36 Hours: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (20 page)

“No more
runs
, okay, Mom?” Alex laughed as she lifted the rear deck lid and hoisted one of the propane tanks out onto the brick driveway with a clank.

“Oh, I agree,” she replied. “This was worth the effort, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, and we didn’t get in a fight—for a change.”

“Sort of,” mumbled Madison, wondering if she’d overreacted as the men harassed them.

Madison unconsciously touched her still-swollen cheek as a reminder of their first excursion. She made a mental note to apply copious base makeup before Colton arrived home. He would be worn out from his trip, and she didn’t want him to be overly concerned.

“What about the generator?” Alex grabbed the box by the cardboard handle and slid it towards the edge of the bumper. “Never mind. Let Daddy get it. Generators are boy toys anyway.” Alex stretched for the bag of guns from Phillips Toy Mart and closed the lid.

As dusk turned to night, the Ryman women arranged everything they had acquired today in the dining room. Their stockpile now encroached into the living area. For the next half hour, Madison roamed around the house, looking for anything useful to add to the pile. She couldn’t sit still because Colton now consumed her thoughts.
Where is he? Why hasn’t he called?

She pulled all of the toiletries from the guest bathrooms and stacked them together. She found a Ziploc bag full of complimentary hotel shampoo, conditioner, soaps and sewing kits from a vacation they took to Disney World a year ago. In a guest closet, a pool bag full of ChapSticks, sunscreens, and lotions were left over from the same trip. After mentally chastising herself for not finding a proper storage space for these items, she quickly complimented herself for her forethought.

Madison replayed the conversation she had with Mr. Hart while he helped load up their purchases from the hardware store. He referred to the
Hart Family Trading Post
. Money wouldn’t do any good if the power was out for weeks, months or years. Life would be like the old days when a trader would exchange a beaver pelt for a bushel basket of corn.

She immediately turned to the china hutch, where Madison accumulated several bottles of wine and liquor for Friday night’s party. The Rymans didn’t drink, but most of their neighbors did. She could trade them a bottle of wine for something her family didn’t have.
Liquor might be more valuable than hundred dollar bills.

The china hutch also contained a large selection of pillar and tapered candles. Oddly, this find prompted her to think of insects. She went through the French doors and made her way to the pool house. A helicopter was heard overhead, circling an area towards their west near Belle Meade.

Inside the pool house, she found citronella candles, insect repellents, and a jug of Ortho Max Insect Killer. She picked it up to give it a shake. It was full.
Just because the apocalypse is upon us doesn’t mean the bugs run away from our home.
The pool house search also yielded granulated chlorine, which she thought could be useful in purifying water. She made a mental note to look it up in the books she bought. There were also trash bags, some tiki torches with fuel, and a box of fireworks left over from a rain-cancelled July 4
^th
get-together. She carried in the first load and laid the things on the floor near the dining room.

DING, DONG! DING, DONG!

Madison jumped at the unexpected, shrieking pitch of the doorbell. Her body immediately was overcome with emotion and then fear.
Is it the police coming to tell her about Colton? Who would be coming by in the dark with all that is going on?

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Oh no! It’s that loud, authoritative pounding of the door that the cops use on television to demand entry
.

“Mom! What should we do?” Alex scrambled on the sofa and immediately pulled the toy Taurus pistol out of the bag. Her hands were shaking, and for the first time, Madison sensed fear in her daughter.

Madison gathered herself and immediately went to the solid, carved wood double doors. She instantly regretted not installing a peephole to see who was on the other side. She carefully pulled the window sheers aside and saw the legs of a woman dressed in seersucker shorts. She let out a sigh of relief.
It isn’t the police,
and it doesn’t appear to be a thug
.

Madison opened the door and greeted her neighbors Shane and Christie Wren. Shane was a political science professor at Vanderbilt University, and Christie was the stay-at-home mother who was riding bikes with her two girls on the sidewalk earlier in the day. He also happened to be the president of the Harding Place Association, a loosely bound group of neighbors who held meetings once a year to talk about things like lawn care standards, improper Christmas displays, and other matters of national importance like parking your cars outside of your garage for extended periods.

