The Fractured Earth (3 page)

"Trying to go somewhere, little lady? Are you old enough to drive by yourself?" asked a gruff voice. I could tell the man, probably a man, was smiling when he said it. There was a cheery undertone to his speech that was more disturbing than if he sounded angry. A real "Hannibal Lecter" vibe.

This all registered in a flash. The next thing I knew, the guy was crumpled on the ground at my feet, the baton in my right hand and the still-sheathed machete in my left.

Oh man, what did I just do?

I don't know how quickly it happened. It was almost like I blacked out. Seconds? Tens of seconds? It was a move I’d learned in Tae-Kwon-Do, but I don't remember what it's called.

The guy was down, though, that's for sure. I looked around to see if there was anyone else, but no one was looking my way. Mr. D'oh! seemed to be gone, as did his victims. Only one family was visible, sitting in a car that wasn't moving, bags piled high on the top and inside.

I stepped backward a few times, then turned and went back into the house, holstering my weapons. I locked the door behind me and went into the kitchen and splashed cold water on my face. I felt like my whole body would shake apart, so I did my breathing exercises. It took five minutes for the shaking to subside. The longest I'd ever had to breathe like that was in class, for about half an hour or so, but outside of class … usually thirty seconds. The most was two minutes when I had a bad case of the hiccups —that breathing thing worked to get rid of them.

I turned and looked at my two bags and the backpack.

Too much. I can't carry all that and protect myself.

I started to take it all into the living room to sort out, but stopped, dumbfounded. There was blood everywhere … pieces of the Little Ones. The cheap coffee table was smashed, the couch was tipped over. NotMom had attacked them and tore them up. I dropped the bags and ran back to the kitchen and threw up in the sink, crying and choking. 

"What is going ON?" I screamed. This was crazy! I mean, I knew intellectually that this is what happened, but seeing it live, in 3D smell-o-vision, was too much.

I sucked some water from the faucet and splashed some on my face. 

I needed to get out of there.

I dumped the clothes bag and added back two changes of underwear, one change of cold weather clothes, and my sailing gear. I put on a nylon sweater from the pile, then added a couple of dish towels from the kitchen, and regrettably tossed out the toilet paper. I opened the backpack, but there wasn't anything there I wanted to part with ... except ... I guess the CD’s. They probably wouldn't work anyway, so I put them on the countertop. I stuffed the backpack with all the food that would fit, and put the rest in the first bag, making it about half full. I took out a big coat from the bag and zipped it up, then stuffed the bag in it. I tied the sleeves together at the bottom, then tied the rope around it and through the sleeves. It looked like it would probably hold okay.

This was it. I put on the silly backpack, wrapped a sleeve from the fattened coat around my neck and shoulder, pulled my baton from the belt, and after checking the peephole, opened the door. I wanted to lock it in case someone else made it home, but I didn't want to search near Mr. Grimy Hands for the keys, so I just closed it and left it unlocked.

Seven blocks to the marina. I took a step and started counting.

—————

Mark

Dad and I were driving home from Boston when the EMP wiped out all the electronics.

We'd just flown back from a survival camping trip in Arkansas. It was okay. I’d learned how to make fires and shelters and junk. Dad had lots of plans to build shelters around the property and maybe pass on some what he knew. The trip was mostly for me, since Dad seemed to already know everything.

He’d got a bow drill fire going in like three minutes, and then proceeded to light a hand drill fire.

Since Mom died, he spent much of his time hiking, camping, or fishing, dragging me along with him. I think he missed her a lot and was heartbroken, but he still laughed and joked with me.

Truth be told, I did enjoy being dragged along, even if I did complain.

I think he knew I liked it.

He was listening to NPR's
All Things Considered
, which I tuned out by listening to my iPhone. His cruise control was on way too slow, like always, most of the cars on Route 2 passing us. We were about halfway home. We have—well … had—a nice Toyota Tacoma: black, brand new, with less than three thousand miles! Man, I miss that truck. I drove it a few times, but mostly I drove my old clunker Pontiac. It was in the shop then.

Anyway, the EMP hit and everything went kablooey! No power steering, no power brakes. No more annoying, calm-voiced Robert Siegel.

Maybe forever. At least for a very long time.

I sure didn't know what happened at first. I thought maybe Toyota had another lawsuit on their hands, or at least a recall, if their trucks were suddenly losing all power. Dad just started yelling at the truck.

