EMP Caravan

CHAPTER 1

Wayne

If zombies really existed, these guys would scare them shitless. Who are you? I asked trying not to gag at the stench.

It don't matter who we are. His face pushed forward and he stared hard at me, sweat streaking the reddish dust covering his face. I noticed a small tattoo on his neck, B-something.

My name is Wayne...

Like we give a shit.

What do you want with us?

We’re gonna kill you and your friends and there ain’t one damn thing you can do about it. The tall thin man laughed as the fingers of his right hand caressed the checkered walnut handle of the rusty .45 stuck in the waistband of his grimy jeans. I noticed his boots didn't match. One was brown and one was black, and they were different styles. That was an increasingly common sight nowadays.

The stocky, bearded fellow wearing the red do-rag and muddy cargo shorts standing beside him leaned forward, snortled through his yellowed, pointed teeth, and said in a high voice that reminded me of a rat chirp, Yeah, not a damn thing. His breath was fetid. I wondered if the brown stuff on his shorts was really mud, or something else? I decided to call these guys the Stinks.

I don't think you should kill us, I said, frantically working my wrists against the ropes binding me. I’m sure we can work out a deal. Maybe we can make a trade?

Naw, we take what we want, the Stink with the red do-rag sneered. We don't trade for nothin’. Ain't that right, Chief?

That's right, Smoke. The Chief pulled the rusty .45 from his belt and pointed it at my head. The soft click...clack of the hammer being cocked was the loudest sound I ever heard. He pulled the trigger and I felt the pressure wave from the blast. By the time I realized I was still alive, he was snickering. Don't worry fella. We won't kill you fast. We’ll make it slow, real slow.

My ears were still ringing from the concussion of a .45 being fired within a foot of my head, but I heard him just fine. There’s no need to kill any...

Ha, like you got any say in the matter, Stretch. He turned to Smoke and said, This one’s funny.

Yeah, and big too.

That don't matter when we have the guns. Good old Sam Colt made all men equal, and since we have all the guns, we’re more equal. We can do what we fuckin’ well please.

What you wanna do, Chief?

The chief scratched his head and glanced at his fingers. We're gonna have one of them shows for everybody. This man here, and his two friends, will be our entertainment this afternoon.

I had to ask, Not like the Roman games, I hope?

Naw. What gave you that idea? That's too boring. We're gonna use you guys for target practice. You know, a finger at a time. It takes a long time to shoot all the little pieces off, especially when we cauterize a lot to stop you from bleeding to death too quickly. Ha, it’ll smell like a barbecue before we're done. There’ll be bets riding on every shot. He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex that shone bright against the brown dinginess of his garb. You boys got three hours before the fun starts. Stay cool, now, ya hear. They guffawed as they walked through the open door, nodding to the two men standing guard just outside.

When I started the trip home to Indiana from New Mexico after the EMP, I thought the journey itself would be my worst opponent. I was wrong. My greatest opponent was my own stupidity, in more ways than one. We were taken completely by surprise when the dirt bikes roared out of the arroyo, an amateur mistake.

Losing my life to my own stupidity was acceptable, if not desirable, although I would regret not making it home to my wife and son in Indiana, as I would regret not seeing Julie and Yeti again. But, to lose Jimmy and Sandy, two of the most promising young men from our trading caravan, as well—that rankled.

From where I sat propped against the wall, I could see Jimmy and Sandy. Both lay silent in their restraints. I didn't see any obvious wounds, nor could I tell if they were dead or alive. But, since our captors tied them, I assumed they were still alive, or had been when we were captured anyway.

I studied the room. It seemed to be just a room in a house somewhere. The room was bare, just fake, oak laminate flooring, stained Sheetrock walls with peeling paint, and not a stick of furniture. That didn't surprise me. We found empty rooms in many of the houses we encountered now. I figured survivors burned the furniture for heat last winter. Some houses had even been partially dismantled and the studs burned for firewood.

We were blindfolded before we were brought here. Jimmy and Sandy were still blindfolded. The Stinks removed my blindfold; perhaps to see the expression on my face when they told me they were going to kill us. If so, these were some sadistic SOB's.

They took our rifles, pistols, and knives and emptied our pockets when we were captured. I looked around the room for something I could use to cut the ropes. Julie had been after me to carry a small hideout blade for some time now, but I hadn't found one yet that suited me. She cried when I didn't like the one she suggested. Lately, Julie seemed more emotional than usual. I figured it was just the stress of the road. At the moment, I wished I wasn't so picky about knives. Sometimes procrastination can bite you in the ass.

