Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (3 page)

It was the best thing she had ever done. She loved the peace and quiet, and had always dreamed of owning her own farm. Even though it was small, it was large enough that she had fresh eggs on demand, a vegetable patch, and quite a few fruit trees. And then there was her pride and joy – the strawberry patch.

More than once she had silently thanked Mathew. If it hadn't been for his paper, she would have been living in a small apartment in town.

She could almost remember the opening paragraph word for word, Matty's stark, matter-of-fact way of writing had burned it into her brain.

An electromagnetic pulse, also known as an EMP, will bring about the end of the world as we know it. EMPs can be caused by solar storms or by nuclear weapons detonated high in the atmosphere. When it happens the power grids will fail. There will be no electricity, water, heating, gas or sanitation. The EMP will burn out computer circuits. Airplanes, cars, computers, phones, pacemakers and anything with computer chips will stop working. In the first few minutes in America, between 250 000 and 500 000 people will be dead.

Gemma felt a chill pass through her. If the predictions were right, it was possible that half a million people were already dead; the plane had just been the beginning. How many people had been in the air when it happened? How many people relied on pacemakers or other machines to survive?

It was too hard to think about. The only thing she knew was that it was time to get out of the city and back to CJ. And the sooner the better.

3

Twenty minutes later Christopher was staring out the window of the waiting area, trying to absorb what he was hearing. It hardly seemed possible – but if what Gemma and Gordon were saying was true – they had literally been thrown back to the dark ages.

He had vague recollections about the warnings from NASA early in 2012, but like most of the population, he hadn't taken any of it very seriously. He led a busy life, he didn't have time for what ifs and maybes.

In the distance, plumes of smoke were rising into the air. The reality of what he was seeing started to sink in as his gaze drifted to the one most likely caused by the plane crash.

On the street below pockets of people were forming into small groups. Others sat in their cars, the doors wide open in the heat of the day. Some sat on the curb, or in bus shelters, waiting for help that was unlikely to come anytime soon. A woman with a screaming toddler under one arm struggled to pull a stroller from the trunk of her car, her frightened face breaking into a smile when a teenage girl grabbed the stroller and set it on the ground, both of them laughing at her clumsy attempts to pull it open.

So far there was none of the panic that Gordon Greenvale– their very own doomsayer – was prophesying. Gordon regarded himself as something of an expert, having coming out of the closet about his secret penchant for apocalyptic thrillers, spurting random bits of fiction as though they were fact. There was a manic gleam in his eye as he prowled about.

“You might want to slow down on that,” Anne said, the disapproval clear in her tone.

Christopher turned away from the window with a heavy sigh. Anne's face was strained as she watched Sasha attempt to pour another drink, her hand shaking so badly that very little was going into the glass.

Sasha wobbled slightly in her ridiculously high heels as she turned on Anne, her mouth curling into an ugly sneer, her words slurring slightly. “Why? If whash – what – you're all saying is true, it's the end of the world.”

“That's no reason to drink yourself into a coma.” Anne narrowed her eyes.

“I just lost my husband.” Sasha's eyes brimmed with tears, her hand shaking more violently.

“Here, let me help.” Christopher's hand closed over Sasha's cold fingers as he steadied her, allowing a small nip to pass into the glass before swiftly pulling the bottle away.

“Th – thanks,” Sasha said, half sob, half hiccup.

“You know – that stuff will be probably be more valuable than gold soon.” Gordon eyed the liquor bottle.

Sasha glowered at Gordon before turning a bright smile on Christopher, thrusting her chest out. “I don't understand why shom-someone can't just turn the – the surge protector thingy back on.”

“Gemma already explained,” Christopher said tersely, uncomfortable with the sudden attention.

“But what's the point of it if it doesn't work?” Sasha pouted, her eyes large and not at all innocent as she linked her arm through Christopher's, and rested her head against his shoulder. Christopher gently untangled himself, taking a step back. Her husband, one of their wealthiest clients – not that it apparently meant anything anymore – was only a few rooms away.

