William Stone: How We Survive: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

After a round of spirited “yeah,” they slipped outside, each finding a place to hide. Some crouched behind trees; others simply lay stretched out in the tall grass. Hatfield accompanied a few others in sweeping the perimeter—just in case of a sneak attack from the side. “Okay, guys! We’re going to do these sweeps every two minutes. Each time you come back to the front, check me out.” He lifted his hand by his face. “If you see this, that means get back into position because it’s time to rumble. Got it?”

They all nodded.

Hatfield watched them as they headed around the compound. He liked that they seemed ready for action. That mattered a great deal—especially today. Being ready for battle was just about all they had.

Several minutes had passed at the bunker, and the nagging feeling of fear kept stabbing at Jess’s gut. Having her and Jade’s kids still out collecting food from the garden felt wrong and dangerous. Never mind that the horizon outside looked empty the last time she’d checked. She cracked the door open and took another look. Once again, she found nothing.

Or maybe not.

“Everything going okay out there?” Jade called from the bathroom.

Jess didn’t answer right away. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned forward and focused on a lump in the distance. Probably nothing , she told herself. The lump was likely to just be a piece of debris or something that landed there. “I think so?”

But then it moved and revealed itself to be a man, rifle lifted to his eyes.

Jess yelled to the guard, “Oh my god! Kids, get in here—now!”

“But we’re still digging things up!” Tami screamed.

A gunshot fired, and several others followed.

Jess nearly screamed herself hoarse. “Get in here! Stop what you’re doing right now and get in here!”

“Okay!”

“Jade, I need you to tell me how to do the lock again!”

From the bathroom, Jade yelled, “My God, no! Are they okay out there?”

The gangbangers charged forward, straight for the front door just as the kids reached the doorway and slipped inside. Jess slammed the door but struggled with the odd contraption that locked it. “Jade, I need you!”

“Okay, I’ll be right there!” Her voice a little closer, echoing through the hallway.

But it was too late. The gangbangers pounded at the door, giving Jess no choice but to usher the kids away from it and toward the hallway as the sound of the door getting rammed off its hinges clanked behind her.

THE SOUND of explosions and a roaring fire shot through the air miles away. “That sounded like it was close to the bunker,” Andy said to his leader.

Hatfield took a deep breath, reminding himself that no matter what kind of chaos was happening near the bunker, everyone inside would be safe provided they had locked up. Still, he had to fight off a nagging feeling deep in his bones.

“Looks like our company’s here!” Andy said, turning to him.

Hatfield nodded, letting him know it was time to get into place. Without a word, the young guy dashed away, hefting a bazooka to his shoulder and finding a discreet spot low in the weeds.

The gangbangers strutted forward, seeming as though they didn’t have a clue what was waiting for them. Perfect.

But then Hatfield made the mistake of counting them. This intimidated him at first, reminding him how outnumbered they were. But it was a useful count just the same. A battle wasn’t the time to lose count of how many unfriendly faces were out there. It turned out there were thirty-seven of them—against twelve defending the homestead. He swallowed hard and lifted a hand, gesturing that it was time to strike.

The first few shots worked exactly as planned, catching the gang off-guard. One of them screamed as he hit the grass below, a giant gusher of blood coming from his shoulder. Another took a shot in the belly, then tumbled forward.

But both guys climbed up and charged forward like the rest of them.

The gangbangers howled like maniacs, their chants and calls a weird combination of a victory celebration and a battle cry.

The rattle of gunfire shook Hatfield’s soul. He’d never heard anything like it. But he raced ahead anyway, tucking himself behind a tree and taking shots as the others did the same.

A homesteader took a shot in the chest, then hit the ground as a loud whimper filled the air. That gave Hatfield a chance to fire at the man who’d shot him, tagging his neck and sending him down for what had to be last time.

Bullets buzzed through the air, sometimes hitting a tree or the dirt. Other times the shots went to the sky, missing their target completely.

Hatfield slipped from tree to tree, then ducked into the weeds, taking shots. Only a few connected, but the puzzled looks of the enemy’s face told them the strategy was a good call. As the gangbanger’s howling faded into a whimper, he kept firing, taking out a few guys and watching as others found the bullets of well-hidden defenders of the compound.

The homesteaders weaved in and out of the impromptu battlefield, ducking behind trees, bushes, even a giant rock. They scampered in and out of the terrain. Their targets weren’t always hit, but after ten minutes or so, they’d taken out enough of the enemy to even the score.

By Hatfield’s count, there were eleven left, and before he could take a new tally, a few more had fallen, bringing the count to nine.

But those who remained had advanced pretty far, forcing the homesteaders to backpedal to the fence—which took their cover away. From the front of the line, a bazooka was fired, hitting the fence and ripping a gigantic hole in it.

The gangbangers charged inside it, putting the homesteaders into a panic. But Hatfield stayed calm. “Hold your positions!” he yelled, meaning he wanted everybody to stay hidden while continuing to fire away. They did just that, picking off the gangbangers one by one as they tried to slip toward the homestead.

Shots came from the grass, from the bushes, even from the branches of trees. They brought each of them down in a hail of bullets and desperate screams. There were now five left, then four.

The remaining four scattered, two racing toward the backyard, two scampering into the purse. Nathan was among the survivors, barking frantic orders from behind the cover of a much larger man, his voice shredded, his face red with rage and worry.

The other two charged for the porch, getting most of the homesteaders' attention, shooting two of them. Hatfield sprinted to the back, noticing both of those in the rear were wielding flame throwers.

Once he got there, he noticed he was alone without backup, firing a rifle against two with flame throwers. He tried for a quick retreat but got nowhere before stumbling to the ground and immediately feeling heat moving toward him.

As they advanced, trying to control the unwieldy fire, he scooped up his rifle, calmly took careful aim and fired twice, chopping one to the ground immediately and sending the other—the leader, Nathan—into the grass, clipped but not badly hurt. The guy tried to get his weapon under control as Hatfield did the same with his rifle.

Hatfield got there first, firing away. But he only got dry clicks. He was out of bullets. So he lunged forward, feeling the heat along his back as he took the man down by the waist. The flame thrower dropped to the grass as Hatfield raised up and looked at the guy from above, his face suddenly small and pathetic. Without words, he seemed to be begging for mercy.

Hatfield lifted him to his feet, raised his fists. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?”

“You want this place? Fight me for it.”

Nathan spun in a desperate circle, looking for help. But he found none. He only got a haymaker from Hatfield that sent him back to the grass, eyes dead, body limp. He turned when he heard people running toward him.