Zero Hour: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (The Blackout Series Book 2) (14 page)

The Suburban was perfectly positioned from its crash landing the first day. By running up on the retaining wall, it created plenty of room for Colton to crawl under it. He checked for a drain plug in the fuel tank. Older vehicles had them, but it had been nearly twenty years since he’d worked on a car.

There wasn’t one. The next option was to siphon out the gas. The newer gas tanks had protective screens or metal blocking devices to prevent gasoline spillage during an accident. He’d come up with a workaround. While he was loading sandbags from the cable repair site down the street, he’d grabbed several sizes of rigid, underground cable housing to be used for this purpose. First, he crammed a six-foot, quarter-inch plastic line into the gas tank until it hit the blockade. He twisted and pushed, eventually forcing the tube around the metal valve blocking entry to the tank.

Colton removed the flexible hose from their small sump pump, which was used to remove standing water from their pool cover in the winter. He forced it down into the tank until it reached the bottom. This was an extremely slow method of siphoning gas. Colton estimated it took about ten minutes to pull out a gallon of gas. Colton always said time was only worth what you were getting paid for it, and with the value of a gallon of gas being astronomical, it was worth the effort.

While he supervised the siphoning process, several of the residents returned from Belle Meade Country Club where the water and food distribution trucks were set up. Colton slowly felt for his weapon, which had become a habit now. Every human contact was a potential threat.

They were all empty-handed. He didn’t recognize any of the faces as being from around his neighborhood. The first two men and a woman passed by without glancing in his direction. They looked defeated. Shuffling their feet as they walked, their heads hung down, and one even appeared to be disoriented. It was hot as blazes again, and the trip to the FEMA trailers was not worth the effort.

Colton was curious, so he forced the conversation. He stepped into the street and stopped two men who were bloodied.

“What happened, guys?”

“It was a bust,” replied one of the men. “We got there around midnight last night to get in line. We didn’t care about the curfew. We need food and water.”

Colton studied their faces. He’d never seen the look of despair before, but now it was looking back at him. “Were there a lot of people there?”

“Several hundred at least,” replied the other man, who had an open gash across his cheek. He’d ripped his shirt sleeve off and was dabbing at the wound.

“The first thing that made people mad is they had this roped-off area that we had to walk through to get into the parking lot where the trucks were parked. We were handed this.”

Colton took the paper from the man. It read Declaration of Martial Law. He glanced over it and then tried to hand it back to the man.

“You keep it,” he said. “Before we could enter the parking lot, we were forced to give up our guns.”

“Yeah,” started the other man. “They kept shouting to give up all weapons or there wouldn’t be any food distributed. This really made people mad. Some tried to leave, but there were plenty of National Guardsmen there. They were taken down, and their guns were confiscated.”

“One guy tried to hide his rifle by stuffing it down his pants leg, but another person in line told on him. This caused a fight, and both of them were thrown out of line.”

“Other than that, everything was orderly until they opened the trailers up,” said the other man. “That’s when all heck broke loose.”

“For one thing, they were almost an hour late,” said the gashed-cheekbone man. “People were angry before the distribution even started. Military guys were standing around, and plenty of folks in neatly pressed FEMA uniforms, but they weren’t doin’ anything except talking and—”

“Drinking coffee,” interrupted the other man.

“What?” asked Colton.

“You heard us. The FEMA people were standing around the trailers guarded by men with guns, drinking coffee right in front of us while we waited for the trailers to open.”

Colton shook his head. The government bureaucrats who were part of the FEMA relief effort weren’t suffering, apparently.

“What happened when they opened the trailers?” asked Colton.

“One trailer had bottled water, and the other trailer had boxes of food. Each person was allowed twelve pint-sized water bottles and a box of twelve freeze-dried meals.”

“I’ve got my wife and two kids. That would only last us one day!”

Colton once again looked at the dozens of people headed their way from the club. They were all empty-handed.

“Why didn’t you get at least that?” asked Colton.

“As the trailer doors opened, the first thing we noticed was that they weren’t full. These were big military rigs pulling trailers labeled Sysco. They could’ve held enough food for everybody, but the trailers were only half full.”

“Yeah, that made folks mad from the git-go. The people to the rear of us started pushing forward. Others noticed the surge and then bum-rushed the trailers. It was a mass of people trampling and crushing everyone in their path.”

“My gosh!” exclaimed Colton. A family of four stopped to join the conversation. The children seemed to be very weak.

“The military guys tried to get things under control, and a few folks got some supplies. Then the FEMA people made it worse.”

“How so?” asked Colton.

“They treated us like schoolkids,” said the woman who had joined the conversation. “The head FEMA guy grabbed one of those megaphones and began to yell for us to get into a single file line or they were going to close the doors and leave.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what he said. It made it worse because then people panicked. I’ve never seen anything like it. People had no regard for their fellow human being.”

The woman started crying. “My kids were being trampled. The army guys pulled out these black batons and started beating people down. There was blood everywhere.” She was sobbing at this point, and her husband tried to comfort her, but she just pushed him away.

“Did it ever get under control?” asked Colton.

“No. They closed up the doors, just like the FEMA guy said, and they all left. People chased them for a while. Some were throwing rocks. It looked like a scene from Iraq.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” asked the woman. Then she answered herself, “We didn’t learn anything. The FEMA people wouldn’t answer our questions. There was no announcement of when the power would be restored. They didn’t say when they would be back. All we got was that piece of paper with a list of new rules and the locations of FEMA camps.”

The woman took her kids by the hands and began to walk away. Her husband followed them, as did the other two men. Colton looked westward down Harding Place. Dozens more were headed his way.