Gemma glanced up, her
gamine green eyes showing faint traces of amusement at his discomfort. But her face was weary, her shoulders slumped, and he felt the sudden urge to go to her, to comfort her. Heck – if he was honest with himself he was being purely selfish. He was the one that wanted comfort. He wanted to lose himself in her smell, to escape the grim reality they had suddenly encountered. But already she was looking away, replying softly to something Anne had said.

“The surge protectors weren't designed for something as extreme as an EMP,” Gordon told Sasha's breasts, and realizing she wasn't getting what she wanted from Christopher, Sasha turned her attention on Gordon.

“You know it's a natural reaction under the circumstances,” Donavon said quietly beside him.

“What's that?” Christopher said, unable to take his eyes off Gemma.

“To want comfort in the face of disaster.”

“Comfort?”

“No one wants to be alone right now.”

Was that the reason he wanted to charge over to Gemma, and pull her into his arms – why he wanted to kiss her senseless and wipe away the fear in her eyes?

Gemma glanced up, as though she sensed him watching, her olive-green eyes meeting his. She still had the power to take his breath away even after all these years. The helpless, raw vulnerability in her eyes brought back memories, and for a moment he was seventeen years old again, young and angry and indignant as he held her in his arms, trying to comfort her even as he wanted to hurt the person hurting her.

Gordon's voice was a low monotone, bringing more gloom and doom. He'd found a captivated audience in Sasha, who was staring at him wide eyed, inching closer to him as he spoke.

“The first thing to worry about is food and water. Most people have enough food to last at least a few days. But water will be the priority.”

“But – we could just go to the store,” Sasha said. “There's heaps of water there.”

“That's the first thing everyone will do – probably already happening as we speak. What's there won't last long – the bigger supermarkets have to restock their shelves every day, even twice a day, to keep up with demand.”

Gordon was pacing now, getting himself worked up, his voice coming in quick, staccato spurts. “Besides, hardly anyone carries cash anymore. And credit cards won't work. Most of the stores would have tried to close as soon as the power died. But anyone looking at the street will know something big has happened. It wouldn't take much to start a panic. Most likely people will just take what they have and get out of there. If it was me – I would just walk right out with my grocery cart.”

And all it would take for that panic to start was someone like Gordon with his dark tone and impetuous words, Christopher thought dryly.

Gordon smoothed Sasha's hair back from her face, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Money will have no value anymore. It will just be pretty little pieces of paper that mean nothing. So – no, you can't just go to the store and buy water,” he said, softening his voice as he pressed a kiss to Sasha's forehead.

“But,” Sasha's lower lip trembled, “how can we survive without water?” Her fingers closed around Gordon's arm, and Gordon's eyes lit up.

“It's there if you know where to look.”

“It is?”

Gordon nodded gravely, enjoying his newfound role a little too much for Christopher's liking.

“Where?” Sasha asked, and despite himself, Christopher became just as captivated.

“Swimming pools. Rain water tanks. Rivers and lakes, of course, but they’ll
 
quickly become contaminated. Then there’s hot water tanks, toilet tanks–”

“You expect me to drink out of the toilet?” Sasha's eyes popped open.

“Not the toilet, the tank.”

Sasha shuddered, and Gordon put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “Most likely it won't come to that.”

“What about the government?” Sasha's red lips quivered. “They'll help.”

“It's every man for himself now. Survival of the fittest. It won't be long before people will be killing each other for a can of food or a bottle of water.”

“But what about the police?”

Gordon snorted. “When they realize what's happened they won't stick around, especially when the rioting begins. They'll go home to their families.”

“But that's what they get paid for.”

“Money means nothing now. Besides, what can they do without cars? Some might try to maintain order at first, but...” he trailed off, the gleam in his eye leaving little doubt about his opinion on that.

“I'm scared,” Sasha said, and Gordon pulled her close, burying his head in her hair, looking like all his Christmases had come at once when she didn't pull away.

“Don't worry. I'll protect you,” he said, his voice solemn.

“We – Jack and I – we have a swimming pool.” Sasha's eyes welled with tears again.

Gordon eyes widened. “You do?”

Christopher tuned out, worrying about his family. Suddenly what had been an easy four hour drive seemed an eternity away.