"What's the matter? Brand new truck  … I can't believe..."

He put the shifter in neutral and tried to restart it, but it didn't work, so he wrestled it over to the breakdown lane, looking left and right and behind him as he did.

I looked back and my heart almost stopped. I saw a car crash into the center concrete divider and an eighteen wheeler next to it weaving in the lanes. Did we cause that?

"I've got to get a safe distance from that, Mark!" said Dad. "That eighteen wheeler will flatten us!"

I sucked air through clenched teeth, holding on to the handle above the door as Dad let off the brake so maybe we could get a little distance from the disaster unfolding behind us. We slowed and drifted into the breakdown lane. 

"Dad! In front!" I yelled.

There was another wreck in front of us. Some kind of box truck was flipped, and another car had run into it.

What the heck? You'd think it was sprinkling or something—Massachusetts drivers did better in the snow than when it rained a little.

I sucked in another breath and jammed against my seatbelt as Dad pushed both feet on the heavy brake, slowing quickly but controllably. The eighteen wheeler behind us grew larger. We kept going into the breakdown lane until we were in it and beyond it, rolling on the grassy embankment. As we slowed almost completely, Dad turned the wheel hard with both hands, heading ninety degrees away from the road. He pulled the handbrake and we bounced terribly. My iced coffee bounced off the console and right into my lap. I thought the truck would tip, but it came to a sudden stop as it hit a low stump. My seatbelt had dug into my neck, but we were alive and well away from the road, and hopefully out of the way of the swerving semi behind us. I couldn't see the road in my rearview, and my head didn't feel like turning.

"I think we're safe," said my dad. "Are you hurt?" 

Yes.

No.

I don't know.

I sat there woolgathering and coming down off the adrenaline.

"I guess I'm alright," I said.

I was jarred out of my reverie by the sound of a crash behind us. The semi had hit the edge of the box truck as the driver tried to wrestle it out of the way, and then tipped over, spilling its load of hardwood—probably intended for one of the paper mills in Salisburg.

"We should go see if we can help the injured," said Dad.

With that, he unbuckled and opened his door, and I followed suit. Dad clicked the unlock for the back door, but nothing happened—no loud “chunk” sound. He flicked it again. Nothing.

"That's strange," he said.

An icy chill came over me, despite the nice spring day.

We just got back from a survival course that talked about disasters.

Like EMP’s.

I took out my iPhone 6 and tapped the “home” button. Then the power button. I pulled out my iPad from the back and opened it. It didn't come on, even after tapping the power button, trackpad and keys. It was dead.

"Dad…?" I began. But he was tapping his phone, too. He stopped and looked at me. "Dad?"

He nodded. "EMP," he said.

We looked around. Cars could be seen scattered all along the highway. It was dead silent except for the cries of the motorists—no sound of vehicles running of any kind.

I take that back—because I began to hear an old truck rumbling up to the accident and saw what looked like three people in it. I turned away to assess our situation.

"So, son," my dad began, "we know what this is. It's an EMP of some kind."

Either a nuclear or solar blast of energy that had fried modern electronic systems—including the power grid and probably everything that was connected to it. Some people would have older vehicles that would still run, and maybe some more modern ones would be okay if they were protected by a Faraday cage. Otherwise…

I knew all that because we had some radios and junk in just such a cage in our garage.

"Let's gear up," said my dad.

I climbed back in the truck and reached into the back and unlocked the back doors. We removed the bags we took on the camping trip, an extra pair of socks, underwear and a shirt, my Frog Toggs rain suit, and my hunter's pack with just the essentials for survival. We pulled up the seats and opened the two bottom containers. In them, where the jack was, Dad kept his machete. There were a few times when small leaning trees on our long gravel driveway needed to be chopped down before the truck could pass. There was also a trench shovel from his time in the Army. Finally, there were some road flares next to the jack.