“Hi, Shane and Christie,” said Madison, peering around the open door. “You guys startled us.”

“Oh, we’re sorry about that, Madison,” said Shane. “As president of the HPA, I thought I would be remiss if I didn’t pay our neighbors a visit and discuss current events.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Madison, who still held the door half open. “It’s just that, well, you know, it’s dark and there’s a lot going on today.”

“Well, that’s part of the reason I wanted to stop by and speak to everyone. There’s an abundance of false information out there. All of this doomsday talk is unproductive. Now you know, these solar flares happen all the time.”

Madison imperceptibly shook her head.
Go ahead, stick your head in the sand
. She was sure most of the residents comprising the HPA thought like Shane Wren.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Much ado about nothing.” Madison attempted a laugh to mask her real beliefs.

Christie was stretching her neck to look past Madison. “It’s kind of dark out here.”

Madison took the hint and reached across the closed half of the doors and flipped on the foyer and porch lights at the same time.
Big mistake
. The lights illuminated her battered face.

“Oh my gosh, Madison!” exclaimed Christie. “Are you okay, dear? Shane, look at her face.”

Shane and Christie both leaned towards Madison to get a closer look, which caused her to recoil abruptly and cover her bruised cheek with her hand.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” started Madison as she laughed nervously. “You should see the other guy.” They weren’t laughing with her.

“Madison,” started Shane, dragging out the pronunciation of her name, “where’s Colton?”

“Um, he’s out of town,” she replied. “But he should be home anytime. I can have him call you.” She closed the door slightly to obstruct their view of the food and supplies in plain view behind her.

The Wrens glanced at each other with that
all-knowing, we’ve got this situation pegged
look. Christie pointed to the luggage by the foyer closet door.

“Are you guys going on a trip?” she asked.

Madison turned and looked at where she was pointing. Crap! She tried to downplay the luggage. “Oh, no. Not with all that’s going on. I mean, you know, Alex and I were cleaning out the closets while we’re waiting for Colton to get home.”

Alex approached quietly from the living room, her bare feet not making a sound. She leaned into Madison’s ear and asked, “Mom, is everything all right?”

“MY GOD,” shrieked Christie. “Is that a g-g-gun?” Alex had forgotten to put down the replica handgun.

“Wait, oh, you mean this?” she replied. “This is just a toy we found in the, um, the closet.” Alex began to wave the gun around to indicate its harmlessness, which frightened the bejesus out of the Wrens. They immediately jumped back and held up their hands in unison.

Inwardly, Madison laughed at the unintended effect. She thought the conversation was over, but Shane persisted.

“Madison, do you and Alex need some help?” he asked. He pressed on. “Should we call someone, the police perhaps?”

“Why would you call the police?” Madison shot back, trying not to get agitated. “Because of the gun? It’s a toy, for Pete’s sake. Alex, give that to me so I can show them …”

Christie was clutching Shane by the arm, pulling him away from the front door. “Honey, let’s go,” she urged.

“But,” started Shane as he also tried to peer past Madison to get a better look inside. Madison stopped any further inquiry.

“Listen, you guys, I was involved in a scuffle at the ATM earlier today. It was nothing more than that. It’s late. We’re tired. If there’s nothing else, I think we should say good night.”

“No, of course,” replied Shane.

“Are you sure, Madison?” asked Christie. “You and Alex are certainly welcome to come stay with us, you know, for a few days, if you want.”

“No, I don’t want. Good night!” said Madison as she closed the door and held it shut with her back. She could hear them talking outside.

Is Colton an abuser?

Should we report it?

I had no idea.

Poor woman.

Do you think he beats Alex too?

Madison was fuming. She wanted to open the door and give them a piece of her mind, but she held back. Her biggest concern was revealing all of her
preps. Wait. Preps
. She used the word for the first time as it related to the food and supplies they’d gathered.