I surveyed the room once more for anything I could use to cut or abrade the rope. I saw only an empty cigarette pack. My belt buckle might work, but my hands were tied behind my back. My heart was racing. I forced myself to calm down.

Jimmy, Sandy, are you guys all right? There was no answer. I heard a muted whimper from one of the guys. At least one of them was alive. I hoped the other was too.

There was a rope running from where my hands were tied behind my back to the rope that bound my ankles, so much for playing contortionist and trying to slide my bound hands over my feet from behind.

I strained against the ropes. They didn't give. The rope was half-inch thick sisal with a breaking strength of well over 1,000 pounds when new, but this rope was far from new. I knew natural-fiber rope has a relatively low working load compared to its breaking strength. My dad once explained to me that it was because sudden shocks break some of the fibers, weakening the rope.

I relaxed my hands and arms as much as possible and abruptly jerked my wrists against the rope, hoping to break a few fibers, if not the rope. I could feel my bones give under the pressure. I let out an involuntary yelp.

One of the guards said, Knock it off, Stupid, through the open doorway.

I tried again more quietly. After the one hundredth try, tears were streaming down my face and I could feel blood from my wrists wetting my shirt cuffs and pooling on the floor against my jeans. Every time I slammed my wrists into the rope, a flash of pain nearly caused me to black out. I kept trying anyway. I needed to get Sandy and Jimmy out of this mess that I got us into, and I wanted to see my family again, all of them.

On about the 450th try, I blacked out. When I woke, I resumed trying to break the rope. I thought there was more give in the rope now.

On my 500th try, more or less, the rope broke.

My hands and wrists were slippery with blood and I was well marinated with sweat. My wrists throbbed with each movement of my fingers, but I managed to untie the rope that bound my ankles. I could hear, and smell, the two guards talking just beyond the open door. I pondered simply putting Jimmy over one shoulder and Sandy over the other and making a run for it past the guards, but I knew that wouldn't work. I quietly ripped off my left shirtsleeve, tore it into two parts, and bandaged my wrists. No sense in leaving a blood trail for them to follow if we could escape.

I crept across the gritty floor to Sandy. He was awake. I untied his hands and motioned for him to free Jimmy. Jimmy was unconscious, if not worse. By the time I made it to the door, Sandy was untying Jimmy. I knelt and picked up the empty cigarette pack.

I tossed the cigarette pack down the hall and stepped through the door after it. I decked the guard facing me with a right uppercut, and spun and stuck the other guard in the back of the neck with a left cross. I heard his neck snap and it sounded like something broke in my hand as well. Both guards were down and quiet. Fortunately no one came to investigate the commotion. Sandy and I appropriated the guard's guns, ammunition, and knives.

I put Jimmy over my shoulder and went back into the hall. Sandy was reconnoitering through the window at the end of the hall. Can we make it? I whispered.

I think so. I don't see anyone and it’s only twenty-five yards to cover. There's an arroyo over there with a few cottonwood trees and a lot of salt cedar. I think we can hide there. Why don't you go first and I’ll pass Jimmy out to you?

Jimmy weighs a good thirty-five pounds more than you.

I can do it.

Okay. I went through the window as quietly as I could. Fortunately it was open, probably for the breeze since there no longer was any air conditioning. Sandy passed Jimmy through the window with only a muffled grunt. I was impressed.

We made for the arroyo.

Stop, the voice screamed just before a ragged volley of gunfire mutilated the quiet. I ran with Jimmy across my shoulder. Sandy dashed ahead to a downed cottonwood tree at the edge of the arroyo. When I arrived, Sandy was returning a slow, timed fire with the Ruger Mini-14 he took from one of the guards. I laid Jimmy down behind the big silvery-gray trunk just as three Stinks, wildly waving their guns and freakishly comical in their urgency to annihilate us, charged across the yard. Sandy shot one in the chest. He kept coming and collapsed two feet from the cottonwood, giving off a reek that was almost palpable. I shot another one with the 12-gauge I took from the other guard. He dropped like a paycheck after taxes. The third Stink ran for cover, pulling at his baggy pants with one hand to keep them from tripping him. Sandy and I both laughed at his antics, but then baggy pants weren't rare these days. Quite a few people wore baggy clothes that used to fit them before the EMP.

