Brink of Darkness (Survive the Collapse (A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller) Book 1) Read online

  Brink of Darkness

  Survive the Collapse Series, Book One

  Copyright © 2022 by T. L. Payne

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  Edited by Lone Road Publishing

  Proofread by Joanna Niederer

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Don’t forget to sign up for my spam-free newsletter at www.tlpayne.com to be among the first to know of new releases, giveaways, and special offers.

  Check Out Other Books By T. L. Payne

  The Days of Want Series

  Turbulent

  Hunted

  Turmoil

  Uprising

  Upheaval

  Mayhem

  Defiance

  Fall of Houston Series

  No Way Out

  No Other Choice

  No Turning Back

  No Surrender

  No Man’s Land

  The Gateway to Chaos Series

  Seeking Safety

  Seeking Refuge

  Seeking Justice

  Seeking Hope

  Created with Vellum

  For Jamaar, who inspires me with his curiosity and imagination.

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Sam

  2. Lauren

  3. Sam

  4. Lauren

  5. Billy Mahon

  6. Lauren

  7. Sam

  8. Becky

  9. Sam

  10. Sam

  11. Vince

  12. Lauren

  13. Billy Mahon

  14. Vince

  15. Lauren

  16. Sam

  17. Sam

  18. Vince

  19. Sam

  20. Vince

  21. Sam

  22. Lauren

  23. Sam

  24. Sam

  25. Lauren

  26. Vince

  27. Sam

  28. Vince

  29. Becky

  30. Billy

  31. Sam

  32. Lauren

  33. Lauren

  34. Billy

  35. Sam

  36. Lauren

  37. Lauren

  38. Lauren

  39. Lauren

  40. Sam

  41. Billy

  42. Sam

  43. Lauren

  44. Becky

  45. Sam

  46. Lauren

  Acknowledgments

  Also by T. L. Payne

  Characters and Gear

  About the Author

  Preface

  Real towns and cities are used in this novel. However, the author has taken occasional liberties for the sake of the story.

  While the Unicoi Board of Aldermen, Unicoi Police Department, and Johnson City, Tennessee Commission are real institutions, versions within these pages are purely fictional.

  Thank you in advance for understanding an author’s creative license.

  ONE

  Sam

  Midtown

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Day of Event

  Sam Wallace pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911 as he bolted across a parking lot after his murder witness, Tara Hobbs, and the three armed Russo brothers chasing her.

  “Atlanta 911. What is your emer….” The call cut off so he pocketed the phone, drew his pistol, and ran diagonally between the apartment buildings with the aim of emerging around the far corner just as Tara passed, cutting off the hitmen in the process. He timed it perfectly.

  “Stop right there and put your hands in the air,” Sam shouted, pointing his pistol at the men.

  The men dove in different directions and began firing. Sam spun back around the corner and dropped to the ground as bullets whizzed past. He rolled and returned fire, dropping the perp closest to him while the other two concentrated their fire in Sam’s direction. Sam stood and took off in the opposite direction in search of Tara. As he rounded the far end of the next building, he collided with her, knocking her to the ground.

  “What the—not you again. Leave me alone,” she said, rolling away from him.

  “The District Attorney sent me to offer you protection,” Sam said, reaching down and yanking Tara to her feet.

  “That’s what you said last time and look where I am now.” Tara pulled herself free and stood looking around with her hands on her head.

  As the criminal investigator for Unicoi County, Tennessee, Sam had often made that offer to witnesses. Unfortunately for Tara, she had run off to Atlanta, and Nigel Corbin’s hired killers had caught up to her before Sam could get her into protective custody.

  “Let’s go,” Sam said, grabbing her wrist.

  Tara resisted but only briefly before giving in and running with Sam back the way he had come. He led her into the nearest stairwell.

  “What are you doing in Atlanta? I told you I’m not going back to Tennessee, and I’m not testifying against Nigel.”

  Tara Hobbs was the prosecution’s star witness. They needed her testimony to put her lover away for the murder of Misty Blue and bring justice to Misty’s family.

  Sam looked at his cell phone’s blank screen. He tried swiping, then held the power button on the side of the phone for several seconds, waiting to see the familiar fruit logo appear, but the screen remained stubbornly black.

  “It's dead. Do you have a phone?” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket.

  “Call 911 and report this. We need to get some police presence over here,” Sam said, peering around the door jamb into the long hallway.

  Tara swiped her screen and tapped on it a few times. “It’s dead.”

  Sam clenched his jaw and cursed. “Follow me—let’s see if we can get to my Bronco. I have a burner phone there.” He tried to recall when he’d last charged the phone. If it was dead too, he would need to drive Tara to the police station to keep her safe.