Colton pondered and realized how lucky his family was. It had only been seven days since the solar flare, and people were growing more desperate. Respect for others was gone. His neighbors were impoverished, having burned through the contents of their kitchen cupboards already. With no place to turn, these people put all of their hopes in FEMA and the National Guard. Their government, however, left them bloodied and mentally broken.

Chapter 24

DAY EIGHT

1:00 a.m., September 16

Ryman Residence

Belle Meade, Tennessee

Sitting on the front porch with the shotgun laid across his lap, Colton couldn’t get the scene from that afternoon out of his mind. The Great Depression that hit America in the 1930s was an example of a national economic collapse. As in any catastrophic event, fingers of blame were quickly pointed. Some economists opined a lack of government control and intervention left the free market unable to sustain itself. Others believed government over-regulation and manipulation was the problem. Overall, politicians and pundits were convinced the economy was capable of correcting itself unless a catastrophic event occurred—a trigger event, which forced an already unstable economic climate over the edge.

The collapse of the nation’s power grid following the solar flare was America’s trigger event. Colton conjured up images of the Great Depression. One photograph came to mind of a hungry and desperate mother who, with her young children, were living off vegetables from surrounding farms and the crows they were able to kill. The picture, which became famously known as
Migrant Mother
, was embedded in Colton’s mind as he recalled the day’s events.

During the Great Depression, people helped one another. Families pooled their resources, and the church became a place of refuge and a provider of sustenance. Colton continued to wrestle with whether he should share his family’s food with others. He was a generous, giving man.
But how could he face his dying family, knowing he gave away the food they needed to live another day?
When feelings of guilt popped into his mind, he thought of the
Migrant Mother
.
I will not let that happen to Madison and Alex
.

He sat quietly, listening to the faint bark of a dog in the distance. After a week, his eyes had grown accustomed to seeing in the dark. He was able to detect movement better. His ears became attuned to unusual sounds. Gunshots in the distance became more prevalent, especially from the direction of downtown Nashville.

It was against this quiet backdrop that Colton heard the clanking of cans followed by hushed voices coming from the backyard. He bolted off the porch, adrenaline rushing through his body, preparing him for a fight-or-flight reaction to a potential threat.

His eyes darted in every direction.
Did he hear correctly
?
Was he too deep in thought to comprehend the noise
?

Colton cautiously rounded the corner of the house and approached the gate entering the pool area—trying to stay low to the ground. He’d left it open during his evening rounds and immediately got upset with himself for providing intruders easy access to his backyard.

CRACK!

Colton heard the crunch of a twig in the trees behind the house. Someone was sneaking through the woods!

SHHHH!

More than one person. Colton moved into the patio area, remaining in a low crouch. He glanced up at his daughter’s window. Had she heard it too? He had no way to warn Madison and Alex without being discovered.

The people who were approaching his home through the backyard had tripped one of the makeshift alarms farthest from the house. Colton had set it up as a deterrent. He hoped any potential marauder would hear the alarm they stumbled upon, realize they were detected, and then leave.

They were still coming—bold, unafraid, and thus, dangerous.

Colton immediately ran a thousand things through his head.
How many are there? Will the girls be safe? Do I yell and warn them away?
This didn’t appear to be a time for negotiation. These people were up to no good.
Do I shoot first and ask questions later
?

This last thought forced Colton to think about the readiness and use of his weapon. He was unsure how to use the various shotgun shells purchased by Madison. He’d studied the three options and determined that the birdshot held the most pellets and would be the most forgiving if his aim was off. Then, the buckshot only held nine pellets and would be more lethal. Finally, he decided the slugs could be used for hunting or when he became a better shot. With this in mind, he’d staggered his rounds—one birdshot followed by a buckshot shell and so on, for a total of five.

Only five!
Once again, Colton closed his eyes and shook his head. He was about to enter into a possible gunfight with only five shotgun shells. The others were hidden inside the house.

RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE
was followed by a loud whisper, but close enough for Colton to hear. The perimeter alarm closest to the trail entering the clearing was tripped. He had to make a decision.

Colton was completely unprepared for a gunfight. If these people were heavily armed or if they had the numbers, their home would be overrun and his entire family might be killed. He had no choice. He had to be the aggressor.

Colton flipped off the safety and pointed the Remington into the woods. There was no discernible target. None of the intruders had reached the opening, which was just sixty feet from his position. He quickly glanced up at Alex’s window to see if there was any sign of her or Madison.
They must be sleeping, but not for long
.

He took aim at the funnel point he’d created where the trail emptied into their yard, and gently squeezed the trigger.

BOOM!

The retort of the Remington 870 rang in his ears and reverberated off the walls of the pool house and the garage. The echo was probably heard for miles. The recoil pushed into his shoulder, knocking him back against the fence.

ARRRGGGGHHH!

A man was screaming in pain in the woods.

“Are you okay, Gene?”

Before he could answer, a barrage of gunfire streamed out of Alex’s window.
They were awake!
Bullets fired wildly into the trees, splintering bark and hitting the ground with a thug.

“ARRRGGGGHHH! I’m hit!” Two wounded.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Crap! Return fire! This time the bullets were flying over his head and hitting the roof of the garage, causing him to dive for cover behind the retaining wall. This gave Colton a clear view into Alex’s window. In unison, from each side of the window, Madison and Alex stuck their hands out and opened fire on the woods. The bullets missed their mark, this time shredding the tops of the trees. But the deluge had the desired effect.

“Run!” shouted one of the men.

One of the wounded intruders was still groaning.

“Somebody help him,” said a new voice. Colton counted at least four or five voices now.

Then, Colton heard a sixth, somewhat recognizable voice. “Let’s finish what we started!”