William Weber - Surviving America's Collapse

Although the story you are about to read is a work of fiction, the electromagnetic pulse (EMP) it depicts and its destructive effects on our country’s electrical systems are a real and present danger. Events following Hurricane Katrina gave us a glimpse into the terrifying possibilities if we suddenly lost the modern conveniences we’ve come to depend on. Needless to say, the consequences of such an attack would be devastating. Millions would die from starvation, lack of proper medicine, exposure and roving gangs of looters. In the end, the domino effect could lead to the collapse of the American economy and usher in a new Dark Age.

John Mack stopped his F150 pickup at the red light and switched the cell phone to his other ear.

“What time do you expect the open house to end?” he asked his wife Diane. She was a real estate agent with Century 21. Ever since the housing market had started to bounce back, sales as well as commissions had been steadily increasing. Their family had been hit hard during the recent recession and it was a real sore point between them. Not that he had any right criticizing her choice of profession; after all, he was a general contractor. Right or wrong though, having all their financial eggs in one basket was a recipe for disaster.

“I should be home around six,” Diane told him. She sounded annoyed and a little out of breath, like she was at her desk, bending over to put her heels on. Probably the same ones she said looked great, but made her soak in hot water for hours afterward.

The light turned green and John accelerated through the intersection. “Don’t forget, it’s your choice of movie tonight, but no romance. One more chick flick and the kids’ll threaten to move out and I might join them.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice.”

The two of them laughed.

“See you at home, honey,” she said. “Love you.”

A few minutes later John pulled into the driveway of their house. Two stories, three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Looked a lot like most of the other houses on Willow Creek Drive, except John would be willing to bet that his was different. Last summer he’d dug down under the crawlspace in his basement and installed a concrete bunker. Most of the work had been done slowly and secretly and the job had taken months. Not even their kids, twelve-year-old Gregory or fourteen-year-old Emma, were allowed to tell any of their friends. Since then John had outfitted the bunker with an air and water filtration system and a stockpile of dried goods designed to last them about a month. John had then put up a false wall to hide the pod’s location in case the house was attacked or overrun.

He’d even made bug-out bags for each member of the family, packed with the essentials they would need in case they had to flee their home.

As far as natural disasters went, the streets of Sequoyah Hills, Tennessee, a tree-lined suburb west of Knoxville, were about as safe as they came. Sure, once in a while a thin coating of snow might turn to ice come January or February, but most everyone knew to stay indoors and wait till the ice melted away.

But if John’s time with the military and the wide spectrum of combat and humanitarian missions he’d run in Iraq, Rwanda and Bosnia had taught him anything, it was that you could never be too well prepared.

In the event of a short-term disaster, he could keep his family safe and sound. The bunker underneath his basement, his stockpile of supplies and the alternate bug-out location in the Appalachian Mountains north of Knoxville had each set him back several thousand dollars, but it was a price well worth paying.

Not all of John’s neighbors saw things the same way. When Sequoyah Hills had been put on a water-boiling advisory last year, he was the only one who hadn’t rushed to clear the grocery store shelves. Keeping your preps a secret, that was John’s number one rule, but he didn’t mind telling Al Thomson, his next-door neighbor, that he liked to keep a couple things on hand just in case.

“You’re not one of those guys, are you?” Al had asked him back then.

“One of what?” John had replied, not entirely sure where his ageing neighbor’s question was headed.

“You know. One of those people obsessed with the end of the world. Always talking about slugging out.”

John’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I think you mean bugging out?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Al’s smile faded when he saw John wasn’t laughing.

“Well, let’s just say there’s nothing wrong with being ready for a worst-case scenario, Al.”

“No, no argument from me on that,” Al had said, fumbling with the cell phone in his pocket. “Just keep in mind, whenever something bad happens, it’s never more than a day or two before everything’s back online, right? Police, fire department. We pay taxes for that stuff, you know.”

Conversations with Al never seemed to go anywhere. Wasn’t that Al was a bad guy. Quite the opposite. But John had run into similar disconnects any time people asked about his time in Iraq or Africa. Deep down, they didn’t really want to hear the truth. They wanted the sanitized, fairytale version they’d watched on CNN. Bloodless combat. Precision-guided weapons.

Watching a Bradley roll off a shoddy bridge and into the Saddam Canal in Iraq, killing all on board, or the mountain of bones that lay as monuments to the senseless slaughter of innocent civilians in Rwanda—those were the ugly realities that made guys like Al squirm. And as much as John couldn’t relate to living in ignorant bliss, before joining the army, he’d been one of them.

That exchange with Al had taken place around this time last year and since then the two hadn’t shared more than polite neighborly pleasantries.

Now in his driveway, John killed the engine on his Ford F150, listening to the sound of the engine ticking down. Next door, Al was watering his lawn and whistling.

John got out and waved. Al nodded, bobbing to the song he had playing on the radio in his garage. The bed of roses under his bay window were in full bloom. Al and his wife didn’t have kids. In some ways that lawn and the greenery Al took such pains in caring for were like the children he’d never had. That was Diane’s theory at least, and she was probably right.

“Those roses are coming along, Al.”

Sheer unadulterated joy grew on Al’s face. He dropped the hose and pulled a pair of gardening shears from his back pocket. Al cupped one of the roses and snipped it about midway. He came and offered it to John.

“For Diane,” Al said. “She’ll love it.”

“I couldn’t.”

“No, I insist.” Al gave John a devilish wink and pushed the rose into his hand. “It’s important to keep the romance strong, John. Us men have a habit of getting complacent, if you know what I mean.”