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

by Ryan Schow

  Colt grabbed the nearest guy to use as a shield, but the fastball drilled his shoulder before he could pull the guy in front of him for cover. It was like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Everything suddenly moved very quickly from there. The mob had weakened him and now it was time to finish him. A flurry of violence followed, most of it unanswered.

  At first he thought he had the energy to weather the punches, even survive a few of the bigger ones. But then he ate an elbow, a big one that swept sideways and got him on the temple. The pain was sharp and instantaneous. He knew pain, though. He’d even learned to like it way back when. Like an engine flooded with nitrous oxide, he grabbed a new gear and went into savage-mode in less than a second flat. The spike in energy, however, was short lived. He hit a few of them, broke one guy’s eye socket for sure, but then he ran out of NO2 and realized he was also out of gas.

  Hands held him down, fists fired in fast, and the beating finally overwhelmed him. He arms were jelly and his legs had turned to rubber. The stark reality of the situation was undeniable.

  The sounds of Faith screaming and fighting, however, gave him strength. But that burst of energy fell flat as well, and his weak knees finally buckled. He crashed to his knees, his arms up but not blocking squat. Feet kicked him and he was kneed repeatedly in the arms, legs, and torso. He bent over, but rather than falling, he propped himself up with an arm. The violence continued, but he refused to go down. Colt finally pushed himself up on his knees, but he couldn’t get to his feet. He just didn’t have the juice.

  Trampled and bleeding, he saw several of the guys pulling Faith away. Fatigue tore at him, but he tried to get up anyway. One of them wound up and fired in a kick. He knew he needed to put his arms up to block it, but his arms were useless, too heavy to lift. With nothing left in the tank, he took the kick right to the face.

  He wasn’t even sure he’d been knocked out until he opened his eyes and saw that everyone he’d left breathing was now gone. In the distance, he heard screaming. Faith? He struggled mightily to get to his feet. When he got there, he found his equilibrium was way off, causing him to weave and wander. He realized he still wasn’t fully conscious, but when he was, he took a big breath and started after them.

  Following the sounds of Faith’s screaming and the guys’ laughter, he tried to control his fear. Unfortunately, the beating left him shaken. Blood was now leaking down his face and from his nose, and he felt one of his nostrils had been plugged. He touched his nose, knew it was broken. It had been punched or kicked sideways, the angle of it making an uncomfortable turn.

  He stopped walking, pressed his thumbs on either side of the bridge, and took a breath. Pushing as hard as he could, he managed to move his nose back in place. He drew breath in through his nostrils and found both nasal passages unobstructed. Eyes watering, all that pain boiling up inside him again, he kept moving, knowing that taking chase in this state of mental and physical disrepair wasn’t smart.

  As he moved at a rather wonky trot, he was thinking all measure of things, most of them spurred on by intense fear. It was one thing to shoot a man from a distance, or cut someone in the heat of battle, or even unload on a guy who was better off dead, but now he was beaten, without a weapon, and going after a mob who took his wife. Was he comfortable about it all? Absolutely not. Was it smart? It didn’t matter anymore. These maggots had taken his wife!

  For a second he thought of Constanza, but then he put her out of his mind. She was all alone, but she was safe. If they didn’t come back, would she know what to do to survive? Don’t think about that right now! Focus!

  He pressed forward, moving along the same street they’d dragged Faith down. Unfortunately, he’d lost them. He panicked, tried to think. Listen for her voice. Checking the doorways of all the apartment buildings, starting down open alleys, he neither heard her nor caught sight of her.

  He broke into a run, the panic taking hold. They were around there somewhere! They had to be! Then, for a second, he stopped running and froze. Standing in the middle of the road, a few people watching him, he closed his eyes and opened his ears.

  “What are you looking for?” an older woman asked him a moment later. He opened his eyes to a black woman standing before him.

  Startled, he said, “My wife. A bunch of guys just took her.”

  The woman pointed up the street. He thanked her and took off running, albeit slow and wobbly. After a few minutes, he stopped running, the frustration mounting. Where the hell was she? Was it over? Had they gotten her? Was his wife truly gone?

  She was.

  Standing there, nearly paralyzed, he started to pray. But all that energy inside him needed an outlet, and before he knew it, he’d opened his mouth and started screaming her name. From the bottom of his soul, he found his voice and he used it like a bullhorn to call to her. He didn’t realize the tears had started until they were dripping down his cheeks.

  When he heard nothing in return, he sunk to his knees, looked up into the iron-colored sky and had no idea what to do or where to go. He only knew he could not give up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rowan McDaniel

  Rowan and Hwa-Young were stuffed in the trunk of an old car with bad suspension and the mixed smells of old carpet, decades of little oil spills, and window washer fluid. With barely enough room to stretch and barely enough air to breathe, both of them were shoved against each other as much as they were shoved against everything else in the trunk.

  As the journey progressed, the swerving, slowing down, speeding up, and bumping around was starting to make Rowan feel carsick. He swallowed hard, tried to get control of his breathing.

  “I have to pee,” Hwa-Young said.

  “I do, too,” he said.

  “Do you think we’ll stop anytime soon?” she wondered aloud.

