The Pulse: An EMP Prepper Survival Tale (12 page)

The bug-out van, a blue 1977 GMC Chevrolet,
was parked in the backyard under a large blue canopy. Weeds had
long grown around it, but the vehicle itself was in relatively good
condition. Terrance had started it up only a few days ago. He
regularly drove it to get fuel running through it, from its
thirty-five-gallon tank. He opened the driver's side door, holding
onto the hope that he had left. He sat in the driver's seat and
took a deep breath. The moment of realization had come: he and his
family were pinning their hopes on a piece of machinery over forty
years old. Terrance felt that his family's very survival depended
on it. He stuck the key in the ignition, almost not wanting to turn
it.

“You gonna sit in here all
day, old man?” he asked himself. “Turn the key.”
He closed
his eyes and made himself do it. The engine sputtered
then shut off. "Shit," he said. He tried again. The engine
choked and heaved.

"Son of a bitch," Terrance said, slamming his
fists on the steering wheel. He placed his hand on the shift lever
mounted on the steering column, and lowered his head in prayer. A
few seconds later, he pumped the gas and brake pedals with hopes of
running some juice through the car before trying again.

"One... two... three," he said, and then he
turned the key. The engine kicked in and came alive in all of its
internal combustion glory. Terrance held the gas pedal down,
revving the engine to its top speed, then slowly releasing his
foot. The van idled without a hint of a problem. Terrance raised
his head in relief. He wiped the sweat from his face with a nearby
rag and looked at the van's red liner above. His heart was beating
rapidly, and he didn't know if it was because of excitement, panic,
or outright exhaustion.

Christina heard the sound of the engine. and
came running outside of the house. "You got it working! I can't
believe it," she cheered. She poked her head inside and practically
jumped into the driver's seat.

"Hop in," Terrance said "Let's go get our
kids."

"Do we have enough fuel?" she asked.

"Might have to use some of the reserve, but
we'll get there, one way or another."

"Aye, aye, captain."

The blue van slowly lumbered from under the
canopy and out of the backyard. They were soon on the road, gaining
the attention of every bewildered person they passed.

.

Chapter Ten

Prepper Headquarters

Monday September 21, 6:00 P.M.
Milledgeville, GA

The four-bedroom, two-bath home in
Milledgeville was an ideal retreat for trying times. The house was
supplied with well water, and in the event of a prolonged power
outage, several twenty-two-kilowatt standby generators had been
installed as a backup power source. James had also installed
shielded solar panels designed for low-capacity power storage. In
all, there were three diesel fuel generators and ten solar panels.
James had spent the better part of the year preserving, drying,
freezing, and pickling all kinds of fruits, meats, and vegetables.
Even preserved food expired at some point, so he always paid close
attention to what he was storing and for how long.

Each room had a bed or two,
a dresser, a closet and other furnishings. Having several different
families together under one roof for an unknown period of time
could be problematic if morale sunk too low. James did all he could
ahead of time to ensure that the house was sustainable, livable,
and practical for all who would soon be there, taking shelter from
the storm. He knew that the Robinsons had three
kids
—
a young
daughter and two teenage boys. He had met them before and thought
them to be a good bunch, but problems could arise during an
extended stay. They would no doubt grow restless after a while, as
kids did, adding stress to an already stressful situation. In the
end, he just hoped that their parents would keep them under
control.

Monday had been a day like no other, starting
when James had to flee work in his bug-out truck after canceling
classes. If all electronics had been destroyed in a single blast,
it could take months, even years, before normalcy was restored. If
a high-altitude nuclear electromagnetic pulse (HEMP) had been
launched over the greater Georgia area, the radius stretch for
towns, even cities.

Such an attack would change everything. He
and the other preppers had little faith in the state and federal
government's ability to manage a major crisis. The concept of the
bug-out house was to live self-sufficiently, and out of necessity.
Only time would tell if it worked out in the end.

James spent the latter part of the afternoon
in his basement monitoring the radio and trying to find out
anything he could. His cell phone no longer worked. Upstairs, his
computer was fried, and the television was out of commission. These
were appliances that were all plugged in, which could explain their
demise. However, the back-up generators still functioned, probably
due to the protective metal casing James stored them in. He had
turned on the generators earlier and did a walk-through of the
entire house, logging what did and didn't work. All the newer
electronic appliances were nonfunctional.

The house never had any central air
conditioning, except for window units. Each room had overhead fans.
The washer and dryer didn't work. The refrigerator and downstairs
freezer ran off of large batteries. The toaster and blender still
worked. The kitchen appliances were antiques, manufactured over
forty years ago. They lacked the complex micro-circuitry of new
devices such as computers, flat-screens, laptops, and smart
phones.

Water sill flowed from the kitchen sink.
There was no dishwasher to worry about, but the oven worked just
like new. The hot water heater was no longer working properly,
which concerned James most of all. The septic tank was buried deep
below the house, and seemed to be working fine. After checking
everything in the house, James turned the main circuit breaker off
and powered down the generators. Power conservation was the key,
and until the others showed up, James would do his best.

James sat in the basement, and listened. The
radio was free from chatter of any kind. He had heard only from
Mark Moss and nothing from the Robinson family. Maybe Atlanta had
been hit hard. Sprawling and heavily populated, it was not the
place one wanted to be before, during, or after attack. Then again,
the attack might not have hit Atlanta at all. James hoped that the
Robinson family was okay. He knew Terrance to be a resourceful guy
and had faith that they he would get his family to the bug-out
house if necessary.

James' mind drifted to his son and grandkids
in California. He wondered how they were holding up. He faced a
crushing desire to contact them and verify that they were out of
harm's way. His mind drifted back to his classroom and the moment
when the attack began. Everything had happened so fast. He started
to think about his students and colleagues at the University.
Things weren't good. He felt sick inside.