  Sam and Tara sprinted to the end of the hall, and Sam stuck his head out of the entrance doorway to look for the two remaining Russos. “Stick close,” Sam said. He and Tara flew out the door and across the front yard toward the apartment complex’s playground, dropping to a crouch behind a row of shrubs that enclosed the play area. Seeing neither of the Russo brothers, Sam rose slightly and fished inside the front pocket of his jeans for his keys, wishing he could just press a button on a modern key fob to unlock his 1973 Bronco. He handed the keys to Tara. “You go first—you’ll have to unlock it. Make it quick. We need to jump in and get the hell out of here. We’ll call the police on the way to the station.”

  Alarm flashed across Tara’s face. Sam touched her shoulder. “You can do this,” he said in a low, even tone. “See that blue Bronco?” he asked, pointing. She nodded. “We’re going to run like hell and drop down behind the front fender by the driver’s door.” She started to put the keys into her pocket, but Sam stopped her. “No! Hold onto them. Have them ready to slide into the lock the second you get there. Unlock the door, then jump in and start the engine.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Watching our back—I’ll be right behind you, ready to fire at those guys if they pop up,” Sam said. “After you start the truck, climb over into the passenger seat and pop open the glove box. The pho
ne’s in there. Call 911, tell them there’s been a shooting, and give them this location.”

  Tara swept her hair away from her face. Fighting back tears, she took a deep breath and gripped the key to the Bronco in her right hand.

  “We’re getting you out of this, Tara,” Sam said.

  She nodded.

  Sam nudged her with an elbow. “Go!” he said, slicing through the bushes after her. He turned, moving backward with his pistol in both hands and his eyes whipping back and forth, searching for the Russo brothers.

  Squatting by the tire, Tara struggled to insert the key into the lock. The Bronco’s old, rusty suspension squeaked as she climbed into the driver’s seat. Sam dropped down behind the Bronco’s front fender when he spotted movement near the apartment building. “Start the engine, Tara!”

  As the Russo brothers came into view, the Bronco roared to life and the contract killers began running toward them.

  “Move over,” Sam said, pushing her gently toward the passenger seat. She climbed past the shift levers as Sam climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get the phone,” Sam barked over the sound of bullets striking the Bronco. He threw the vehicle in gear and mashed the gas pedal. As he turned the first corner, Sam looked back and saw the two brothers jump into a 1970 Chevelle SS. He knew the old Bronco would be no match for the Chevelle’s 454-cubic-inch big-block V-8. He could only hope the brothers would wreck the poor handling old street rod before they caught up with the Bronco.

  A million things ran through his mind as they raced away from the apartment complex. Sam was mentally routing their way to the Atlanta Police Department when two cars slammed into each other at the intersection ahead. Sam barely slowed, making a split-second decision to turn left on a side street to avoid the accident. He glanced in the rearview mirror as the Chevelle turned the corner after them. Sam turned right, punched the gas, and sped away, losing sight of them.

  “Open the glove box,” Sam told Tara again.

  Tara leaned forward, popped the glove box open, and grabbed the burner phone.

  “Turn it on and call 911. Tell them we're heading to the police station.”

  He made another turn, attempting to get back onto a familiar road, but had to slam on the brakes instead, throwing Tara forward into the dash. A truck was sitting diagonally in the middle of the street.

  “What the hell?” Sam said, driving onto the sidewalk to get around it.

  “Have you dialed yet?”

  “It won’t power up,” Tara said.

  “Push the button on the side and hold it until the home icon appears.”

  Sam drove another two blocks and turned right, intending to get back on the main thoroughfare where he could pick up the highway and head to the police station.

  “It’s not working,” Tara said, handing him the phone. Sam took it and tried to dial, but the screen wouldn’t even light up. “It’s dead, too.”

  The road ahead was blocked with stalled cars. People were standing in the street everywhere, and they lined the sidewalks on both sides of the road. Sam twisted and looked over his shoulder. There was no sign of the brothers.

  “Hold on,” Sam said as he took off across the front lawns of homes along the street, running over flower gardens and children’s toys to make his way around the mess of cars and people.

  “Look,” Tara said, pointing toward a gas station. There were multiple vehicles with the hoods up and drivers wearing puzzled looks. Some were holding battery jumper cables. “What’s going on with all the cars?”

  EMP? It was the only thing that made sense.

  Putting two and two together, Sam’s mind was racing. He and his brother, Vince, had studied the effects of such a situation where the power grid, phones, and cars stopped working and had spent years preparing their family and small prepper community back home in eastern Tennessee to survive. The loss of modern technology was just one of many things that could have apocalyptic consequences on society. The consequences of an EMP event were enormous. His thoughts shifted to his wife and son. Had Charlie’s plane landed safely? Had Lauren picked him up at the airport? Had they made it back to Unicoi before the shit hit the fan?