  “I really don’t know,” he said, desperate for fresh air and solid ground.

  She started kicking the trunk lid, but the driver did not stop or pull over. They both managed to turn their bodies to start kicking on the back of the seat, but there was barely enough room to get a sold kick. Still, the driver didn’t slow or stop.

  Rowan growled in response, his frustration mounting. If he was pissed off before, he was double that now. This wasn’t The Underground, as the driver claimed, this was capitulation.

  When they were finally worn out, when they were back in their original positions and nothing had changed, Rowan finally said, “If we’re going to go to the bathroom, we’re going to have to do it in our pants.”

  Hwa-Young said, “I’m going to start.”

  “Not if I start first,” Rowan said.

  He let go of his bladder, pissing his pants because he didn’t have another choice. Hwa-Young did the same, then said, “Last time I did that I was in diapers.”

  “The last time I did that,” Rowan said, “I was in college and I had too much to drink, but that’s another story for another time.”

  “This is going to really stink later,” she said, “but it felt good to finally let go.”

  He didn’t say anything, and then she didn’t say anything. Fortunately, they passed through whatever obstacle-ridden road they were on and they increased their speed. That meant no more weaving, and no more bouncing. After a while, they started to slow, and then they heard gunfire coming in and return gunfire going out. He heard the plink of a bullet and jumped.

  “Get flat,” Hwa-Young said.

  “I’m as flat as I’m gonna get!” he said.

  The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. Another bullet blew through the trunk and nicked his thigh which caused him to let out a low, angry growl.

  “Are you hit?” Hwa-Young asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, biting back the hostility and the pain.

  “I told you to get flat,” she said.

  “You weigh a hundred pounds,” he snarled.

  The air was suddenly full of gunfire, most of it emanating from those driving them. A couple of guys
barked out, voices were both patient and charged, and then a solid thump hit the side of the car, startling them.

  It sounded like they were putting out heavy fire, but getting hit nevertheless. Then the gunfire stopped. Two more shots were fired in quick succession. Outside, the panicked voices changed, becoming calm, but with underlying hints of irritation. He listened closely, hearing one of the guys outside asking his buddy if he was okay. His buddy seemed to think he’d be fine.

  Someone opened the trunk without warning, blinding them both. Rowan blocked the light with a hand. The face looking down on them came in to focus. Who he saw shocked the absolute bejesus out of him, so much so he could barely even form a coherent thought.

  “Smells like you got the piss scared out of you,” Marshall Aldrich said, “but are you shot?”

  “He’s hit,” Hwa-Young said, “but I’m fine.”

  “It’s my leg,” he said, still shocked to see the man he knew all too well. “That was you talking to us last night, wasn’t it? You were the one who told us to get in here.”

  Marshall Aldrich nodded.

  “Unbelievable,” Rowan said.

  Aldrich snapped his finger as he looked at someone over the lifted trunk lid. “Medical. Gunshot wound.”

  “I’ll get that leg looked at,” Aldrich said. “Did it pass through?”

  “I think it’s just a graze,” he said, touching it and not bringing back much blood.

  A man appeared, leaned in to look at the leg, then pulled back and said, “Which one of you pissed your pants?”

  “Who said it was only one of us?” Hwa-Young said.

  The guy looked at the wound and said, “It was grazed. I’m going to pour some Hydrogen Peroxide on it, then dab some Neosporin on it.

  Rowan nodded, but he couldn’t stop looking at Aldrich. The former Texan, former Marine, and former Vice President looked different. He appeared to be less political in stature, far more militant.

  At forty-five years old, Marshall Aldrich was just a bit younger than his father. Rowan’s father, Colt, was politically inclined and he liked Aldrich. Rowan was just starting to see into the ugly world of politics when he first watched VP Aldrich. He’d liked the politician just as much as his father had liked him. The man had a degree in Constitutional law and adhered to the rule of law, championing the nation’s freedoms without asking people to give them up in the name of safety.

  When he spoke, he did so with confidence and surety at the pulpit, he shined in interviews, and he had a commanding voice when he stood before Congress and the Senate. Although he’d become a political juggernaut, he was also a family man through and through.

  Now that he was looking into the eyes of this man, Rowan saw a hardness he hadn’t seen before. If ever there was a time to cast off the politicians in favor of the military, it was then.

  “You look different in real life,” Rowan said.

  “Yeah, well, no one is telling you that you have to put on makeup for TV,” he replied with a forced grin.

  “Weren’t you the Vice President?” Hwa-Young asked. Rowan wondered how the North Korean immigrant would even know of the former VP.

  He looked over at her and said, “I was.”

  “You tried to stop this,” she said.

  “Of course, I did,” he replied. “Anyone with half a brain who was paying attention saw this thing coming from a mile away.”

  She turned to Rowan and said, “He’s one of the good ones.”

  “I know he’s one of the good ones,” Rowan replied. “But I could have found my pregnant fiancée, not pissed myself, and not been shot, had I not listened to him.”

  “I have a wife and three girls back home,” Aldrich said. “Two of them are armed to the teeth and two aren’t old enough to shoot a gun, yet I’m out here with you. This ain’t my idea of a dream date, partner. No offense.”

