36 Hours: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (16 page)

She was also upset with herself for letting her guard down. On a normal day, it might be safe to count the money after it was dispensed from an ATM.
Although not really
. But after their experience at the grocery store, doing it in broad view of everybody was stupid. It was a lesson learned, and she vowed to be more aware of her surroundings.

Feeling better, Madison slowly made her way down the stairs, shrugging off her pounding cheek and the rest of the soreness from the attack. She found Alex stretched out on the sofa, nose buried in her MacBook.

Alex slammed shut her computer and tossed it on the ottoman.

“What’s that all about?” asked Madison.

She sat up and voiced her frustrations. “Mom, they’re so stupid. Get this. My friends wanna come over and go swimming. Right now. The sun is about to fry our planet and these twits wanna come over for a pool party!”

“Honey, maybe they don’t know what’s goin’—”

“Oh, they know, Mom. Plus, I told them the latest update. They don’t care. They think it’s nothing. They’re looking at it as an excuse to lay out of school.”

Alex flopped herself back into the comfort of the leather sofa and crossed her arms in disgust.
She is far too serious for a teenager
. Madison studied her daughter for a moment and decided to change the subject. Alex was committed to getting ready for this, whatever
this
was. Madison decided to channel Alex’s energy toward that goal.

“Hey, you wanna help me take inventory of our food and supplies? Also, we need to find your grandfather’s shotgun. Whadya say?”

“Yeah, sounds good, Mom.”

Madison was pleased that Alex perked up. She was worried Alex might have difficulty dealing with the attack. It was bad enough that she’d seen her mother get mugged, but Alex had beaten that man viciously with her golf club. It showed a violent streak in Alex that Madison had never seen before. “The last time I saw the shotgun, it was in the garage. Let’s start there.”

“Sounds good,” said Alex. The Ryman women were on the hunt for the elusive shotgun which, to Madison’s knowledge, had never been fired since she and Colton met. She hoped it was still out there somewhere.

Their garage was fairly neat, but not because Colton was an impeccable organizer. It was because he was not
handy
. Colton did not have the Mr. Fix-It gene typical of most members of the male species. He didn’t repair cars. If it wouldn’t start, he’d call AAA. He didn’t cut grass. He hired Julio’s crew to do that for him. Before they purchased this home, it was inspected, twice. All repairs had to be performed before closing. Then Colton purchased one of those home warranties that weren’t worth the paper they were written on. The warranty gave him the peace of mind that if something went wrong, he or Madison could pick up the phone and schedule a repair.

It wasn’t that Colton was lazy. On the contrary, he worked long, hard hours climbing to the top echelon of talent agents in the country. When he was home, he wanted to spend time with Madison and Alex—not fixing toilets or cutting grass.

Over time, however, every household accumulated
stuff
. Everything from unwanted Christmas gifts that you couldn’t possibly re-gift to the fabulous croquet set that everyone enjoyed playing—once. Bicycles hung above their heads next to the boxes of Christmas decorations. The garage became less of a place to park your car and more of a glorified mini-storage unit.

“Got it!” exclaimed Alex as she pulled a dusty, brown leather gun case out of the Rubbermaid storage closet. She set the case on the garage floor and pulled out another hidden gem—a fishing pole.

“Hey, I remember that,” said Madison. “There should be two more in there and a tackle box.”

Alex rummaged around and found all three rods and reels. The green tackle box was at the bottom of the closet, along with some pull-on, waterproof fishing boots.

“Wow, we used these four summers ago,” said Alex.

“When we spent two weeks at the Allens’ place in West Tennessee, if I remember correctly, you and Chase spent all day fishing or doing
something
.” Madison started laughing as she teased her daughter about her first love. The two kids were inseparable, and although Alex tried to hide it, she cried on the way home from Shiloh.

“We didn’t do
something
, I mean anything. Chase tried to show off and chew tobacco. He got sick and threw up in the lake. Then he tried to kiss me. Ugh!”

“That vacation was very relaxing and we all had fun. Do you remember your dad and Jake singing by the campfire at night?”

