Wilson Harp - EMP

I worked my way up the three steps into the kitchen. Once my feet hit the worn linoleum, I slowed to give Mom time to navigate the steps. We carried Dad into the living room and laid him on the sofa.

“Go get him some water, David,” Mom said as she kneeled by Dad’s head.

I went to the kitchen and poured some water from the large pitcher into a glass. Mom and Dad spoke to each other, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I brought the glass to Mom and handed it to her.

“On our dresser is a medicine bottle. Get a pill out of that and then go and get a baby aspirin from the medicine cabinet,” Mom said.

I nodded and went back to their bedroom. I was amazed Mom was so clear and determined. The adrenalin of seeing Dad on the ground must have sharpened her attention and focus.

I found the bottle on the well-organized dresser and opened it. As I shook out one of the pills, I realized Ted was right. Billy had already told me he would only have enough pills for Mom for another few months and none for Dad at all.

Dad would need to really watch his stress level and not exert himself. We also needed to find more meds for him, and that likely meant rooting through the possessions of people who no longer needed them. Stealing from the dead was not how I wanted to survive.

I got the aspirin from the medicine cabinet in their bathroom and went back to where Dad was laying. He was propped up a bit and watched me as I came out of the hallway over to the sofa.

“Sorry about that, Davey,” he said. “I guess I lost my balance.”

“You had a heart attack, Dad,” I said as I gave him the pills.

“No,” said Mom. “It wasn’t a heart attack. If it was, we would need to call an ambulance and we can’t do that.”

“It was a heart attack, Abbey,” Dad said. “And we can’t call an ambulance. We’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

Mom’s eyes swelled with tears. She had been crying before, but now the tears flowed like little streams. They dripped off her chin as she sobbed.

“Don’t you say that Pat. Don’t you say that. We have to find a way.”

My jaw slid open as I didn’t know any words to comfort her. I looked at Dad and he waved me away. His arms pulled Mom close to him and he mouthed “it’s okay” to me.

I didn’t feel right leaving them when he was so weak and Mom was in tears, but I retreated to my old room. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. Thoughts of losing one or both of my parents overwhelmed me and I began to cry. Then thoughts of Emma and Lexi came into my head. Had I already lost them? What possible way could I reach them? Could I ever know what happened?

I found myself laying on my bed, sobbing into my pillow. I had pushed my wife and daughter out of my mind as much as I could. I pretended it was because I had so many other pressing issues. But I didn’t want to deal with the thought that, as bad as things were in Kenton, they were likely ten times as bad in Oak Park.

We had every modern convenience there, and that meant nothing after the EMP hit. There was no farm lands. There were no survivalists like Ted and Kenny. There weren’t even people like Lester.

I prayed then. I hadn’t prayed that hard in years. I prayed that the EMP would never have happened. That I would wake and discover it had been a very long, very real dream.

Then I prayed Lexi and Emma were safe. That they were somehow making their way down here. Or I could make my way up there.

Then I prayed I could just get some news of them. That I could talk to them and tell them I was okay. Find that they were okay. Find a way to let them know I loved them.

As I prayed this last bit, my head turned and I looked at the dissembled radio on the desk.

If I could fix the radio, I could find someone near Chicago who could let me speak to my daughter and my wife. If I could fix the radio, Luke Carter could speak to his wife in Houston.

That’s why the radio was so important. That’s why Anne had told Ted I could fix it.

Because I had to.

The sweat made my t-shirt stick to my back as I knelt in the row of beets. Today was the first day of harvesting a new crop. I never cared for beets, but anything that would add a different flavor to the soups and stews we were eating would be a blessing.

“How are you doing, Kenny?” I asked.

Kenny looked up from his side of the row. “I don’t mind working to harvest crops, I just wish it was a little better than beets I was digging up.”

“Soon we will be eating better,” I said. “Just a few more weeks.”

I looked over at the wheat and corn fields. It would be a month before those would even start to produce even the smallest of kernels, but I knew many people, like myself, stared at the knee-high fields and imagined what it would be like to have some bread or corn.

I stood up and my t-shirt was caught in a stray breeze. It pulled the fabric away from my skin and gave me a blast of what almost felt like an air conditioner. It was my Dad’s shirt and six weeks earlier, it wouldn’t have fit me. My stomach and arms would have been too pudgy to be enclosed in his smaller clothes.

Now the shirt flapped in the breeze. I would have hoped for more muscle, but a growling stomach was part of my day. Malnutrition had been kept at bay thanks to the Hansons and their pharmacy. They doled out vitamins where they could and treated the worst cases of intestinal ailments from a closely guarded stock of medicine.

Sharon Little had also been a source of great help when it came to keeping people healthy. That wasn’t completely true. Her books on natural living had some valuable information about how to make home remedies for various sickness and conditions, but Sharon herself had been a pain in the ass to anyone she spoke to.

The instructions on the use of plants to create teas and tinctures were very helpful though. Sharon’s young sons were pleasant children who did their best to help, so most people held their tongue about her complaints and unreasonable demands.

I looked at the bucket at my feet and realized I still needed another half row of beets before I was done filling it. The greens would be washed and lightly steamed. The beets themselves would be stewed and cleaned and added to the soups for the evening meal.

The sound of a horse whinny drew my attention and I looked to see Clyde and four men with shovels walking along the edge of the field toward the knot of evergreen trees. Beyond that was the communal burial spot. The trailer the horse was pulling had three sheet-wrapped bodies. One about five feet long and then two smaller ones.

“Luke,” I called to the men attending the sad procession.

Luke Carter waved back at me and signaled me to come over.

I put down the bucket of beets and joined the group of men. I heard Kenny behind me and slowed so he could catch up.

“Three at once?” I asked as we drew near. The town was losing eight to ten people a day. Starvation, exhaustion, and weariness was taking its gruesome toll. Occasionally we would find a couple of dead in a single house in the morning, but most families and houses had not been touched.

“Sharon Little and her sons,” Luke said.

I shook my head as if I hadn’t heard him correctly.

“I… I just saw her and the boys yesterday. They all looked in good health.”

“Someone gave Tyler a bit of roasted squirrel. He liked it,” Luke said. “It’s in her note.”

A note. That means it was a suicide.

“And she took her boys with her?” I asked.

Luke nodded. “She did. She didn’t want her boys to be polluted with our world. I guess if she couldn’t keep them from the impure foods and animal flesh we were polluting ourselves with, she wanted them dead.”