I saw tall gray thunderheads developing to the west, but rain was often spotty here. If it stormed, the rain might help us evade the Stinks. I said, We have to get out of here. There are too many of them.

Sandy said, I counted sixteen when we were captured.

I heard the guttural awakening of several motorcycles and then rising howl as they took off. The salt cedar was thick in the arroyo. It was unlikely our pursuers could follow us into the brush on motorcycles. I assumed they were going to try to head us off.

I put Jimmy over my shoulder and we sprinted through the brush along the streambed. Much of the salt cedar was dead and prickly. Dodging through it felt a lot like dancing the boogie with a porcupine. I protected Jimmy's head as best I could.

Wayne, over here. Sandy found a game trail, so we took off down that. Sandy navigated the narrow trail with incredible athletic ease, fluidly ducking under overhanging branches. I struggled just to move forward. For the millionth time in my life, I wished I were smaller. I could hear Stinks in the brush behind us. They were less than a hundred yards away.

We crossed the dry creek.

Sandy, let me have your hat.

Why?

Because I lost mine when we were captured.

Mine won't fit you.

I know. I need it for something else.

I hung Sandy's hat on a bush where it would be visible to our pursuers. I placed the shotgun in the bush so the barrel was visible just below the hat.

I slung Jimmy over my right shoulder. Stand still, Sandy. I picked Sandy up and slung him over my left shoulder.

Hey... Sandy said as he almost dropped his rifle.

About the only advantage of being oversized is being strong. Quiet, I have a plan. I strode back to the arroyo bed and walked 80 feet along a sandbar before stepping into the brush. Then I set Sandy down and motioned for him to bring up the rear. We lit out.

I hoped our pursuers would think only one man ran across the sandbar and the other two were waiting in the bushes to ambush them. Soon I heard shouts and gunfire behind us. I figured my plan worked and it would slow them down a bit.

We came to a gap in the salt cedar. Here the arroyo was almost devoid of vegetation except for scattered cottonwood trees. We dashed from tree to tree. I was slower than usual since I was running for two.

The brown-walled arroyo became deeper and the banks steeper as we ran. There was even a trickle of water on the arroyo floor now. The distant sun seemed unusually close and warm.

We both ran flat out. Sandy drew ahead by a hundred yards and made it into the next salt cedar thicket ahead of me. I was seventy feet from the thicket when I heard a stutter and saw a line of miniature craters mushroom from the reddish-brown dirt six inches from my foot.

Sandy fired at something behind me as I crashed into the brush. Sandy said, That was automatic weapon fire.

Sounded like a machine pistol.

That's what it looked like.

Where?

About fifty yards out behind a couple of cottonwood trees. There are four of them.

Can you hit them from here?

No.

We need to delay them.

How?

I have an idea. I used the knife I took from the guard and made some sharp sticks about two feet long. Then I found three long, flexible limbs and secured the sharp stakes to them with strips ripped from my other shirtsleeve. Sandy contributed his shirt sleeves and we made a couple of trip lines and rigged three whip traps so they covered the best entry point into the salt cedar thicket.

I put Jimmy over my shoulder and we ducked, weaved, and almost crawled our way through the salt cedar. This thicket was only two hundred feet across and soon we were sprinting across another open section hoping the Stinks weren’t on the arroyo rim with rifles. By now my arms were burning and nearly red with a mixture of blood from myriad scratches and sweat.

We heard a scream behind us. Sandy grinned, I think we got one.

We had only gone another hundred feet when we heard a single shot. I was too busy balancing Jimmy on my shoulder to think much about it.

Just ahead of us, three dirt bikes careened down the ten-foot-high arroyo wall. One yellow dirt bike and rider tumbled ass over keel. The others came at us firing pistols. I laid Jimmy down behind a cottonwood as Sandy fired back. He dropped the first rider, but the second ran him down and his rifle went flying. The Stink circled back, yowling like a banshee, his pistol held high. Sandy rolled out of the way just before the Stink could run over him. I shot at the Stink from twenty feet and hit him in the right shoulder. He dropped his pistol. I fired two more rounds that missed as he executed a frenzy of wild, one-handed maneuvers that earned my admiration. However, they didn't earn my sympathy. When he slowed, I shot him through the chest. He lost control and crashed into a cottonwood tree.

