Post Grid: An Arizona EMP Adventure by Tony Martineau Page B

were thankful. Kelly wondered how it would be as people became more desperate.
    The horses and rider were making the right turn onto the Beeline Highway when they saw an old truck driving east, away from town. She had seen other old cars running in town last night as well. The truck was packed tightly and covered with an old blue tarp. Mom, Dad and kids rode in the cab. It swerved in and out of the parked cars on the highway. Odd . How did they make it run when so many others vehicles didn't ?
    Now, more than twenty-four hours after the disaster, non-working cars sat abandoned. They offered no shelter from the heat and couldn't supply any water. Kelly wondered where the very old and very young were. Surely there had been old folks and families coming into town from the mountain towns in the North. Maybe they had stopped in Fountain Hills to beg shelter instead of trying to make it another ten miles into Mesa. Maybe they just traveled more slowly and she would see them on the road later. She hoped not.
    Not one airplane had crossed the sky since the disaster. Even after the nine-eleven attacks, fighter jets had crisscrossed the valley. Kelly sat perched atop Hokey, deep in thought. If this was an electromagnetic pulse, were the military jets not hardened against such attacks? Were their pilots unable to get to the base? Maybe the ground electronics were out. What would they do up there flying about anyway? Her body swayed gently back and forth as the horses' hooves clopped on the pavement. Since she couldn't answer any of her own questions, the trip ahead of her filled her thoughts.
    Arizona desert was hot, rocky and unforgiving. In the summertime, monsoon rains cut deep furrows in the ruddy-brown landscape when torrents of water cascaded down the nonporous mountainsides. All of that water ran off quickly, leaving the riverbeds dry most of the year. Small trees, shrubs, and cacti clung to life, hoping their roots would find an indentation in the rocky soil that would collect the precious few inches of rain that fell on the Sonoran Desert each year. Kelly knew that she could not give out drinking water on the longest part of her trip, from the Verde River to Sunflower.
    Kelly spotted someone ahead sitting off to the side of the road. Every encounter now was a cause for concern. As she got closer, she saw that it was a man in a sheriff's uniform sitting against a tree. As she drew closer still, she saw an AR-15 resting against his right shoulder. Crimson stained his left shoulder and chest. Kelly drew her pistol and scanned the surrounding desert in case whoever had done this was still in the area. When she came right up on him, she could see that the stain covered a corner of the name embroidered on his shirt: Malloy. The blood was dry. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. He was still alive.
    Kelly knew by the sheriff's uniform that he was a deputy from Fountain Hills, a few miles to the north. The town contracted with the Sheriff’s Office for police protection.
    Kelly's brain immediately shifted to her moral upbringing and military training—no man left behind—but this officer wasn't in the military, was he? She worked side by side with law enforcement now and considered them part of the “brotherhood.” He would do the same for her. She must help him, even to her own peril. The others had a chance, but someone wounded like this...
    “Officer,” Kelly said more loudly than she had intended. It sounded almost hostile.
    The deputy opened his eyes, squinting against the bright sunlight behind her, and made an effort to get to his gun.
    “Don't,” said Kelly, nodding her head toward his weapon. “I'm here to help.”
    The officer let his body slump back onto the tree trunk.
    “Yes, ma'am, doesn't look like I've got much of a choice,” the officer said weakly. “I must have fallen asleep. I stayed awake as long as I could. The arm's not working too well. I took a round in the shoulder a few hours back and it's got