End Days Super Boxset (167 page)

"What's going on?" James asked. Dr. Keppler wasn't his favorite person in the world. Though they got along professionally, Keppler was often condescending, even though he was ten years younger than James.

"That's what I was about to ask you," Dr. Keppler said in response to James' question. Keppler stared at him though a pair of wide-rimmed glasses that rested on his nose.

James stammered slightly. "Well, I know that the power went out in the middle of my class, and it hasn't come back on. I know that my students’ laptops and phones have been disabled. Other than that, I'm not sure. Do you know anything about it?"

"I haven't a clue, but I'm sure it's only temporary," Dr. Keppler answered. He smugly leaned back in his office chair, and James sensed a juncture in their conversation. "I noticed you dismissed your class early," Dr. Keppler said.

"Yes, that's correct," James answered.

"Do you think that was a wise move?" the Director asked.

"I don't see why not. The power outage was very distracting."

"And you told them it was an electromagnetic pulse attack?"

James paused, unresponsive. Dr. Keppler continued, "I spoke to a few of your students on their way out. Seems you have some pretty outlandish theories about the whole thing."

"I believe an EMP is a possibility, definitely. It would make sense," James said.

Dr. Keppler laughed. "I don't doubt your conviction, James, I really don't." His chair squeaked as he leaned in closer. "I just don't think we should be filling our students’ heads with wild scenarios, calling this a terrorist attack and such."

James felt offended. "I never said it was a terrorist attack."

"All the same," Dr. Keppler said, waving a hand in the air. "The point is that the students are worried, and this EMP talk has them in a frenzy."

"They should be worried," James said defensively. "There's a very high probability that all these disabled electronics are linked to an EMP attack. I've done plenty of research on the matter."

"Ah yes, your research. In that cabin you have in the middle of the woods, slaughtering animals, and preparing for the apocalypse?"

"Excuse me? I think you're way out of line with that comment," James said, his anger rising.

"I'm sorry, James," Dr. Keppler said. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just don't want the students to be worked up into some kind of panic."

"What panic? They left the class in an orderly fashion. Are they confused? Yes. There's no reason to keep them in the dark about anything."

Dr. Keppler smiled. "Nice pun. Let's just wait and see what happens before we go spreading any more wild tales."

"Very well, but in my professional opinion, this school needs to take appropriate action to plan for weeks, if not months, without power."

Dr. Keppler rose from his chair. "I appreciate the advice, James, but what I'm concerned about most is creating a panic." He pointed at James sternly. "You are not to tell this theory of yours to any other students or faculty members whatsoever. This is a matter of safety."

James sat silent for a moment, feeling himself being pushed into a corner. "You're issuing a gag order?"

"Take it however you want to take it. This college has a reputation to keep. You're a good teacher, I give you that, but I would advise you to keep your personal life—the hunting, doomsday prepping, and end of the world theories off this campus. Good day, James." Dr. Keppler stretched his arm toward the door, indicating it was time for James to leave. There was nothing more to say. James rose from his chair, and left the office. Dr. Keppler sat down, satisfied to have put James in his place.

James's fears were confirmed as walked the parking lot, carrying his satchel over his shoulder. Several faculty members stood over the open hoods of their cars, all clueless as to why their cars weren't starting. The hot Georgia sun provided no mercy on the dry, cloudless day. The lack of air conditioning had already been evident in the building, was actually cooler outside. He spotted his truck and walked a few rows over.

"James! There you are," a voice called out.

James turned around and saw one of his colleagues, Denise, a professor of U.S. Political and Cultural Studies. She was frazzled and breathing heavily. Her blonde pageboy hairstyle blew in a quick and welcome breeze that suddenly swept by.

"I've been looking for you; I just came from your classroom."

"Denise, hey, what's up?" James answered, putting his sunglasses on.

"I saw everything, James," she said emotionally.

James walked closer to her. "What are you talking about? What did you see?"

"Your students, I passed one of them, her name was Amber. She said you told them that an EMP blast in the sky caused the power to go out."

James attempted to correct her. "I said I
believed
that could be the case; I don't know for sure at the moment."

"Well, I do," Denise said. "I saw a large blast in the sky about twenty minutes ago. It was more like a flash, actually. It took only a second and practically threw me to the ground. I was on my way to my car to get some files. I thought maybe an airplane blew up or something. I just don't know."