  “Ever heard of an EMP?” Sam asked.

  “No. What’s that?”

  “It’s our ticket out of here, but it’s also probably the end of life as we know it unless something even weirder is going on,” Sam said, flying around a stalled car in his lane and blowing past the driver who was waving his arms trying to get Sam to stop.

  “What? Something weird is sure going on—look at all the cars everywhere. Why did they all stop running at the same time?”

  “An Electromagnetic Pulse—EMP, or a Coronal Mass Ejection—CME, caused by the sun, can take out everything electronic, like phones and cars. The traffic lights are out, and I noticed the power was out at the convenience store we just passed, too.”

  “But your truck is still running.”

  “That’s because this is an older vehicle without anything electronic—everything under the hood is mechanical,” Sam said. He’d selected the Bronco specifically to withstand an EMP. The vehicle, along with his get-home bag were his insurance policy for making it home. Sam had tested his pack several times by hiking on the Appalachian Trail from his home in Unicoi County, Tennessee, to the Virginia border. He was confident he had what he needed to make it home to his family.

  “Hang on. We’ve got to get out of this populated area as fast as possible before we’re stopped by people who want my truck.”

  “You’re crazy. There’s no way you could know something like this for sure.”

  “Well, all the signs point to an EMP or a CME, and whether that’s what happened or not, we’ve still gotta get the heck outta town, pronto,” Sam said, swerving around cars and people in the street as fast as he considered safe.

  “Are you some sort of doomsdayer?” Tara asked, disdain dripping from the phrase.

  Doomsdayer? He’d been called all sorts of things by family and friends who didn’t understand when he and Lauren had purchased their homestead outside of town and begun raising and storing food.

  “I’m a realist. My wife and I read the news. We understand how quickly the world can go to shit. The pandemic and everything following it showed us that.”

  “You’re not part of some survivalist militia or something, are you?”

  Lauren had had a similar reaction to him and Vince at first, but the pandemic and following supply chain shortages had convinced her that good preparation went a long way. Even after they’d moved into town to care for her elderly parents, they’d continued to prepare for an apocalyptic event. It hadn’t been easy, but Sam was now grateful they had. “We’re college-educated professionals who saw the writing on the wall, Tara.”

  Tara choked back something unintelligible as Sam reached under the seat. He retrieved two full magazines for his 1911, opened the dashboard ashtray, shoved them inside, and pushed it closed with the magazines sticking out the top at an angle. Then he reached under the seat again and came out with a box of .45 ACP rounds and two more empty magazines.

  “Do you know how to load these?” Sam asked.

  “No—I don’t play with guns. They’re dangerous,” Tara said with a scowl.

  “Well, Tara, you’re right. Guns are dangerous—but only in the hands of bad people or those who aren’t proficient in using them,” Sam said.

  Sam knew all too well what they could do in the hands of bad people. He had been working the beat as a cop in Johnson City, Tennessee, when a group of perps surprised him and his partner, Jon. Sam had been behind the wheel. As they ate lunch in their patrol car, a bullet ripped through the windshield, striking Sam in the left shoulder. Their burritos flew everywhere as they scrambled to draw their service pistols, which were wedged between their hips and the seat belt latches.

  By the time Sam had drawn his pistol, another bullet had punched through the windshield and struck Jon in the neck. Jon’s carotid artery had pumped blood all
over the windshield and all over Sam. As bad as Hollywood would have portrayed this kind of scene, the reality was much worse. The blood had soaked Sam's face and arms and the entire right side of his uniform. Its coppery smell and taste had created a memory that still made him physically ill five years later. The past frequently traveled with him. At night, it caused fitful sleep. Sam had worn a cross-draw holster ever since to ensure his pistol was always within immediate reach.

  Stop. Stop it.

  Sam tried to shake off the trauma and focus on the current situation.

  “I don’t care—I don’t like guns,” Tara offered, crossing her arms and sticking her nose in the air.

  Sam rubbed his brow and put the empty magazines on the seat between his legs. “This is going to be a long trip.”

  Sam figured they’d have to stop one way or another, so he kept pushing on through whatever they encountered as fast as possible. As he weighed his options, he looked over at Tara. If this was the apocalypse, he probably didn’t need to get her back to Unicoi. So far, he had no confirmation the EMP effect was widespread. It could just be localized. Things could be perfectly normal in Tennessee. Until he knew otherwise, he still needed to bring her back to testify as planned.