I’m a prepper now.

Chapter 37

4 Hours

7:20 p.m., September 8

T Ricks CITGO, Interstate 40

Hazen, Arkansas

It was getting darker as Colton finally cleared the traffic twenty miles east of Little Rock. Just as the President’s address to the nation ended, so did his Sirius satellite feed. He tuned into a local radio station, KARN, and listened to the commentary on the President’s handling of the threat. They were not kind to her.

He began to study his fuel gauge and performed some calculations. He might be able to make it to Memphis, which at this pace was only an hour or so away. But he knew enough about the city that pulling off for gas in a Corvette was a death wish. He would start looking for a gas station in one of the small towns between here and Memphis.

Colton turned up the radio as the conversation shifted to the effect of the solar storm on electronics and vehicles. FoxNews was streaming live on KARN now, and Greta Van Susteren was interviewing a professor from MIT.

“
Thank you for having me on, Greta. First, let’s establish a few given facts. There hasn’t been any credible resource that has conducted testing on the effects of an electromagnetic pulse on a vehicle other than the recent use of the EMP cannon by law enforcement to disable a vehicle. When the high-altitude nuclear testing took place in the 1950s and early 1960s, automobiles did not have the extensive wiring and electronics of today’s models
.”

“
What about today’s vehicles? My car is wired like a rocket ship. How could that possibly survive an EMP?
” asked Van Susteren.

“
It probably would not survive a high-altitude EMP delivered by a nuclear warhead. But it is unlikely that a geomagnetic storm would harm an automobile’s electronics because the E3 component of the electromagnetic pulse is not strong enough to cause damage to the wiring
.”

“
So our cars will not be affected?
”

“
You’ll appreciate this, counselor
.” The guest laughed, making an obvious reference to Van Susteren’s previous career as an attorney. “
The answer is yes, no, and maybe
.”

“
I object!
” interjected Van Susteren.

“
Modern automobiles have as many as one hundred microprocessors that control virtually all functions. Depending on the strength of the electromagnetic pulse, these microprocessors will cease to function. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst-case scenario for this geomagnetic storm, and one being a more typical C-class storm, I’d put the likelihood at a ten that most vehicles will shut down. This geomagnetic storm has the potential to be unlike any other this planet has endured in modern history
.”

“
Are you saying we’ll be walking everywhere or riding bikes?
”

“
That is the maybe part of your answer. For those lucky few who own an operating vehicle older than 1970, generally considered to be the pre-electronics age in the development of automobiles, you may be in luck
.”

“
How so?
” asked Van Susteren.

“
Vehicles from the fifties and sixties will most likely continue to operate
,” he replied.

Colton slowed as he approached a deserted-looking exit for the small town of Hazen, Arkansas. A blue highway sign indicated a couple of fuel options, including a Shell station and a CITGO named T Ricks. Both sides of the interstate had featured fields of soybean and little in the way of residential housing. This might be his best opportunity to fill up and, more importantly, call home.

The Shell station was closed and had been boarded up as if they expected a hurricane. T Ricks logo featured a neon green drawing of a
Tyrannosaurus rex
and appeared to be open. He pulled into the pumps.

Attached to the pump with duct tape was a handwritten sign that read
CASH ONLY, PRICES SUBJECT TO CHANGE
. Colton suddenly wished he was wearing overalls and driving a busted-up truck like those in the parking lot. He imagined the conversation.
Well, sir, for Leon over here, the price is three dollars a gallon. For you,
Mister City Slicker
, today’s price is eight hundred and thirteen dollars a gallon.

Colton didn’t have a choice. He exited the Corvette and took the keys with him. There was an eighteen-wheeler parked to the side with its driver standing nearby, smoking a cigarette. A Nissan truck, an old Jeep Wagoneer, and a blue pickup carrying a four-wheeler were parked to the left side of the building.
Here we go
.