told me to kill him, so I killed him.”

  He stepped outside, closed the door but didn’t latch it shut. “Why would you do that?” he asked, studying the blood all over her face.

  She shrugged her shoulders and said, “You told me hackers know everything, so I trusted they did.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I’m going to need some hydrogen peroxide and some antibiotic cream if they h
ave any. And if there are any bandages, well, that would be just swell.”

  “I’m sensing a bitter edge,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s there.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked.

  “I was, but now I want to know about this Savannah girl. I want to know how she knows what she knows.”

  “You’re never going to know, so send that pony out to pasture.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she said. “Easier said than done. Thanks for the punch dagger, by the way. It saved my ass.”

  He nodded, then said, “I’ve got another blade, so keep that one for now.”

  “Are we heading back soon?” she asked, ready to patch herself up, but also worried about Adi being with Kennicot.

  “Yeah, I’m getting some key intel, though. So, maybe ten minutes?” he said, phrasing the statement like a question.

  “Yeah, just get some food from these cocksuckers, if you can.”

  He laughed then said, “I liked you better at work.”

  “This world calls for the sloughing-off of civility,” she said. “I’m sure you know that by now.”

  “Yeah, it’s apparent,” he said, stepping back inside. “Ten minutes.”

  “I’m timing you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Marley McDaniel

  A woman walked out just as Isaiah walked in. She was a rough-looking woman, not like a biker, but more like a biker who ended up in a trailer park without an MC or a family.

  “You’re pretty,” she said to Marley. “Bloody, but pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who’d you kill?” she joked.

  “Just some guy.”

  The woman looked at her and laughed, but then she saw Marley’s expression and stopped laughing. “Wait, are you serious?”

  She nodded, solemn. She was still processing everything that just happened. All of this was a never-ending nightmare that had her actual heart shaking. Deep down, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to handle everything going on, that her psyche would just split and, mentally, she would snap out of reality.

  “Are you mixed up in this,” the woman asked, “or are you part of the inside?”

  “The inside of what?” Marley asked.

  The woman was wearing loose, dirty jeans and a tee-shirt that read: Bad decisions make great stories. She let out a huff, then pulled out a pack of smokes. She flipped a cigarette into her mouth, lit it, then took a long drag. Tilting her chin up, but staring at Marley, she blew out a stream of smoke and said, “Nice tits.”

  Marley frowned.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Holdover from my days as a lesbian.”

  “You’re not anymore?”

  “There are more important things than sex and love to worry about,” the woman said. “I’m Jane, but everyone calls me Plain Jane.”

  “So you guys are mobilized then?” Marley asked.

  Jane nodded, then she said, “Yeah, we have been. I mean, you’d have to be a complete moron not to see the writing on the wall, right?”

  “I guess,” Marley said. She hadn’t seen it. Was she a complete moron? Was she the only one in the District of Criminals who missed it?

  “As soon as the satellites went down,” Jane said, “we knew the hit was imminent.”

  “By who? Who’s doing this?” Who besides Killian?

  “It’s not just one country,” she said, picking the edge of a chipped nail. “This is the concentrated effort of foreign influence made possible by traitors inside our own government. Men and women who were either blackmailed to comply with the enemy or promised a luxurious future in exchange for a change of loyalty.”

  “Do you know how many people you’d have to bribe to override the separation of powers, the checks and balances? Who has the juice to pull something like that off?”

  “No offense, but you talk like you took a civics class in high school recently. You have to think about long term logistics. What do you do, anyway?”

  “I work with Isaiah,” Marley said. “I’m the Deputy Chief of Staff of Communications for the president.”

  Plain Jane raised an eyebrow, grinned, then took another long drag. She blew out the smoke and said, “I’m kind of a little hard right now.”

  Marley wasn’t sure whether she was being insulted or not.

  “At least you made the best of your good looks. Do you know how many dicks I’d have to suck to just make it past the front door of the White House?”

  “You could just pay for a tour,” Marley said with a bit of snark to her tone.

  The woman laughed, then said, “I hope that blonde hair isn’t an indication of your intelligence.”

  “It’s not,” she replied, sharp.

  “Do you know how many people they have in China?” Jane asked.

  “One-point-four billion.”

  “Give or take,” the woman said. “So why do you think they have housing for three-point-four billion?”

  “What? Really?”