“Yeah, that was pretty neat. Very
Kumbaya
.” Alex and Madison laughed. Jake Allen was Colton’s first big client. Like many country careers, Jake’s started at a honky-tonk on Printer’s Alley in downtown Nashville.

Back to business
. Madison examined the fishing gear and opened the tackle box. It was barely used. She wasn’t sure where they would fish, unless they had to, but the gear could be useful nonetheless.

More importantly, the gun was there, and it would help them establish some form of security in their home. She unzipped the case and carefully removed the Remington 870 shotgun. The gun was twenty-five years old but didn’t look like it had aged a day in its life, as they say.

Madison knew nothing about how to handle a shotgun. Common sense told her two things—don’t touch the trigger and point it away from people. She knew to check the safety. She looked near the trigger and found the black button secured to the trigger guard. She clicked it back and forth, revealing black to red to black.
Red, danger
? She made sure it was on black.

She set the shotgun on a workbench and looked inside the case once again. She found the
Model 870 Owner’s Manual
, a dozen birdshot shells, and a cleaning kit. There was also a pair of shooting glasses and some earmuffs.

“Alex, help me gather up the gun stuff and we’ll take it inside. I think I’ll let your dad handle this part of the operation. Do you agree?”

“Duh,” replied the teenager.

Chapter 30

7 Hours

4:00 p.m., September 8

Interstate 30

Texarkana, Texas

As Colton raced up Interstate 30 towards Little Rock, his mind drifted as he assessed his life in Texas prior to moving to Tennessee. His father worked himself into the grave. He was the ultimate family provider, except in one respect—spending time with his wife and son. The Ryman family started their lives in Texas as oil men and cattle ranchers until the Great Depression, when the oil industry took a nosedive and the cattle ranches were decimated by drought.

Unable to find a job, Colton’s grandfather, Walter Ryman, went off to war and fought in Patton’s Third Army as it raced across France in the summer of 1944. The fighting was vicious throughout the cold winter leading into 1945, and then it got downright ugly. Corporal Ryman’s tank corps was assigned to the 89
^th
Infantry Division to lend support during an offensive in April 1945.

As the 89
^th
pushed into central Germany, the locals began to tell the U.S. soldiers of a prison camp nearby. Rumors were rampant as Corporal Ryman’s unit pressed the attack and approached the small town of Buchenwald. The German concentration camp they found was horrific. The atrocities, abuses, and killings were more than most men could take mentally. But Corporal Ryman persevered as he assisted the survivors to safety.

One of the survivors was a Romanian-born Jew named Elie Wiesel. He and Corporal Ryman became friends and stayed in touch throughout Wiesel’s years as a writer, professor, and ultimately, the winner of a Nobel Peace prize. As a holocaust survivor, Wiesel saw the horrors his fellow man was capable of inflicting. He relayed these sentiments to Corporal Ryman, who in turn warned his children and grandchildren to never underestimate the depravity of man.

As a result of the lessons learned from Wiesel, through his grandfather, Colton became charitable. His pledge to give back included more than the expected ten percent tithes and offerings taught in church. He was instrumental in establishing the CMA foundation. Inspired by his love for music and using his influence as one of the top country music agents in the country, Colton organized benefit concerts, social meet and greets, and established grants for music education.

He also vowed to spend more time with his family than his father spent with his. He had achieved the pinnacle of his career, with the next step being a high-powered New York or Los Angeles agency. Overtures had been made the last few years, but he quickly shut them down. He made enough money to provide for his family. They were comfortable, much more so than most. Now, his goal was to delegate more to subordinates, thus freeing up his family time.

Colton was cruising along at nearly one hundred miles an hour as the interstate traffic remained sparse. This part of southwest Arkansas was desolate as he approached the town of Hope, birthplace of former President Bill Clinton and a darn good man, Mike Huckabee. His mind wandered to politics until he was snapped back to reality.