"I believe you, Denise, don't worry. From what you're telling me, it sounds like you witnessed an aerial nuclear explosion. It's probably how the electromagnetic pulses were deployed. From what I know, it takes only seconds."

"I tried to start my car, but it's dead. My phone. My laptop. They're all dead," Denise said.

She was shaken up, so James put his hand on her shoulder and tried to calm her.

"Everything is going to be okay. I'm about to try to start my truck, and then I'm out of here. If you're having car troubles I can give you a lift home if you want."

Denise smiled. "That would be great," she said, touching his arm. They walked to his truck, as James hoped for the best. Off in the distance, near the bus ramp, a bus was stopped in the middle of the street with several students standing around it. Others zipped by the scene on bikes. James and Denise approached a beat-up F150.

"All right, let's see if this works," James said, entering the driver's side.

Denise looked at the vehicle in wonder. "Wow," she said. "This car is an antique."

"Sure is." James placed the key in the ignition, and put his foot on the clutch. He cranked the engine while holding onto the stick shift. The truck roared to life without issue. James let out a heavy sigh in relief.

"It starts. I can't believe that it starts!" Denise said, looking into the truck through James' side window. He grinned and looked over at her.

"Go ahead and hop in. I'll take you home."

She got in and looked at the minimal interior of the truck in awe. There was no carpet. The long bench seat in the front was old and worn, and the radio looked like something out of the 1950s.

"How did you start it?" she asked while shutting her door.

“I just turned the key,” James said.

He moved stick shift into reverse and backed out of the parking space. They fled the lot while drawing the curious attention of several nearby onlookers. All the traffic lights were out, and motionless cars were blocking both lanes. James did his best to maneuver around them. Stranded commuters barely took notice, as their attention was focused on their own vehicles.

"Not all cars are susceptible to EMPs,” James said to Denise. “At least from what I've read. I'm sure that military and law enforcement vehicles are designed to withstand the attack. I sure hope they are. I know the government has taken some precaution in that regard. My truck was designed before computer circuitry became a standard part of the engine. This is a 1975 Ford F150. Is it old as hell? Yes. Is it invincible? No. Is it completely safe from an EMP? I don't know. It's running now. I mainly got it because it's diesel and the engine is reliable."

"Why diesel?" Denise asked.

"Because in the event of massive fuel shortages, you can use alternate measures in lieu of diesel fuel."

"Like what?"

James thought for a minute. "Like vegetable oil, for instance."

Denise laughed. "Yeah, right!" she said.

"It's true. I tried it before. Truck runs just the same."

"That's crazy," Denise said, staring ahead.

"Let me know where I'm going here," James said.

"Oh, I'm sorry, take a right at the light up here." Her voice dropped when she saw how many cars were in their path. At least ten alone blocked the road to her neighborhood street. James drove on the side of the road to get around them.

They arrived at her house, located in a quiet, nearly empty neighborhood. She exited James's truck visibly shaken. She closed her side door and walked to James's side.

"Thank you so much, James. I really don't know how to thank you."

"You just did," James replied. The thought of inviting her to his bug-out house crossed his mind, even though he knew that she was married. He couldn't help it. "Good luck and stay safe."

"Do you think things will go back to normal soon?" she asked.

"I'd say it depends on the extent of the EMP blast and how prepared emergency teams are for it. Just make sure that you get plenty of food, water, and supplies from the store before their shelves are emptied. A couple of days of this will be all it takes."

"But how?" Denise began.

"Ride a bike. Walk if you have to. I can't stress it enough. You have to be stocked up."

Denise touched James's hand. "Thank you again," she said, turning to her small one-story three-bedroom house. She waved and walked in through the front door. James waited until she went inside, and then drove off.

Twenty minutes later, roughly thirty miles away from Denise's, the Ford flew up the winding and bumpy dirt road leading to James' bug-out house. It was time for him to take the first step in preparing for the lengthy and treacherous aftermath of what was a probable EMP strike. He was not surprised to enter the house and find it without power. He was also not surprised to find his cell phone lifeless and inoperable. He had generators stored in the shed with more than fifty gallons of fuel on hand. Some of the house ran on solar electricity, including the outside lights and some electronics. He had also routed the back-up power of his kitchen refrigerator to the solar system, which would keep it running for a little while longer. He had a large 12-Volt batteries stored for essential appliances in case of an emergency. The kitchen oven ran off propane. Many things in the house were designed to run in the event of a power outage, and James felt vindicated for all of his hard work.