Sandy recovered his rifle. I shouted, Look out Sandy, as I saw the Stink who smashed his motorcycle at the bottom of the arroyo wall raise a rifle. He was almost two hundred feet from us. I hastily fired my pistol and saw the dirt splash fifteen feet from him as I missed. Just like a Stink to not set the sights on his weapon.

Sandy took aim and fired a single shot. The Stink dropped and lay still.

We could hear our pursuers behind us. I lifted Jimmy onto my shoulder and we skedaddled. After a quarter of a mile, we wormed our way into a large salt cedar thicket. Once, I heard a flurry of gunshots in the distance. I could hear our pursuers shouting behind us. They were gaining on us now. That was when we heard the motorcycles ahead of us.

Over here, Sandy said, I found a hidey-hole. Sandy had found a hole on the stream bank where a big old cottonwood stump had rotted away. The hole was six feet across, four feet deep, and ringed by dense salt cedar. I slid Jimmy into the hole and motioned for Sandy to get in as well. I cut a branch and erased our tracks back to the streambed. Then, deliberately leaving tracks, I walked down the sandy streambed for two hundred feet. I climbed out of the nearly dry streambed and smoothed away my tracks behind me. Once in the brush, I went back to the hidey-hole and joined the others. I heard our pursuers but I couldn't see them.

Hey, they went this way. See the tracks?

Let's go. Red and Guts are up ahead. We’ll have them in a crossfire.

We waited until the Stinks passed, left Jimmy in the hole, and followed behind. Sandy had the Mini-14 and I had the 9mm with bad sights and possibly a bent barrel or shot-out rifling. We caught them where a dirt track crossed the arroyo in a wide spot.

Our pursuers were talking to four of their gang sitting astride motorcycles. The Stinks were frantically looking around. Two were waving their arms like signal flags in a speed semaphore contest, obviously in a heated argument. There were eight of them and two of us.

We opened fire from our hidden position only a hundred feet away. Four Stinks dropped and four made it into the brush on the other side of the dirt road. I think Sandy got three and I nailed one. This time I just ignored the sights.

One of the survivors opened up with a full auto, probably a 9mm of some sort. Sandy and I flattened out and dug like demons. By the time the guy's magazine was empty we had a pile of dirt pushed up in front of us.

Sandy covered me with the Mini-14. I rolled left and moved to flank the four bikers. I found a position behind a cottonwood and watched.

They left their bikes in the open and crouched in the brush on the other side of the track. I could see one’s tan hat and the dull red checks of another’s shirt. I assumed the other two were close by, unless of course, one or both of them were trying the same maneuver I was.

The checked shirt was about a hundred feet from me. Not the best range for a pistol with unworkable sights, but when you’re outnumbered, you have only two choices. One is to run like hell. The other is to attack. I attacked.

I fired at the man in the checked shirt and immediately fired two more rounds where I thought the man in the hat should be. I rolled fifteen feet to my left just as the guy with the full auto opened up on my previous position. I felt the sting of hot sand on my face from a close miss. He was shooting wild.

From the cries of pain, I must have hit one or both of the men I shot at. I put a round into each of the gas tanks on the motorcycles. One bike exploded and set the other bikes on fire. I rolled away just before the full auto fire began again.

Cap taught me that if you wound an enemy, you tie up more than one man because someone has to care for the wounded man. Just then I heard two shots. The sobs and moans abruptly stopped. I remembered the shot we heard shortly after the scream from the whip trap. If the Stinks did what I thought they just did, they were some really cold bastards. Who gives the coup de grâs to their comrades so easily?

I slipped farther back into the bushes and light-footed it to Sandy's position. Two down, I think.

That just leaves two.

Unless the others join them. There are still at least four, and maybe more, out there on bikes.

We need to get Jimmy and get the fuck outta here.

I nodded, Let's go.

We made it back to the stump hole. Jimmy was awake but still groggy. He was covered with black, organic-rich dirt. He must have been tossing and turning in the hole. Where’ve you guys been? he asked. What happened? All I remember is the sound of motorcycles...

Later Jimmy, no time to explain, I said. Let's go. We pulled Jimmy out of the hole and headed back toward the house since there were two Stinks still blocking our path in the other direction. Sandy supported Jimmy and I took point with the Mini-14.

I smelled him before I saw him. I held up a closed fist. Sandy and Jimmy stopped. I motioned toward a thicker than usual clump of salt cedar. Jimmy followed Sandy to the thicket and they disappeared.

