Grid Down: A Strike against America - An EMP Survival Story- Book Two Read Online Free Page B

effort.
    Josh grabbed his arm.
    “What?” Antonio whispered.
    “Not now!” Josh said with clinched teeth.
    “Goodnight, you little shits,” the guard said, stretching. He walked to the door, laughing under his breath.
    “I need to use the bathroom!” Gabrielle said.
    The guard stopped with his back turned. “I’ll grab you a bucket.” He said no more as he left, slamming the metal door shut and locking it.
    Antonio yanked his arm away from Josh.  “What’s your problem, man? That was our chance!”
    “No,” Josh said. “You could get us all killed going at him like that.”
    Antonio stared ahead and said nothing as he folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.
    “We’ll think of something soon. Trust me,” Josh said. 
    Their eyes drifted down to the kerosene lamp, watching it flicker, with nothing left to do but wait.

 
     
    ***
    Reverend Phelps’s faith had never been stronger. Even though he and the remaining members of his parish had been captured walking through town as “intruders” and placed in captivity for the past two weeks, he looked to divine power for guidance. The mayor had taken keen interest in him since day one. When first captured, the congregants were taken into a warehouse, lined up against a wall, and shot at. It was a traumatic experience—a sadistic game—but no one was hit. It was meant to send the fear of God to them. The town needed people, prisoners or not.
    At first, Phelps believed spiritual intervention had saved them. But the mayor had no intention of killing them. In the time he had been held in confinement, Phelps had only seen his parish of seven one time. Harvey and Beatrice Wilson, an old-fashioned couple in their fifties, were locked up in one room, while Zach and Erin Brantley were locked up in another with their two young children, Tyler and Sloane. He friend, Dale Ripken, a Long Island landscaper, had been placed on the wall and forced to work.
    Arthur, the mayor, had a sizeable team working to construct a cement wall around the entire town. For something so ludicrous, Phelps was surprised to see how close the mayor was getting. He woke up that morning with a single ray of light from a small window high above. In his constant confinement, he had begun to lose track of the days. He stopped to work it out in his head. It was Wednesday, November 23: seventy-three days after the EMP.
    Absent his Bible, he prepared his own lesson and prayers for the day. Breakfast would come soon—usually gathered bits from MRE packages with portions getting smaller each day. He took a swig of a nearly empty water bottle and stretched.
    A knock came at his door. No one had bothered to knock before, and Phelps didn’t know what to say, if anything. He rubbed the stubble on his face, where a large bruise was still visible. The pistol-whipping he had received upon meeting the mayor was still vivid in his mind. The doorknob unlocked as the door opened, revealing the mayor himself. His had a haircut and a fresh shave. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and ironed black slacks. He held a pair of tan boots and dropped them on the ground.
    Phelps’s dirty and tattered appearance was quite the contrast. He was barefoot and wearing the torn long-sleeved shirt and jeans he’d had on the day of his capture.
    “You know, Rev, you really look like shit,” Arthur pointed out. 
    Phelps looked away saying nothing.
    Arthur laughed. “Relax. That’s why I came here. It’s time you took a shower and got into some fresh clothes.”
    Arthur turned back to him and spoke with a strained, hoarse voice. “What difference does it make at this point? Just leave me alone.”
    Arthur placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, Rev. Not biting today. We’re not going to argue.” He approached the bed and spoke quietly. “Now, look. I know you still think I’m sore about you letting me down the other day, but I’ve moved on. I