He filled his bathtub with buckets of water to have on-hand for washing and cleaning. He fished out all the flashlights, battery-operated radios, and batteries and placed them on the kitchen table. The radio in his car didn't pick up any signal, and he had no better luck with the portable radios or television. It seemed as if they'd all been fried. Through all of this "quick prepping," it never occurred to James to go to the police or emergency services to find out what was going on. His first instinct was to get to the bug-out house and get in contact with his prepper pact. For the time being, they even took precedence over his son and grandchildren.

James walked down into the cellar, light beaming in through the small windows, and retrieved a large protective metal case. He placed the case on a table and opened it. Inside was a radio transmitter, similar to a Ham radio that he began to set up in haste. The radio ran off lithium batteries. The protective case was meant to shield the radio from electromagnetic pulses, and as he completed assembling its components, the radio turned on without a problem. James sat and clutched the microphone in his shaking hand. He moved the knobs to reach the proper frequency where he could communicate with his prepper pact. He used their call signs, holding down the transmitter button.

"Blue Sixty, Blue Sixty, come in Blue Sixty, this is Red Raven," James said. "Blue Sixty" was Terrance's call sign. James continued. "Badger Beast, Badger Beast, come in, Badger Beast." "Badger Beast" was Mark's call sign. He heard nothing. He tried again and again, having faith that they would soon answer his call. It was the only way he could find out how far the attack had reached.

Monday September 21, 2025 8:30 A.M. Savannah, GA

Janice faced rush-hour traffic every morning. She always found herself battling against the clock, as it took no less than an hour on the highway to get to work. Miraculously, she would make it to work by 9:00 a.m. every time. All of this, she supposed, could have been avoided by getting up and leaving earlier, but her body didn't seem to allow it. Janice was stubborn in her routines, and rushing to work was one she wasn't going to change, despite any benefit to her sanity. Halfway to work she sat back and listened to a talk radio show, "Earl & Company in the Morning," in which they discussed nothing of great significance. It was all about jokes and laughs. Sometimes she didn't want to be inundated with the news and seriousness.

In World News, the Middle East was raging with violence, as terrorist networks and so-called "sectarian groups" had effectively seized control of several countries in the region. Russia was moving on previously held territories in Europe, China was quickly advancing into the top spot as the world's top superpower, and they had already overtook America as the world's biggest economy. Iran and North Korea were unstoppable in their pursuit of a large nuclear arsenal. And this was in addition to all the problems occurring within the United States. It was too much to listen to at times. Too much to take in. To avoid depression, Janice listened to the humorous and trivial banter of "Earl & Company" instead.

Janice worked for an employment agency and recruitment company, Terry Services, Inc., a "temp agency" sourcing skilled workers for outside businesses. Her job involved processing applicants, scheduling interviews, and assisting walkins with appointments and general information. Each day was busy from open to close, but she also noticed a troubling lack of temporary jobs available overall. Sometimes her agency couldn't find applicants any work.

"Well, how did you get this job?" a frustrated man who couldn't find employment asked her.

"I applied for it like anyone else," she answered.

"Lucky you," the man said, storming out of the office. As a result, applicants were upset and short-tempered.

Janice pulled into the vast parking lot, just before nine, and saw that people were already lined up outside the building, looking for work. She thought it was ridiculous how people expected to find work the moment they walked in. Janice approached the front entrance, and pushed past the line of people at the door. She wanted to help them, she liked to help them—it was her jo
b—
but it seemed simply overwhelming for a Monday morning. She walked inside the building, past a cramped and full waiting lobby, went down a hall, and entered her office.

A knock came at her door. Janice looked up and saw her coworker, Laura standing outside her office. "It's a madhouse out there," she said to Janice.

"I expected it to be busy, but this is just, I don't know. Mondays, what can you do?" Janice said. She looked at her watch. It said 9:08.

"Time to get to work," she said, sitting down at her desk.

“Good luck,” Laura said, walking away.

She had twenty applicants to process for temporary positions. The first was a man named, Josh Tracey, a computer analyst recently laid off from an IT firm. He was overqualified for most of the positions available, but would take anything they had. Janice went outside to the lobby and called out her first appointment. "Mr. Tracey?" she said. A thirty-something nebbish man who sat squished between two other applicants on the waiting room couch stood up.

