Grid Down: A Strike against America - An EMP Survival Story- Book Two (11 page)

“That’s good,” he said. They stopped walking. “Keep those hands up, and move slowly.”

They reached the line of cars and stopped. “No turning back now,” Carlos said under his breath.

They could see the man more clearly. He had a full head of light-brown hair that hung over his ears, and a matching brown beard to go with it. Under the bill of his hat, his eyes were a wild blue, and he was wearing green camouflage gear like an outdoorsman. He stood up fully, and they could see that he was a well-built man of average height, probably in his late thirties. He looked at them no less suspiciously now that they were up close.

“You can go ahead and just climb over now,” he said.

Mila stepped on the front bumper of a dented-in Chevy Cavalier and moved across the hood with her hands low and feeling her way across the dusty metal. The car dipped lower as Carlos followed her lead. Once they were on the other side, the man walked over and greeted them.

“My name is Bill Dawson,” he said, removing his hat. He didn’t offer a handshake, but giving them his name was a start.

Mila looked around, trying not to be obvious about it. She could see the town better now that they were past the vehicle barricade, and it helped that the mist had lifted a bit too. People continued watching them from their windows. Most homes were boarded up, with only a window or two to look out of. Farther down the road, cars were positioned from one side to the other, like personal barricades, where other people were standing with rifles aimed. 

There was no denying that the town was fortified beyond anything she imagined. It was also very quiet, even though their presence had not gone unnoticed. But Mila was elated to see so many people and families who had seemed to escape the anger and violence that Nyack residents had endured. Behind Bill was another man, sitting on a crate. Slightly paunchy and with sagging cheeks, he wore a thick parka with a fur hood pulled over his head. He adjusted his glasses, stood up, and walked over to them.  

“We could hear you coming a mile away,” he said.

“Figures,” Mila responded.

“That’s why I asked Bill here to ask you how you got here. We appreciate your honesty. I know that if I had a working automobile, I’d be less inclined to tell anyone.”

“We wanted to build trust,” Carlos said, seemingly taking credit for the idea.

Mila looked at him funny then turned to the approaching man. “I’m Mila—”

“I heard your names. I’m Jordan. Jordan Flynn.”

“Nice to meet you, Jordan,” Mila said with a breath of relief. “I’m so glad to meet some normal people for once.”

Jordan stopped and raised his hand to prevent her from going on. “I wouldn’t go that far yet. You just met us.”

“I can tell,” Mila said.

“Suit yourself. Now, I heard you mention someone by the name of Arthur.”

Mila’s smile dropped. “Yes. Unfortunately, we’ve crossed paths with him and his gang.”

Jordan crossed his arms and brought one hand to his chin, thinking. “We know the name all too well. But before going any further, you need to check in with our town sheriff. He’ll want to hear everything you have to say.”

“You have a sheriff?” Carlos asked. “Damn, I don’t think I’ve seen a cop in two months.”

“Follow me,” Jordan said. He turned to Bill. “Keep watch. This day has been strange enough, and we don’t know who else is going to come wandering in here today. And check out their packs. See what they brought us.”

“Got it,” Bill said.

Jordan beckoned Mila and Carlos to follow him. They walked together as the brick soon turned to flat pavement. Smoke was in the air, rising from a number of smoking burn barrels in their path, obviously set up for heat. The town was flat-looking and desolate. On closer inspection, the homes seemed worn and damaged, and many were boarded up with plywood over the windows. The trees reached their skeletal bare branches into the sky, and there was no sign of wildlife beyond a flock of birds flying overhead.

They passed a few other men, who maintained their shooting positions behind strategically placed cars—many of them with smashed-out windows and flat tires. Sloppy graffiti covered many of the cars and homes. The men were scruffy and dirty, dressed in mismatched winter clothes like vagrants. They looked worn but hardened, offering no friendly greetings or nods of acknowledgment. Mila tried not to make eye contact with them. Jordan and Bill seemed cordial enough, but Mila and Carlos appeared to be on thin ice with everyone else.

“How many people do you have here?” she asked Jordan as they were passing a vacant post office and entering a quaint but empty business district.

Jordan thought to himself. “Well, Clarkson had a population of about six thousand. Lot of people left. Others, well, we’ll get to that later.”

“How many are left now?” Carlos persisted.

“I’d say we have about a thousand people. A little more, maybe.”

“Wow,” she said. “Our numbers are much lower in Nyack.”

“Our mutual acquaintance, Arthur, drove most of Clarkson out,” Jordan said.

Mila covered her mouth. “Oh no. Here too?”

“I’ll let the sheriff explain more.”

The evidence was in the shops they passed. Gaping holes stood where windows used to be. Many were absent doors and anything else inside. Nothing but empty shelves remained. On the corner of the street, they came to a small, red brick police station with its windows intact and protected with bars. There were a few police cars in the parking lot, and unlike most other cars they had encountered, they were free from leaves, branches, and debris.

“The sheriff is really strong on appearances,” Jordan said. “You’ll see.”

“Thank you for hearing what we have to say,” Mila said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jordan said, leading them across the street and to the police station. “The sheriff will make the final call.”

They entered the building to find it plenty dim inside, with a single kerosene lamp resting on the front counter of an empty lobby. Jordan told them to wait as he went to the counter and rang a small bell as though they were checking into a hotel.

Behind the glass, a door opened and a man emerged—striking in his old-fashioned appearance. He had a thick head of white hair, aviator glasses, and a long-sleeved gray police shirt with a sheriff’s star over his chest. He was tall and skinny, and his head was blocked by a visor on the lobby window.

“What can I help you with, Jordan?” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.  

“We have some visitors from Nyack,” Jordan said.

“Oh yeah?” The sheriff peered through the window to get a closer look at them. “How’s that old town holding up?”