How long would it take to ride his mountain-bike two hundred and eighty plus miles? How long to walk it if he damaged a tire beyond repair? Was it even possible? How much food and water would he have to carry? It wasn't like he'd just be able to stop and buy something. Not according to Gordon anyway.

Suddenly his family was more important than ever. His sister, his young niece and nephew. His mother and his younger brother, still in his last year of high school. And what about his older brother? Christopher had no idea where he even was – it had been months since he'd heard from him.

Then there was his uncle. He'd retired a year ago when Aunt Claude lost her long battle with cancer, and a few weeks ago decided to treat himself to a trip across Europe. Was he stranded somewhere, unable to get home? Just how far did this thing reach?

How would any of them survive if it was really as bad as Gemma and Gordon seemed to think?

*
 
*
 
*

Gemma had no doubt about what had happened – and part of her wished she'd never agreed to let Matty Spencer write that damn paper. Maybe she would have been better off not knowing what was in store.

With no idea what the following days held, a feeling of helplessness began to fill her. How was she going to get back home? It was almost three hundred miles to her farm. It hardly seemed possible that a few hours ago she was boarding the train, anxious about seeing Christopher again after all these years. Home suddenly seemed so far away.

Gemma pulled CJ's photo out, the cheeky smile on his sweet young face bringing a lump to her throat. What sort of world would he grow up in? He'd already been through so much.

The boy had been understandably withdrawn, and as he started to realize his mother was never going to walk through the front door again, he began clinging to Gemma whenever she went around to Daphne's to see him. As though afraid she would leave him too.

They were the closest thing Gemma had to a family. Caroline had been the sister Gemma always wanted, and Daphne had been there for her through her tumultuous teenage years, stepping in long before her mother died.

And now it was Gemma's turn to step in, to raise young CJ. The possibility had terrified her – it still did. She had no idea how to be a mother, how to raise a child. It never even crossed her mind that Christopher wouldn't take CJ on when he learned he was his father. The Daleys were big on family.

Her biggest fears that morning had revolved around the fact CJ would most likely grow up in the city, her and Daphne speculating on how often either of them would get to see him, and if he would still call her
Aunty Gem-Gem
when the Daleys swallowed him into their family.

“Is that your son?” Anne leaned over to look at the photograph.

Gemma drew in a deep, shaky breath, her eyes going to Christopher. He was deep in thought, his dark eyes somewhere else, and she wondered what was going through his mind. She was still having trouble believing he'd been so dismissive when she told him CJ was his son.

“No,” Gemma said softly. “He's Christopher's son.”

“Oh,” Anne said, obviously surprised. “I didn't realize he had a child ... I would have thought – after all that trouble with Melinda...” Anne’s brow creased with confusion as she looked up at Christopher.

Gemma knew who Melinda was. She heard Christopher had gotten married a few months after the school anniversary dinner, but it hadn't lasted long from what she knew. The Daleys were often a subject of gossip in their small community.

“He didn't know until today,” Gemma told Anne.

“He didn't? Well, that makes sense then,” Anne said thoughtfully, a look of sly curiosity flitting across her face. “How did he take the news that he was a father?”

Gemma looked down at the photograph again. “He said it wasn't possible. He didn't even want to talk about it – then – then this happened.”

“Where's the boy's mother?” Anne asked.

“She – she died. A couple of weeks ago.”

“You were close to her?” Anne's hand closed over Gemma's, squeezing gently.

Gemma nodded, her breath catching in her throat. “She was like a sister to me.”

Christopher was coming toward them when Gemma looked up again, his face set and determined. A flash of anger rose in her, that he could turn his back on his own child so easily. What sort of a man did that?

But she knew that if she was honest, her anger went deeper than that. She was annoyed with herself, angry that after all these years he could still affect her like this. That as he strode across the room, she felt not only anger, but desire.

“Give him a chance, love. It's a lot to take on.” Anne hesitated a moment before continuing. “Our Christopher had a hard time of it with Melinda...” she trailed off, obviously not wanting to say anymore about the man she worked for.

Looking suddenly uncertain, Christopher paused, running a hand through his thick, dark hair, the frustration and the worry no doubt mirroring exactly what he saw in her own eyes.