Like so many drivers, at times you didn’t realize it, but while your mind wandered, your foot got heavier on the gas as you considered all of the life’s complexities. Then—every driver dreaded seeing them—the flashing red and blue lights in your rearview mirror.

Colton was being pulled over. His heart sank in his chest, his palms began to sweat, and a sense of dread overcame his body. He was doing a hundred miles an hour!

Being pulled over by the police was never a pleasant experience, but Colton, a skilled negotiator, immediately composed himself. While he knew there was no way to talk the trooper out of a ticket, he planned on doing his best to keep from going to jail. The last thing he needed was a delay or, worse, being locked up when the lights went out.

Colton immediately turned on his emergency flashers to let the officer know he’d seen his lights. He reached for his license, his GEICO insurance card, and the Destiny car rental contract. He was going to be a model of cooperation. Colton looked into his side view mirror and saw the Arkansas State Trooper approach his door cautiously, one hand on his service weapon.

Colton understood the officer’s trepidation. In recent years, there had been a war on law enforcement officers. There were recent ambushes in Dallas, Baton Rouge, and Minneapolis, resulting in several murdered officers. Even during routine traffic stops, sudden and violent attacks were common. Dozens of highway patrol troopers were killed each year by gunfire, not to mention the fact they were hit by negligent drivers of passing vehicles.

After rolling down his window, Colton turned off the engine and placed both of his hands on the top of the steering wheel in plain view. His license and paperwork lay on the dash for the officer to see. Colton stayed calm and did everything he could to let the officer know he was not a threat. The lesson he learned from all the violence around the country involving law enforcement was this—comply with the officer’s commands, and nobody gets hurt. It was that simple.

The trooper was a very large black man, who quickly filled up the side mirror’s view. He positioned himself next to Colton’s door and looked into the passenger seat. Then he spoke.

“You look like a pretty smart guy,” he started. “Normally I’d ask
do you know why I pulled you over
. Somehow, I think you know the answer to that—one hundred miles an hour. Would you like to tell me what the hellfire emergency is?”

Colton glanced at the trooper’s badge and saw his name—McKay.
Let’s get personal
. “Trooper McKay, I know I was speeding and I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m trying to get home to my wife, Madison, and our daughter, Alexis, before this solar storm hits. The news has me worried about the power going down, and I’m concerned about them being home alone.”

The trooper hesitated for a moment and glanced into the vehicle. “Do you have any weapons?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you under the influence of alcohol or drugs, prescription or otherwise?”

“No, sir.”

“Are those your credentials?”

“Yes. This is a rental car. I have my license and insurance card here as well.”

Colton slowly reached for the paperwork on the dash and handed it out the window to the officer. The officer studied them for a moment and then handed back the insurance card.

“Mr. Ryman, I need you to exit the vehicle slowly and come with me.”

Darn it! He’s gonna arrest me. Should I try to plead my case? Explain again how important it is to get home?
Colton’s mind raced, and then he decided to follow the trooper’s instructions.

“Sir, I need you to stand behind your vehicle, facing it. I’ll be back with you in a moment.”

Colton stood in the sweltering heat for a couple of minutes, unaware of the trooper’s intentions. If he was arrested, at least he’d get a phone call to let Madison know he was okay. Cars were flying by, causing the Corvette to shake from the turbulence. Waiting on the trooper seemed like an eternity, but at least he wasn’t handcuffed in the backseat of the Dodge on the way to the hoosegow.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK
!

The sound of gunfire caused Colton to instinctively duck and then lay flat on the hot asphalt pavement. He was momentarily disoriented as to the source of the noise. He looked under the Vette to see if he could hide there.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK
!

More gunshots. He caught a glimpse of two pickup trucks roaring down the westbound lane of the interstate. The passengers were hanging out of the windows, shooting at each other.

Colton scrambled to the far side of his car, digging his knees into the hot asphalt, which tore holes in his pants and bloodied his knees. The highway patrol car roared to life. Loose gravel spun from his tires and the smell of burning rubber filled Colton’s nostrils as Trooper McKay chased bigger prey.