"That's me," he said, walking towards her.

"How are you this morning?" Janice asked. Mr. Tracey was wearing a faded suit, and his bushy hair was unevenly cut, looking as if he did it himself.

"I'm doing well, thank you for asking," Mr. Tracey replied.

They went to her office, and she closed the door.

"Have a seat, please,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk. Mr. Tracey sat.

Janice continued. “So today is orientation. There's additional paperwork to fill out, orientation, and then we'll set you up with your new temp job.”

"Baggage handler at the Savannah International Airport?" he asked, reading over his paperwork.

"Yes, that's correct," Janice said.

Before Mr. Tracey could respond, the overhead lights flickered out. Simultaneously, the screen on Janice's computer turned blue, and then shut off. There were no windows, and the room was extremely dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but Janice could see Mr. Tracey sitting in front of her.

"You OK, Mr. Tracey?" she asked.

“I'm fine,” he said from the darkness. “What the hell happened? Who turned out the lights?”

Janice stood up and looked around. “Excuse me for a moment; I just need to see what's going on here."

"Did your people forget to pay the power bill?" he asked with a laugh.

"I certainly hope not," Janice answered. She got up and left her office to check out the lobby. The lights were out there as well.

"Power's out," a seated man from the lobby said.

"I see that," she answered. She left the lobby and walked past her office and down the hall to her coworker Laura's office. There were no windows in the hall, and it had gotten dark very fast. She knocked, and Laura told her to come in. Janice opened the door. Sunlight beamed in through the tall windows behind Laura's desk. "I was right in the middle of drafting our newsletter,” Laura said, clenching her fists. “Son of a bitch, I forgot to add it to the share drive. Ugh!"

"I'm sorry," Janice said. “I don't know why it went out.”

"Who the hell knows,” Laura said. "There's no storm. Not a damn cloud in the sky."

Janice shook her head. "Hopefully it will come back on soon. I have a lot of people waiting out there. I'll talk to you later." She walked back down the hall as Laura stared at her screen in a daze.

Back in her office, Janice found a small flashlight in the top drawer of her desk. She pulled it out and turned it on. Mr. Tracey had wandered off, and he was no longer there. She could hear coworkers outside her office complaining that their cell phones weren't working. The scenario seemed familiar. It was something Mark used to talk about. Something called an EMP attack that destroyed power systems and electronic devices. Something that would take the country back to the 1800s in a matter of seconds if it could really happen. She dug her phone out of her purse and saw that it had fared no better than the others. The screen was blank, as if all its power had been drained away. Janice sat at her desk and thought for a moment.

"Excuse me, miss, just what in the hell's going on here?" an angry old man asked, breaking her concentration. He had left the lobby and found her office, a highly irregular move for an applicant.

"One moment, please, sir," she said. She picked up the receiver of her landline phone to call her boss, Brian. There was no dial tone. It was as if the phone wasn't even plugged in. She slammed the receiver down in frustration. She got up from her desk, and pushed past the man. “I'm sorry, I don't know what's going on.” The man was not satisfied, and yelled at her as she walked away from him. He reeked of alcohol.

Janice left office of the temp agency and decided to look elsewhere in the three-story building. The elevators weren’t working, so she headed for the stairwell. People were exiting, hurrying down as she was climbing up. She searched the second and third floors and found them to be the same as the first: dimly lit, full of confused wanderers.

She went back down to the first floor and exited the building. She was met with an unruly cluster of people on the bottom floor. Various job-seekers from all walks of life had convened outside the doors, lost and aimless. They wanted to know why the power was out. They wanted to know how much longer before everything magically came back on. Many of them held cell phones, frantically trying to get them to work. Without the guidance of their electronics, they looked to Janice for answers.

She was about to make her way back inside when she noticed an unusual quietness from the nearby highway. She could see the highway from the parking lot. It looked to be frozen in time. Vehicles sat motionless in what looked like early-morning gridlock. Nothing was moving, not even an inch. Janice stared, waiting for one of the hundreds of cars on the four-lane highway to move. Suddenly, she noticed something else: drivers and passengers were exiting their cars then circling them, looking perplexed.

Her boss, Brian, called out to her from outside the building as she walked to her white 2015 Toyota Corolla. "Janice, where ya’ going?" he said, standing with his hands on his hips.

