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

THE CAR in the distance sped closer. Soon, young Trevor could identify it as a ’92 Mazda. In fact, his friend Luke’s ’92 Mazda. Springing to his feet, he took a cautious glance around as the car stopped. His mom was still at the river, his dad also safely away.

The car pulled up, and he sprang toward it, his teenage face erupting into a smile. Once inside, he unleashed a yelp, then cut it short when he noticed the cute girl in the passenger seat. “I didn’t know you were bringing a passenger along,” he said.

Michelle turned, shook her head. “Hey there, troublemaker.”

Luke didn’t take off right away. He stared at the trailer for a while, then pointed at it. “Check it out, ‘Chell. Your long-distance boyfriend and his family actually live in that thing! Seriously, all three of them.”

“Dude, we need to take off before my parents get back.”

Luke turned, a snarl on his face. “Where’s your stuff?”

He nodded toward his backpack. “That’s all I have.”

“Okay. Just a heads up: my brother’s place isn’t that big, and you’ll have to crash on the couch until you can buy a mattress if you’re cool with that.”

“After living in a trailer and preparing for the end of the world, I’m cool with anything, okay? Can we just take off now?”

Luke started the car, and they headed away, kicking up dry dirt as they spun away from the tiny home Trevor hated. “So you know all about Trevor’s family and all that, right?” he asked Michelle.

“Yeah, all that end-of-the-world apocalypse stuff,” she asked, her voice meek, almost sad. As if not wanting to judge.

“But in a crazy, prepper way,” he said, again to his cousin. “Not in the cool religious way like your family.”

Michelle smiled and shook her head, then turned to Trevor. “He’s told me all about it. I’m just glad to help get him out of there.”

Luke aimed his voice at the back seat. “And he’s some kind of army dude or something, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. Unable to stop staring at Michelle. “Sergeant first class.”

“What is your major malfunction!” Luke yelled. Then he said to Michelle, “That’s from one of those awesome movies Trevor never gets to watch.”

Luke kept laughing as they drove away, leaving the small trailer in the distance until it became a dot surrounded by the wilderness.

Trevor leaned back in the seat, stole another glance at the adorable girl in the front seat, and thought about what his life was on the verge of becoming. For the first time ever, he was free!

The quiet didn’t last long. The loud chatter of a small group—ten, maybe twelve of them—could be heard a few blocks ahead. Shattered glass and metallic clanks punctuated their cackles and howls. The noise grew closer, more dangerous.

Hatfield slowly unlaced himself from the hug with his wife, then edged past the wall, taking a peek. The setting sun behind them turned them into silhouettes, masking their identities. But he could see they were young, armed, and getting closer.

Along the way, they checked every cranny, every alley to see what they could find, often pushing metal rods into things. There was no way Hatfield and his wife could remain hidden.

He pulled back, took a deep breath, and scanned the landscape, taking Jess’s hand. Spots behind dumpsters or heaps of trash wouldn’t work. He could hear them digging through the garbage. The pawnshop directly on the other side of the street didn’t have an entrance they could get into quietly or quickly. The same for other closed buildings.

But a convenience store remained open, its manager crouched at the window, eyes busy and head on a swivel. Behind the glass, he probably couldn’t hear the approaching gang. But he knew there was danger.

Hatfield leaned in closer, examined the manager’s face, and realized he’d seen him before but couldn’t recall where.

He turned to Jess. She mouthed the name. Mr. Crane.

A grin came to his face. They knew him from church—casually, but enough to know he was a trustworthy guy. And hopefully, a guy who trusted them. There was no guarantee he’d let them in, but they had a chance.

The gang loomed closer, louder. The crash of something large and fragile made his wife shudder. He took a cautious second glance past the wall, could see them huddled over a pile of debris and poking through it.

He turned, lifted three fingers and mouthed the words on three . Jess nodded. Giving her a gentle tug until they found their feet, he put up one finger…

More cackles and poking from the gang.

He lifted another finger.

One guy turned briefly, causing Hatfield to hold up a hand and shake his head. As the guy turned back to the trash, he held up three, and they sprinted across the street. He wildly swung his arms over his head, then found the manager’s face.

Mr. Crane pulled back in horror, stunned to see them.

They gestured to the door, keeping an eye on the gang. The horror melted from his face, and he climbed to his feet and unlocked the door.

“The Hatfields, right?” he asked.

“Shh!” he answered, gesturing for him to duck out of view as he and his wife did the same. Then he pointed to the approaching gang.

Mr. Crane’s mouth fell agape when he saw them. He turned to the couple and shrugged as if to ask, Who are they?

Hatfield shrugged back, then whispered, “All we know is that you’d better watch out. Things are going to be dangerous for a while. Maybe forever.” He then pointed to an aisle farther back. Together they crawled to the better hiding space.

With his voice low and his mouth close to Mr. Crane’s ear, he said. “If I were you, I’d get out of the city. That’s going to be the only to avoid the chaos.”

“Get out of the city? Where else is there?”

A pound came to the front door, rattling it. Another pound followed, then another until it swung open with a whine. Through the reflection of the refrigerated items near the counter, he could see the assailant.

Tall and athletic, he carried a shotgun in his right hand, dug through the shelves with his free hand. Probably in his twenties, he had the scarred and hardened face of a man who’d just gotten out of prison. A dragon-face tattoo stretched from his cheek to his neck and around it. His long, dark hair reached his shoulders.

He circled the counter, eyes scanning the place a little but mostly aimed at the register. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” he sang.

The three stayed silent and motionless as Hatfield reached for his gun, with no plan in particular. The criminal’s focus was so narrowly set on the register, they were safe—for the moment.

Soon he closed in on the register, giving its keyboard a few random taps. When the machine didn’t budge, his taps turned into jabs.

Hatfield quietly yanked the gun from his holster, not easy to do unless he slowed the motions down.

The criminal now held the shotgun in both hands, ramming against the register enough to shake it and break away a few of the tabs on the side.

Mr. Crane lifted his head to give himself a better view. It wasn’t clear to Hatfield how troubled his friend would be about a loss of cash. He wanted to explain that when things spun into out-and-out anarchy, his money would have no value anyway, but this wasn’t the time for a lecture on the devaluing of cash. He gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder, and he turned.

But in turning, Mr. Crane stumbled a little.

They froze, keeping their faces still. The pounding at the register had stopped, replaced by the racking on his shotgun.

The criminal turned, his face sharpened by anger. He held the shotgun at his waist, demonstrating he’d used it before. Then he took slow steps closer toward them.