What was in store for everyone? Did it end
with an EMP attack? What else did they face? A nuclear attack?
Biological warfare? There were no answers. The most James could do
was to sit by the radio and wait.

The basement itself was heavily stocked with
foods and supplies. Its naturally cool temperature was ideal for
storing items with a long shelf life. Jars of canned, pickled, and
dried food lined the shelves in the small pantry, adjacent to the
main room. Other shelves within the basement were stocked with
medical supplies, batteries, flashlights, kerosene lamps, matches,
soaps and detergents, baby wipes, and gallons upon gallons of
purified water.

The basement also had its share of stored
weapons, hunting rifles, pistols, and shotguns all stored in a
large security safe, along with a sizable amount of ammunition. He
had stored weapons and ammo as a last line of defense, if the
bug-out house was ever attacked. It was a scenario James hoped,
with all his heart, would never play out.

He expected Mark and Janice to show up soon,
either at night or by morning. He began to worry about Terrance, as
he had heard nothing from him. James leaned back in his chair and
took a sip of brandy from his favorite little glass. It helped calm
his nerves and he had stored a fair amount of alcohol storage in
the basement as well. As he took one last sip, the sun fell slowly
below the clouds. Nightfall was approaching.

James fiddled with the radio knob, continuing
his search through the channels in hopes of hearing from Terrance.
A few things were clear to him. First, he believed the blackout to
be caused by an aerial EMP. Second, the blast hadn't destroyed
everything, and the overall complexity of its effects had yet to be
fully discovered. It would take more time to figure out why certain
objects worked and others didn't. Third, government’s response to
an EMP attack remained to be seen.

As questions raced through his head, James
heard a tiny coming from the radio. He jumped forward and nearly
fell out of his chair in the process. He leaned in closer and
turned up the volume. The voice crackled in and out, barely
intelligible. James turned the reception knob slightly in an
attempt to get a better signal. Suddenly the voice came through
with urgent clarity.

"...food, water, and shelter. You have
coordinates, hurry before it's too late. Again, this is a message
to all survivalists. Calling all survivalists, this is a message
for you. At approximately nine this morning, the state of Georgia,
as well as several surrounding states was hit by a high-altitude
nuclear EMP. The blast reportedly occurred at 130,000 feet in the
Earth's atmosphere. The damaging pulses distributed by the blasts
have taken out roughly 70 percent of Georgia's power structure,
affecting cell phones, computers, and vehicles. Planes already in
flight seem generally unaffected as are helicopters and military
trucks.

If you're receiving this message, a lot of
you already know this. You've been preparing for a situation just
like it. Now that it has happened, you, like everyone else, are
left wondering what to do. What you need to do is join us. Join our
survival camp. No matter how prepared you are, your supplies aren't
going to last forever. No matter how well concealed or hidden you
are, you won't stay hidden forever. Even if your vehicle is still
running, you're fuel won't last forever.

At the survival camp, we don't promise to
have an endless supply of anything. But what we do have is an
abundance of good people. Survival experts. People that can hunt,
kill, and cook their food. People who can purify water. Those who
have helpful skills and even those who don't. Mainly we accept
those who can contribute, but all are welcome to our camp. If you
or your family are interested, prepare to copy as I lay out the
coordinates of our location.

It's very secure and removed from densely
populated areas. Our position is represented in degrees and can
easily be found by using a map and compass. We are located at 41
degrees north latitude and 96.7 degrees west longitude from the
Oconee River landmark in central Georgia. This is the place you
need to be, with other survivalists like you. We have plenty of
food, water, and shelter for everyone. You have the coordinates;
hurry before it's too late. One more time, this is a message to all
survivalists..." And on the message went.

It had gotten James's full attention. He
dutifully copied the coordinates onto his note pad just in case. He
switched the channel again in hopes of finding Terrance. The
urgency of the radio message seemed strange so early in the EMP
strike, but the message did help verify what James thought. It
meant that there were other people, just like them, who were out
there preparing for the worst. There came a time when one had to
accept fate. When one had to accept that things were not going to
be the way they had been. The choice between denial and acceptance
was clear for James. He wanted to live in the now.

Chapter Eleven

Survival Camp

In a darkened room, slightly illuminated by a
single lamp on the table, a man named Russell sat in front of a
large and sophisticated radio unit. He hovered over the microphone
like a radio talk-show host. Only he had no show to perform. His
job was to send a pre-written transmission over the radio every ten
minutes, spreading the benefits of "Survival Camp." He pushed the
microphone away, propped his feet up on the table, and leaned
back.

His dark, stringy hair hung over his forehead
and into his eyes. He was a thin man with a sunken face, and though
he couldn't have been more than thirty, his face was already deeply
etched with wrinkles. He was satisfied with himself, but his
expression didn't show it. He brushed his hair aside with his free
hand, and he simply stared ahead, cold and expressionless. In the
shadows behind him, several other men sat at desks scribbling into
notebooks and examining maps of the state of Georgia. They dressed
like a dated militia in old camouflage pants, black, long-sleeved
shirts, and boonie caps with wide brims to protect against the sun.
One of the men, named Kyle, with a graying beard, made some marks
on his map then rose from his chair and walked over to the radio.
He placed a hand on the Russell's shoulder, gaining his attention.
Russell turned around quickly and took his feet off the table.

"Whoa, didn't see you there," Russell
said.

"How you holding up?" Kyle asked.

Russell coughed. "Doing fine. Just sent
another broadcast."

"Good, here I wanted to show you something,"
Kyle said, placing the state map on the table. He ran his index
finger across the map and continued. "We're looking at this entire
area potentially becoming some kind of fed refugee center. That's
what I gather anyway."