“Damn,” she thought. She was about to leave.

She turned around and yelled back, "I just have to get something out of my car."

She unlocked the driver's side door and stepped in. She stuck the key in and turned the ignition switch. At first, she thought she was doing something wrong. She checked the dashboard to make sure that the vehicle was in park and tried again. The SUV wouldn't start, and Janice had no clue why. She tried the engine ten more times, getting nothing. She tried it in neutral, reverse, and drive to no effect. Her hand was tired from turning the key so many times. She walked back to the building in a daze as her boss greeted her sarcastically.

"Little bit of car trouble?" he asked.

"Looks like I'm not the only one," she answered, signaling to the motionless gridlock on the highway.

Mark pedaled home in haste, hoping that, for some unexplainable reason, Janice hadn't left for work yet. As he rode up their driveway, he saw that her car was gone. Mark thought for a moment, considering whether to drive their bug-out vehicle to Janice's office and rescuing her. But maybe her car worked after all. Maybe she got lucky. Mark didn't know the range of EMP blasts. He didn't know if its effects had spread across town, across the state, or over the entire country. He noticed his elderly next-door neighbor sitting on his front porch swing. Mark stepped off his bike, practically drenched in sweat. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but there was no escaping the sweltering heat. He checked his cell phone again. It was still dead. His neighbor looked peaceful on his porch swing, in perfect contrast to the chaos Mark had fled.

"How's it going, Mr. Harper?" Mark called.

Mr. Harper leaned forward on his cane and squinted. He wore a short-sleeved buttoned-up shirt tucked into his dress pants, colorful red suspenders, and a braided sun hat. He fanned himself leisurely with a paper fan.

"I'm doing fine, how about yourself?" he said.

Mark walked closer and stood under the shade of Mr. Harper's chestnut tree.

"Doing all right. Bit of a scare today with the power. It's like some kind of blackout. How are you holding up here?" Mark hoped that Mr. Harper would say that the power was running fine.

"Blackout?" Mr. Harper said. "I didn't even notice it. Just been sitting on my porch drinking some sweet tea." Mr. Harper held up a glass and finished the last of it. Just looking at the empty glass made Mark thirsty. He had to get inside to see everything for himself. Whatever was happening, Mr. Harper was oblivious to it.

"Well, I gotta pick Janice up from work. I'll see you later, Mr. Harper," Mark said, waving.

"You tell her I said hello," and he began swinging back-and-forth.

"Sure will," Mark responded. He walked up the steps into his home and unlocked the front door, hoping to find a cool, air-conditioned living room when he stepped inside. That wasn't the case. The power was out. Mark walked around the living room, dining room, and kitchen checking each appliance. Nothing worked. He opened the refrigerator and looked in. Only darkness. The motor wasn't running, and it would be only a matter of time before all the food inside spoiled. Mark leaned against the counter thinking to himself.

“What are we going to do?” Mark muttered out loud. “What in the hell are we going to do?”

He thought of their food storage in the basement and how most of it was expired. He thought of their money, their assets, and their online accounts. He thought of ATMs, and not having in cash, and looters. The banks would soon be the most chaotic places imaginable, next to the supermarkets and gas stations. The bug-out house was a consolation to his worries. Mark considered their options. He needed Janice's input. Traveling to Milledgeville and leaving their home behind was a huge step, but a necessary one if things got worse.

Mark went to their backyard shed. He opened the wooden double-doors and found their bug-out parked inside, covered with layers of dust and grime. They owned an American classic: a red 1970 Plymouth Road Runner with a rear spoiler and lots of attitude. The door squeaked open, and Mark climbed into the driver's seat.

He wasn't surprised to find that the car wouldn't start. He hoped simply because the battery was dead. For that reason, they stored three car batteries on a shelf in the shed along with ten five-gallon cans of reserve fuel. Frustrated, Mark popped the hood and grabbed some tools to disconnect the dead battery so he could install a replacement. He was confident that the car would start in the end. If it didn't, then he would have to rethink his entire strategy. He was not looking forward to riding his bike to Janice's office in ninety-degree heat. He swapped out the batteries and ensured that the replacement was tightly connected. He sat at the wheel, placed the key in the ignition, and paused. He really didn't want to find out. If the car didn't start, he would be devastated. "Please," he said under his breath. "Please..."