“Not well,” Mila said. She felt comfortable enough to speak up.

The sheriff paused and then looked to Jordan. “What do they want?”

“To speak with you, of course,” Jordan said.

The sheriff thought for a moment, hidden behind his dark sunglasses. Mila wondered how he could even see. “Busy today. Why don’t they come back later? We got a heap of shit on our hands right now.”

Jordan leaned in closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “It’s about Arthur. Apparently he’s made a name for himself in their town.”

The sheriff stopped, as though someone had just hit him upside the head with a shovel. “Give me five minutes, then send them to my office. I’m trusting that they’re unarmed?”

“That’s correct, Sheriff,” Jordan said.

“Five minutes,” the sheriff said. “They wait five, and then I’ll give ’em five, fair enough?” he asked, looking past Jordan.

“Yes, that would be great,” Mila said.  

The sheriff was gone before they knew it. Jordan turned back around with a shrug. “That’s that. Just have a seat, and he’ll talk with us soon.”

Mila and Carlos sat on the first two chairs as Jordan stood patiently, leaning on the counter.

“And I thought we had some weird folks in our group,” Carlos said. Mila shushed him but couldn’t help smiling.

“How have your people managed here so far?” Mila asked.

“Each day is a new challenge. Most of us are just holding up, hoping that the power grid will come back online. Steven, an engineer, explained to us about electromagnetic pulses and how even if the power does come back on, nothing is going to work. Nothing that got fried, anyway.”

“My husband is big on that stuff too,” Mila said. “Our car was manufactured before the eighties. And anything made before then seems to work just fine.”

“The Buick?” Jordan asked.

“No, that’s our friend’s car. We’re preppers.”

“You don’t say.”

After some brief chat—not revealing too much—Jordan said that it was time to see the sheriff. Mila was feeling better about their prospects by the minute. They had ventured into the town and introduced themselves, a big first step. Now all they had to do was convince the townspeople to help—and help was in short supply almost everywhere, with every person for themselves.

They walked into the next room through a swinging lobby door. What Mila saw next surprised her. Vacant desks and chairs were aligned in a spotless work area that looked like something out of a museum. The room was still and quiet. In the back was a single office with a glass door and a name engraved on it: Sheriff David F. Dawson.

“Dawson?” Mila said out loud.

“That’s right,” Jordan chimed in. “They’re brothers. Him and Bill.”

Jordan knocked on the door lightly. “Come in!” the sheriff’s voice bellowed. Jordan opened the door and stood aside for Mila and Carlos to enter. The sheriff was leaning back in a leather swivel chair with his leather cowboy boots propped up across his dark-stained mahogany desk. There was a bookshelf behind him filled with various plaques and awards, a bald eagle statue, and a folded American flag in a glass case. He took a sip of coffee and pointed to the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Have a seat.”

Mila and Carlos walked over and sat down.

“Take your coats off or something. You’re making me sweat just looking at you.”

They both hesitated.

“Don’t worry, this building is old and insulated for the next century.” He looked up. “You too, Jordan. Make yourselves at home.”

Jordan leaned forward to take Mila’s coat, when suddenly a full rifle magazine fell out of her pocket and hit the carpet.

The sheriff leaned forward, intrigued.

Mila could feel everyone’s eyes on her. “What can I say? Never leave home without them.”

The sheriff slapped his desk. “Looks like our friends are stocked up on ammo, that’s for sure.”

Jordan felt along her jacket, pulling out more magazines.

“Not much those would do me without a weapon, right?” Mila said.

“You’re right there,” the sheriff said, sipping from his coffee mug. “I get it. Don’t worry. You’d have to be a fool to travel around these parts without taking the proper precautions.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Mila said.

The sheriff removed his feet from the desk and sat upright as his leather chair squeaked. “So I told you folks that I’d give you five minutes. Go ahead and lay it on me. What can we do for you?”

“You’re familiar with Arthur?” Mila asked.

Jordan shut the door and put Mila’s coat on a nearby rack.

“Yes, I am,” the sheriff said. “He’s a convict. As in a prison escapee from the ol’ Rockland Correctional Institute. A whole lot of them came through here and tore things up. We fought them off and drove them out, but it didn’t come easy. Lost a lot of good people. Town pretty much cleared out after that. People moved on to find greener pastures.” The sheriff leaned back and put his boots back on the desk. “You see, Clarkson used to be a fairly affluent area. Lots of folks with money came out here with their families. I’ve been sheriff for ten years, come up here from Tennessee. It’s been a good run, then that damn EMP turned everything to shit.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I don’t know if this town will ever recover.”

Carlos looked at Mila, signaling her to speak. She leaned forward and took the chance. “Honestly, Sheriff. Your town is doing a hell of a lot better than ours. Arthur and his men have completely taken it over. He calls himself a mayor. He abuses the people, killing on a whim. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It’s complete anarchy.”

“You lost, and he won,” the sheriff said. “We faced the same thing. What do you want me to do about it?”

“We want your help!” Mila said, in a tone too loud. Her emotions had gotten the better of her.  

The sheriff fidgeted with a model police car on his desk. “Help doesn’t come easy nowadays, little lady.”

“They kidnapped my husband. They shot his son,” she said, pointing at Carlos. “We’ve been hiding out in the mountains for almost three months, and things just keep getting worse and worse.”

The sheriff waved his hands over each other as if cutting her off. “Cut your losses, and get as far away from Nyack as possible. That’s my advice.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Mila said with startling conviction in her eyes. “My husband is out there now.”

Carlos cut in. “Mr. Sheriff, if I find out that these bastards killed my son, I’m going to go into town with or without her. I’m going to kill as many of them as I can. I don’t care. In the end, I know that I’ll be dead, but that doesn’t matter. Like Mila, I don’t have a choice either.”