Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

“What the hell are you doing?”

Wilson said nothing.

Max extended a hand down, offering it to Wilson.

It was too much work to take it. Too much work to get back up. Too much work to fight it all.

Wilson ignored the hand.

Really, it was too much work to lie there. It was too hard. Maybe there was an easier way out.

“You know as well as I do that we’ve got to get going. Shit, you probably know it better than I do. They’re coming for us, and they’re not giving us any breaks. Like you said, they’re not going to pull any punches.”

“There’s no point.”

Max said nothing. Just stared at Wilson.

Wilson lowered his gaze, his eyes focused now on the pavement. The black. The yellow line. The way the pavement was chunky. It was all up close. All easier to focus on than what was really important, than what was really going on.

“I know exactly what they’re going to do to us. There’s no point in fighting back. I’ve never seen it work. I’ve been with Grant since the beginning. He’s ruthless. You just don’t even know. You think that…”

“I’ve met men like him before,” said Max. “I know what they’re about.”

“I thought I knew him,” said Wilson. “I thought he meant what he said.”

“You can’t trust what people say. Especially when they’re talking about themselves. Everyone lies.”

“I should have known that. Before the EMP, I was a… well, it doesn’t matter now. What do you care what I was? But I knew people. I may have worked behind a desk, but I could still read people. I thought I knew the signs…”

“People are tough,” said Max, his voice gruff and tired.

“I’m just going to end it all,” said Wilson. He spoke quickly, and acted quickly as well. His hand seized the handgun that he had dropped.

Wilson felt as if he’d suddenly found the answer. He felt as if he’d been looking for this answer all his life, and as if his life had been nothing but struggle, toil and hardship.

It was if this is what he’d been looking for all along. But he didn’t realize that his view of his life was distorted. It was almost as if they were false memories. He hadn’t been like this before. Not all the time, anyway. He’d had his ups and downs through his professional life. Moments of depression. Moments of elation. All fairly normal. Fairly standard.

Wilson brought the gun around quickly, his arm swinging, his elbow digging into the pavement.

The muzzle of the handgun was pressed against his temple. He pushed harder, making the muzzle dig into his temple. Somehow the pressure felt good. Somehow the pressure felt right.

“You’re going to have to do this alone,” said Wilson. His voice sounded strange and far away, even to himself.

In a way, it was a shame to make Max do this all himself. To make him run and then get captured. To make him go through the torture and eventual death all by himself.

But really, what was the difference? It wasn’t as if Wilson’s presence was necessary. It wasn’t as if Wilson’s presence would alleviate Max’s suffering

And even if it had, what did Wilson really owe Max? Max was a stranger. A nobody. Nothing more than just some guy.

Wilson has his finger on the trigger.

It was a strange sensation, knowing that he was about to pull the trigger. Knowing that he was about to put an end to it all.

It was such an easy answer. Such a brilliantly simple solution.

Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Were there any last thoughts? Anything he wanted to say before he did it? Before he did himself in?

No.

Nothing came to mind.

Before he could pull the trigger, something happened.

Something slammed into his wrist. Something hard. Pain flared through his arm.

Wilson yelped and dropped the handgun. His hand felt weak, with pain in it, and the dropping motion was automatic. Reflexive.

Wilson turned his head to look. To see what had happened.

It was Max’s boot. Looking big. Imposing.

It was a horribly worn-out boot. Cracked leather patches. Frayed laces. Eyelets that were almost bursting out of the leather. The side of the sole cracked and shorn away.

The boot was pressed hard into the underside of Wilson’s wrist.

“I can’t let you go through with that,” growled Max.

Something about his voice reminded Wilson of Grant. And he suddenly remembered that that had been his first impression of Max. That there’d been something Grant-like about him.

“It’s the only way out for me,” said Wilson, his voice weak and frantic.

Suddenly faced with the idea of not getting what he’d wanted, Wilson became desperate.

His heart started to pound. It felt like his eyes were bulging. Some tears started to flow. His body felt shaky, as if his blood sugar were getting low.

Wilson made a grab for the gun with his other hand. It was his only way out. The only thing he could think of.

Before he could grab the gun, Max kicked it. The gun went clattering across the pavement, bouncing slightly on the uneven road.

“It’s the only thing I can do,” said Wilson. “You don’t understand what you’re up against. You don’t understand what we’re facing.”

Suddenly, Max’s hands were on Wilson’s shoulders. Max was leaning down over him, and now he pulled. Hard.

Wilson was pulled up roughly to his feet.

Max didn’t look nearly as strong as he was. It was that wiry strength. That hidden strength.

Max pulled Wilson roughly towards him.

Max’s face was right up against Wilson’s. Wilson could see every feature, every pore. He could feel Max’s hot breath.

It was like those army movies, where the drill sergeant got right in the face of the recruit. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Threatened him, until he did what he wanted.

But Max didn’t do that. he didn’t yell. He didn’t scream.

Instead, he spoke in a low, calm voice.

“We’re not guaranteed to survive,” he said. “But if you come with me, I promise that you have at least a chance. And you’re right, you understand the consequences better than I do. You understand exactly what they’ll do to us. That’s partly what’s making it so hard for you. It’s easier if you can’t imagine the consequences. It’s easier if you can forget, if you can just plow on forward.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Exactly,” said Max. “I have a lot of practice with this. And because I’m good at this, I’m going to give you some tips. Tips on how to deal with this.”

“It’s not going to help.”

“Even so, you’re going to listen. Now the way I think about it is this: They’re coming for us. They’re people that we don’t like. To put it mildly. Now do we want to make it easy for them? Do we want them to laugh about us later, when they’re sitting around, cracking open beers that they scavenged from somewhere? Do we want to go out like that, or do we want to go down as legends, as people who fought for their survival, fought for what’s right?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Wilson. “After we’re dead, we’re dead. We just die, and that’s it. Nothing matters after that.”

Max shrugged. “Everyone has their own opinion on that,” he said. “Me? I’ve got my opinions. I’ve got my beliefs. I keep them to myself. I’m not trying to convince you of anything. Except I need to correct you on one point. One crucial point.”

“What’s that?”

“You think that you’re dead and that’s that. It’s not. If you die, the world’s still here. Dying is the easy way out. The coward’s choice and the hero’s choice. Seems like a contradiction but it’s not. If you die, Grant and the others are still there. Still able to terrorize. Still able to torture. Still as power hungry as ever. If you kill yourself, it’s just selfish. Just the choice of a man who wants to close his eyes and pretend that the world will disappear when he does it.”