Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

If she was going to survive, she was going to have to make it happen. And it didn’t matter whether she had pain or whether she was weak.

She’d either find a way to live.

Or she’d die.

She probably had mere seconds left.

Her vision was funny. Black around the edges.

Strange flashes of light in her field of vision, as if she was staring down the end of a flashlight.

The pain in her leg had gone. Vanished. Her body was focusing only on the absolute essentials. With mere seconds left to live, what did it matter if her leg hurt or not?

There wasn’t much point in her leg sending those pain signals.

She didn’t know what she did.

Later, she couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t distinguish between the different parts of her body.

It was as if everything simply acted together. In complete unison.

She threw herself forward.

All her strength. All her power.

She knocked into him.

Hard.

The hands released themselves.

Georgia’s hands were going wild. Looking for something.

For some weapon.

Her knife was on her belt. She went for it.

But something was in the way.

She was gasping for breath. Still felt like she was unable to breathe.

But she couldn’t let that stop her from killing this man.

He needed to die.

Fast.

It was an animalistic struggle.

She barely knew where she was or where he was.

Their bodies were still twined together. Mostly on their sides. Moving constantly. A constant struggle. Impossible to tell exactly what was what, or where it all was.

Her hand found something. Something hard.

Probably a rock. Hopefully a rock

Georgia didn’t waste time wondering about it. She swung.

Swung hard.

It smashed into his skull.

Blood everywhere. The bone caved in, like pieces of shattered peanut brittle.

Brains oozing.

His body went limp, fell away from hers.

Georgia’s eyes darted over to John. Now she could see him, without the body in the way.

There was another man.

Had she miscounted? Had they sent someone else?

The two figures were barely distinguishable. It looked more like a single animal creature that was fighting itself, tearing itself apart, biting itself.

The one part of the “creature” that Georgia could really identify as belonging definitely to John was his broken, busted leg that stuck way out, the bone clearly visible.

He must have been in so much pain.

But it didn’t stop him from fighting.

They were biting each other. Deep bites that drew blood and tore flesh. Not the sort of bites that kids used when they were mad. No, these were animal bites, the type that a wild animal would use when fighting for its life. Human teeth may not have been primarily a weapon, but they worked pretty well. They could do some damage.

Georgia had her options. Her rifle. Her hands. Her knife. The rock.

Each had advantages and disadvantages.

She managed to stand up. Walk forward a little, slowly, limping.

Her leg was going to be a problem on the way back to camp. Better worry about that later. For now, she could manage to stand up. She could grit her teeth through the pain.

If she used the gun, she might kill John.

If she used her knife, she also might kill John. But the chances were lower.

No reason to think about it too much.

Her hand went to her knife. Fingers wrapped around the handle.

She threw herself forward, down onto the man, striking with her knife at the same time, plunging it into the middle of his back.

He let out a noise. A squeak. A squeal of pain.

John grunted.

Georgia’s leg flared with pain and gave out. She tumbled down, falling too heavily to the ground.

Max’s leg was killing him.

He and Wilson were both covered in sweat. They’d been walking, or hiking, at a fast pace for the better part of five hours.

They knew that they were being followed.

They knew that the enemy wasn’t that far behind.

Occasionally, a gunshot would echo through the area. Occasionally, a bullet would lodge itself int he ground near them.

But neither had been hit. Not yet.

“How far away are they?” said Max, breathless, panting as he spoke.

His hand was sweaty, and he had to make sure to keep a good grip on his gun as he walked.

Wilson was walking a little bit behind Max. They had been switching positions, and eventually Max had overtaken him.

It wasn’t that Max wanted to expose Wilson to more danger. But it was that without Max pushing them to go faster and faster, Wilson would have lagged behind.

“Half a mile, maybe,” said Wilson. He sounded more out of breath than Max. Much more out of breath.

“You still think it’s Grant himself?”

“No doubt.”

“With the others?”

“The crack squad, yeah.”

“So the first group… they’re…”

“…off in some other direction, most likely.”

“So how many are we dealing with?”

“Four. Maybe. There are more, but they’re not with him… off in another direction… maybe trying to cut us off… we need to watch for that…”

“Including Grant.”

“Probably.”

“How do you know it’s Grant himself?”

“I heard him. His voice… unmistakable… Shouting orders…”

Max didn’t know what to do.

Sure, he had been in plenty of bad situations. Since the EMP, it had seemed like his life had been one constant appraisal of serious danger, one endless stream of life-or-death decisions.

But never before had Max felt like he really didn’t know what to do.

There’d always been a set of options. There’d often been tough decisions. Tough choices. Hard calls.

He’d had to rack his brains plenty of times before. He’d had to go with his gut. He’d had to run scenarios through his head. He’d had to just go with his instinct.

It had always more or less worked out.

But now?

Max didn’t think it was going to work out.

What were they going to do?

Sooner or later, they’d tire.

And soon enough, Grant’s men would overcome them.

According to Wilson, Grant and his men had access to ample quantities of not just traditional pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, but other substances as well. Things like modafinil, that were used by Air Force pilots during military exercises. They were the updates, improved amphetamines, that could keep men going for days and days without fatigue.

It wasn’t going to end well.

Max and Wilson weren’t going to be able to outrun them. They weren’t going to be able to hide.

They were going to have to fight. There were no two ways about it.

Max stopped suddenly in his tracks.

Wilson almost ran into him, coming up from behind.

“What are you doing?” said Wilson. “Come on. We’ve got to keep going. They’re getting close.”

Wilson turned and looked back anxiously.

“This is it,” said Max. “Come on. Get ready. This is as good a place as any.”

“Are we going to die?”

“Most likely,” said Max.

Wilson’s face showed his terror. But it seemed that he was able to pull himself together.

Max readied himself, getting down on the ground, gun in front of him.

Ready to shoot. Ready to die.

Wilson did the same. Slightly off to the side.

There were some obstacles, some trees that provided some cover. But not much.

There wasn’t much point in trying to hide themselves, or trying to delay the inevitable.

Grant and his men would come up, and there’d be a gun fight. If Max and Wilson hid themselves, then they wouldn’t be able to shoot.

“Better to just get it over with,” grunted Max.