The wind was from the west and we were headed northwest. That meant the Stink was ahead on my left. I listened carefully but heard nothing. We weren’t close to where we set the whip traps, so I doubted I smelled the one who screamed. Most likely it was yet another Stink, a peculiarly malodorous one too. I chuckled to myself. I remembered reading about Indians who could smell the white man before they saw him. Now I understood. In the caravan, we bathed as often as possible, and boiled our clothes in water and soap filled 55-gallon drums placed over fires. I doubted the Stinks had washed their clothes since the EMP.

I set the Mini-14 against a small tree and pulled my knife. I was hoping to take this Stink out quietly. I eased through the brush, taking pains to make as little noise as possible. He dropped on me from twenty feet up a cottonwood tree and slammed me to the ground. I rolled and got to my feet just as he crashed into me again and we both went down.

He had both hands around my neck and was squeezing for all he was worth. He was a big guy and had forearms like Popeye the Sailor. He smelled like he’d been intimate with a skunk. I was starting to black out when I remembered the knife that was still in my hand. I reversed it and stabbed him in the back. He yelped but just squeezed my throat more tightly. I stabbed him again and the knife stuck in bone. I couldn't pull it out. He kept squeezing. I moved my forearms and tried to break his grip by slamming my arms against his. It didn't work. He was a human bulldog.

I got one hand on his face and pushed my thumb into his eye. He still didn't let go. He was a madman, a madman with one eyeball hanging out on his cheek. He just squeezed harder. I slammed my fists into his head as hard as I could, to no avail. I was fading fast. Everything now hinged on one last effort. Either I was successful, or he would kill me. I gave it everything I had and flipped us over so I was on top. He gave a cry when his back slammed into the ground, shuddered, and gradually went still. Sandy had to pry his hands from my throat.

I sat against the cottonwood tree while Sandy and Jimmy rolled the Stink over. The knife I had stuck in his back had gone the rest of the way in and pierced his heart when his back slammed into the ground.

My throat ached and I had difficulty breathing. This guy must be on something.

Jimmy said, Probably PCP from the way he was acting. Geez, he stinks.

Why the drugs? Sandy asked. You would think they would value a clear head.

I croaked, They don't seem very bright. Who knows?

Forty minutes later we were close to the house once more.

We made our way as silently as possible. I was hoping we could steal a couple of motorcycles and, as my southern grandfather used to say, git from here.

I hear horses, Sandy said as we crouched in the brush a hundred feet from the old farmhouse. He wormed his way to a vantage point. Hey, it’s our guys. I recognize Dan's spotted horse.

Let's be careful, just in case they’ve been captured too.

Sandy said, There’s only one motorcycle there. Jimmy and I scrabbled up and looked. We saw a man wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a light blue denim shirt come out of the house. He was carrying a rifle and had a holstered .45 auto in a brown holster on his right side and a sheathed bowie knife on the other. The bowie knife had a white handle. I stood up and shouted, Hello the house. Hey Dan, it’s us, Wayne, Jimmy, and Sandy.

Well, it’s about time, Dan said, lowering his rifle and tipping his caramel-colored Stetson up as we approached. You guys were late so we came after you. Do you think these are the guys who have been stealing our cows? Dan pointed at one of the bikers lying dead in the yard. I assumed that explained the shots I heard earlier.

I don't think so.

Where’re your horses?

Killed when we were ambushed. These guys, I pointed at the dead Stink, deliberately shot our horses.

That’s cold, Dan said. Any idea where they came from?

That bike has a Texas tag, I said. Somewhere around here?

It’s gonna be dark soon, Dan said. I think we better hole up here for the night.

We spent the time before dark moving the horses into the house. We turned the living room into a temporary stable, and took turns standing watch.

The next morning, Dan and I were on the porch discussing that first morning cup of coffee when we heard motorcycles approaching, lots of them.

CHAPTER 2

Yeti

I love scavenger hunts, especially this one because I found a girl. She is tall, lithe, and only has one flaw that I can discern; she’s pointing a pistol at my head.

Who are you?

My name is Yeti.

What kind of name is that? Her head tilted slightly to the right as she spoke.

Just a name. What's yours?

What were you going to do with me?

Well, let's see. My first thought was to take you home to my mom and dad and ask if I could marry you. Her eyes softened a bit.