  “The first thing they do when they take over is eliminate their opposition,” Hwa-Young said, sitting up.

  “That’s right,” Aldrich replied, curling his nose at the strong scent of her urine. “You know I have a big target on my back but does he?”

  “Of course, I know,” Rowan said, sitting up.

  “You can lay there and whine about your own sad, sad life all you want, but understand this, every single one of these guys left people and safety behind—”

  “I’m sure you’re ready to do whatever it was you signed up to do—” Rowan said.

  VP Aldrich smacked Rowan in the face and said, “Who the hell do you think GOT these guys together? Who do you think is leading this charge to save your country? Huh? Of course, I’m out here doing my duty. Enemies foreign and domestic. We have both in spades!”

  “If you hit me again,” Rowan growled, “I’m going to tear out your throat, former Vice President or not.”

  Standing back and smiling, he seemed to perk up. “Finally, some life in you!”

  Two men with baby-face masks came into view. They pointed their guns at Rowan and Hwa-Young and said, “Lay back down, now.”

  “Nice masks,” Rowan hissed.

  “Lay down!” baby-face number one barked. He racked a shotgun and stared at them. Rowan saw the man’s eyes in the eye holes and he didn’t like what he was looking at. “Give me your leg.”

  Rowan complied. The man looked at it, then squirted it with Hydrogen Peroxide, watched it bubble, then gave it a wipe and smooshed some Neosporin in it.

  “Right as rain,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Aldrich grabbed the lid, started to pull it down, then stopped. “When the time is right, you’ll see why we wanted you here. Why I wanted you here.”

  Rowan and Hwa-Young reluctantly lay back down.

  When the trunk lid was shut tight, from the other side, Aldrich said, “Keep your rage on tap, kid. We’ll be there in a day or two.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Leighton McDaniel

  Leighton woke up in a small bed with Buck curled up next to her. She was grateful to Gator for taking her and Buck in, and she was grateful for a bed, but the sleeping had been rough. Buck was a blanket hog. More than once, she woke up shivering. She’d somehow managed to wrestle the blankets back, allowing her to get a few good hours of sleep. Hallelujah. A moment later, Hudson knocked at the door lightly and walked in. He smiled when she smiled.

  Morning, he said.

  “Good morning,” she replied. Beside her, Buck shifted position, pulled the blankets into his stomach and curled his body around them. She looked at him and shook her head.

  We’re starting breakfast in twenty, Hudson said. Gator wants to lay out our plans for the next few weeks, so he’s asking everyone to be there. Well, everyone who wants to be part of the planning process anyway.

  She sat up, brushed her hair back, then slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed and said, “I’ll be there. Let me just brush my teeth and pull my hair up.”

  He nodded, then left her alone.

  She’d been wondering about what they were going to do as a group, not just for the next few days or weeks, but for the next year or two. Thinking long term, however, seemed a bit premature, even for her. Gator was beginning to show signs of restlessness. Everyone was seeing it, and feeling it.

  She went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, then pulled her hair up and looked at her face. Her many cuts were now healing and there was the yellowish-green evidence of substantial bruising, but the damage on her face was secondary to the abuse her body had taken.

  She lifted the front of her shirt and stared at the black, green, and yellow bruising on her chest where she’d been shot. The bullet-proof vest had saved her life, but it did little to stop the punch of pain. Her body jolted from the memory of being shot. It felt like she’d taken a cannonball to the chest. In fact, she was hit so hard she couldn’t even cry, let alone cry out.

  She lowered her shirt, her eyes returning to the girl in the mirror. What she saw was a battle-scarred, hardened warrior.

  L
eighton met her reflection’s gaze, fought to get a feel of this woman looking back. There was a resolve in her Leighton had never seen or felt before. It was like she was dancing on the edge of something scary, for the girl in the mirror looked like she was itching to fight, like she wanted in on the war for America.

  For some strange reason, Leighton couldn’t hold her own gaze. She wanted to embrace the spirit of the woman she saw, but truthfully, Leighton did not like her. And the girl in the mirror? She didn’t like Leighton either.

  Shaking her head, not understanding what was happening, she turned and almost ran right over Buck.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He rubbed his eyes, then looked at her. Blinking back the sleep, it appeared he was having a hard time opening his eyes fully.

  Good morning, he said.

  “Breakfast is in about twenty minutes,” she told him.

  He nodded, rubbing his eyes.

  “Do you need anything?”

  He shook his head, then pointed to the toilet.

  “Oh yeah, no problem.”

  She walked out of the bathroom, leaving him with the toilet and his privacy. Out in the kitchen, she saw Kenley and Trixie preparing breakfast. Neither woman looked like she was awake, but both women were talking with each other, both seemingly comfortable.

  She saw Roscoe sitting on the floor beside them. He was looking up at the two of them, almost like he was waiting for scraps to fall.

  He saw her, then stood and plodded over, looking up at her with those big, wet eyes. His ears were so long they were dragging on the ground, which made Leighton laugh. Leaning over, she picked him up and let him lick the side of her face.