Free Preppers of the Apocalypse - Part 1: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival by Godsby Jim Page A

said the mayor.
     
    Ash
nodded.
     
    Nearly
there, he thought. Just get through the next uncomfortable
five minutes and I’m out of here.
     
    The
mayor picked up his glass then slammed it down on the table.
     
    “Then
you better get the hell out of my office,” he said.
     
    In
the parking lot, the mob had swollen until it became a throng of furious faces .
Say what you will about me , thought Ash, but I can sure bring a
community together . There were men and women of all ages waiting for him, though
most of the population was curiously white. Guess diversity hadn’t hit Pasture
Down yet. It was the kind of place where one half of the population farmed and the
other half worked in the mines, and anyone who strayed from those choices of
profession was looked at with suspicion.
     
    “You
goddamn thief son of a bitch,” shouted a woman old enough to be Ash’s grandma.
     
    They
had blocked the exit now as if they were challenging him to run them over. For
the first time he felt his skin start to itch. This was becoming a little too
real. Maybe he should have just skipped town straight away.
     
    “Judas
got nothing on you, you thieving little scumbag,” shouted a man wearing a
vicar’s collar.
     
    He
had only one thought on his mind now; he had to get to his car. In there, with
the doors locked and windows up, he’d be safe. He could blast out the radio to
drown out their abuse and if any of them punched his car and dented it, he’d
claim on his insurance. If he had to run any of them over trying to leave, then
that was their fault for standing in the way.
     
    A
man in dark blue jeans and a Knick’s shirt strode across the parking lot. His
fists were clenched, and from the swell of his arm muscles it looked like he
was used to throwing punches. Ash focussed on his car. Just a few strides
across the lot and he was out of there.
     
    As
he got nearer to his vehicle, a man stepped from the hummer next to it and
blocked Ash’s way. The Knicks guy covered the parking lot distance and soon he
too stood in the way of his escape. A woman, with a single string of her fringe
dyed purple, took a set of keys from out of her purse, smiled at Ash and then
scratched them across the Mercedes from the windshield to the bottom of the
bumper. As the key tore across the paintwork, he wanted to put his hands to his
ears.
     
    The
Knicks guy took shallow breaths and his cheeks looked ready to boil. As he
stared at Ash his eyes became little black balls that seemed to burn with the
fire. Ash didn’t feel so confident with anger anymore. His practiced words and
slippery gestures left him, and he didn’t know how he was going to get out of
this.
     
    The
people started to close in on him in a circle. Pretty soon he’d be in the
centre of it, and he could almost feel the punches and kicks that were going to
come his way. The only thing that stopped him going completely out of his mind
was the idea of Georgia at home. The reason for it all, the only thing that
made this crap job worthwhile.
     
    “Gonna
get my money back by carving you up,” said the Knicks guy. From the growl in
his voice, Ash knew that he meant it.
     
    He
looked over the shoulders of the man and his heart jumped. At the end of the
parking lot, leaning against her cruiser and smoking the life out of a roll-up
cigarette, was Sheriff Ellie Ashurst. Ash couldn’t tell if she’d seen him, but
there was no way she could have missed the angry mob. So why wasn’t she coming over
to investigate?
     
    “Hey,”
he shouted. “Sheriff Ashurst.”
     
    When
the sheriff flicked her cigarette and looked the other way, Ash realised that
he’d scammed her out of money too. He remembered that she made him cheap-tasting
coffee and filled in the paperwork from an arrest while he persuaded her to
give him her savings.
     
    The
mob closed in and Ash realised that help wasn’t going to come. He couldn’t get
to his car, and he sure as hell couldn’t fight. This beating had