Then we opened the seat backs and their two compartments. In one was a small black hiker's backpack with a gravity water filter, and a small medical kit with more items in it than in the pack belt medical kit. It also had a folding survival rifle in a locked, waterproof soft case, a Chiappa M6 .22/20, a neat little survival rifle that had two barrels; and a 20 gauge shotgun over a .22LR. It was good for birds or small game, but it only held one shell in each chamber, with a separate trigger for each barrel. Lightweight—only six pounds, easy to carry. The other seat compartment had a gun safe with nothing in it—Dad kept it in the truck in case anyone ever noticed he was carrying and asked him to leave. It could be carried almost anywhere in Massachusetts, but you have to comply if you are asked to remove it. His gun had sat in there during our trip to Arkansas, There was also a small bag of ammo. Dad added it to his backpack along with my extra clothes.

"This bag has about 150 rounds of 9mm Federal in it, a box of 40 .22LR, and a box of 20 gauge birdshot," he told me. "I want to trade you the belt for the backpack," he said, removing a box of the 9mm rounds. "I'll keep this and my pistol, but you take the backpack with the rifle and extra rounds. That way you can use the 20-22 if you need to."

I put the rest of the ammo in the backpack and gave Dad my belt.  He snapped it on around his waist.

"Won't that block your back holster?" I asked.

He reached back."Yeah, it does sort of block it." He tried pulling the gun out and replacing it a few times. "It's alright. Better than putting it in my pocket."

I knew that. He had all kinds of holsters, but settled on the back holster. He had me try all of them on as well, and I could easily see why. It was the most comfortable, best concealed, and easiest to pull out.

He practiced reaching back and pulling the gun real quick a few more times, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. "I can still get to it okay, so I'll leave it. Plus maybe some unsuspecting robber might ask for the belt, and I could reach around and unbuckle it and pull the gun at the same time."

"Sounds like a plan, Dad," I said. 

With him leading the way, I knew we'd make it back home easily and in one piece.

The backpack fit everything just fine, as I knew it would, although the machete stuck out the top.
I might have to strap that on
. I opened the backpack, removed it, and went ahead and put it on. I had nothing except my pocketknife for quick defense, and that wouldn't do at all.

I put the pack on and made the straps comfortable, and then Dad asked to see the pack again.

I made an exaggerated sigh and made like it was a real burden to pull it off, and Dad laughed at my joking around.

"I was thinking about my gun," he said. He opened the backpack and got out the ammo bag, then pulled out an extra magazine and put it in his pocket. "I forgot to get that out," he said.

I looked confused."Really? It didn't jump out of your pocket and into the ammo bag by itself?"

"Goofus," he said, laughing, and I laughed with him.

"And not only that…" he said. He took the magazine out of his pocked and switched it out with the magazine in the gun. "I usually keep the seven-rounder in there, since it's easier on my back, but I want that one extra bullet—it could mean the difference between life or death."

That's a little scary,
I thought.

One bullet?

My steel water container went in its spot on the backpack. I took back the ammo bag and put it in the pack. Dad handed me a medical kit that I'd forgotten and I put that in. "There's more," he said, then he stuck his head in the front seat of the truck. He handed me a wind-up flashlight that still seemed to work, plus an extra S.O.G. knife that I put on my belt instead of the backpack. There was a nice Mora in my waist-pack that he could use.

"Dad, here," I said, giving him the S.O.G. "Lemme me have my Mora." We swapped knives, and he handed me an extra emergency blanket that had been in the center console of the truck.

I put on the backpack and started to walk toward the accident. Hang on," called Dad, so I stopped.
Dang it. This probably means more weight for me
.

I went back and again took off the pack. Into it went some gum, Tylenol, and Tums out of the glove box, plus an extra jacket, Patriots’ winter hat, and some gloves from the back seats. Then Dad went to the truck's bed and opened the side containers.

I'd almost forgotten he kept some gear in there. 

He had extra water bottles, Millennium bars, some paracord, a trash bag with a few things in it, and a Swiss Army knife. We put most of it in the backpack, but Dad took out the medical kit and kept some water bottles. Finally geared up, we started walking back to the accident.

Dad held two water bottles and the medical kit as we approached the scene. He probably figured holding those out as a peace offering wouldn't get us shot, or at least the people there wouldn't be afraid of us. Not many people carried this kind of emergency gear around in Massachusetts.

"Lemme have some bandages and wipes, and one of the bottles," I said to Dad. He opened the medical kit and handed me a few supplies.

We probably looked a sight—both of us six foot four, with cargo pants, earth-tone shirts, and hiking boots—a camouflage hunter's pack belt on my dad, and a black backpack with a machete in a belt on me.