  “Have you seen the ghost cities?” Marley shook her head. “Yeah, they’re pretty creepy. You could see them on the internet before the power went zonk.”

  “That’s crazy,” Marley said. How had she not seen any of this?

  “Think about it,” Jane said. “Why would they have housing for that many people?”

  “Are you saying China is behind this?”

  “This isn’t about an overtaking of America. This is about destroying it completely. The extra housing is for people they want living over there. They expect a massive influx.”

  “We only have three-hundred-and-thirty-million people—”

  “Plus the illegals,” Jane added.

  “So what are the other two billion homes for?”

  “This is a global takeover starting with America. Because if America falls to communism, the whole world falls. And guess what…we’ve just fallen.”

  “Why start with America?”

  Plain Jane laughed and said, “Haven’t you ever played ‘King of the Mountain’?”

  Marley shook her head.

  “The world is the mountain and America sits at the top as its king. We are the richest nation in the world. We have more wealth, more freedoms, more stuff than everyone else. With the exception of the last administration, our freedoms have slowly eroded and those in charge of securing those freedoms began to cast off that wealth, diverting it into the hands of other countries, other governments, other regimes. The last president changed all that and they hated the absolute hell out of him for it.”

  “For better or worse,” Marley said.

  “It was better for America, but worse for everyone else. We stopped buying oil from the Middle East, securing our own energy independence for the first time in my lifetime. That hosed Russia, who practically survives on energy sales alone. We secured better trade deals for America, got rid of the freeloading countries we were protecting, stopped the massive influx of illegal immigrants, built a damn wall. We took back a lot of our steel production, rare earth mineral mining, the prescription medication industry. We forced China to devalue their currency to compensate for sanctions while chasing away entire industries. Businesses fled China, relocating to Vietnam, Taiwan, Singapore—all smaller countries with a better trade apparatus than China. If they weren’t already in our borders, we would have decapitated the CCP.”

  “So you’re saying this is China?”

  “You’d think so. I mean, they’re on state-run TV talking about how COVID was a gift from God—God being the Communist Chinese Party—how they crushed our economy with it, how they control Hollywood, the media, the universities. One of their top officials said they have had operatives in the highest positions in D.C. for years, some of them even working right under the president’s nose. You could be CCP for all I know, that’s how infiltrated they are in our country.”

  “Everyone talks crap about America,” Marley said. “And I’m not with the CCP.”

  Plain Jane finished off her cigaret
te, then said, “They’re bragging about owning President Kennicot. They say they control her. That America will be dead in a year, two at best.”

  “So it’s China?”

  She shook her head, then said, “Stop asking me that.”

  “Stop alluding to it then,” Marley shot back.

  “You can’t think so small. China controls North Korea, Iran hates America, and Russia can’t stand the globalists who used to control Russia but now pull all the strings in America. Think even deeper, though. This is a concentrated effort. The European Union is run by families of the former Nazi regime, the UN is controlled by the globalists, and these countries…they’re just the junkyard dogs of the ultra-elite.”

  Marley shook her head. This was too much. “You’re stretching this out too thin. Someone destroyed our satellites and that same someone set off an EMP.”

  “With help from the inside.”

  “From who?”

  Killian O’Brien.

  Jane’s ugly mouth formed a bitter smile. “What does it matter anymore? COVID crippled us, the weaponizing of politics divided us, the Hayseed Rebellion and all the cocksuckers who took up with them spread fear and hate across the nation, this EMP broke the country’s backbone, and the next year without power will kill most of us through starvation, violence, and murder alone. America is officially dead. Stick a fork in us.”

  A cold rush of horror washed through her. The woman was right. Marley felt sick.

  “Listen, it’s been real, but I have to get back inside. There are more pressing issues to consider right now.”

  “More pressing than this?” Marley asked.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. There’s most likely a ground war coming. To escalate things. Sorry if I left that part out.”

  “A ground war?”

  “Before we lost power,” Jane said, “we learned that foreign forces have launched off the coast of North Africa. They’re heading our way. Which means whoever did this doesn’t want to wait a year for us to die off, they want to speed up the death of America now.”

  “We’re going to be attacked?” Marley asked, dumbfounded.

  “We’re going to be attacked further,” Jane said. “If I was you, I’d get to high ground and dig in hard. America is about to be the mother of all war zones.”