Ryan Westfield - Getting Home

Georgia stood up slowly, holding onto the tree trunk for support.

Before she could take her first step, she heard a twig snap off in the distance, somewhere in front of her, to the south.

If she was lucky, it’d be a deer.

If she was unlucky, it’d be someone. Maybe the people who’d stolen their food when the mob had come.

It’d be just like them, cowards that they apparently were, to approach her when she was alone.

Had they followed her?

She didn’t think so. She’d been too careful. She’d moved quietly. She’d checked her surroundings constantly, always making sure to look behind her.

Georgia didn’t move except to get her rifle ready. She slid her finger over the trigger, where it rested, waiting.

Georgia didn’t put her eye to the scope. Not yet. The sound hadn’t sounded that far off, and she didn’t want to let tunnel vision allow her to miss something important off her periphery.

The pain in her back was still there, as was the weakness. She tried to keep her thoughts focused on the present, but they kept seeming to slip, her mind winding its way back to her children at camp. Would they be safe without her? John and Cynthia were capable. But they weren’t her, and Max was off somewhere, his return uncertain.

Another sound. This one slighter, quieter than the last.

Something poked its way out from behind a tree.

It was a deer head.

Georgia breathed a sigh of relief.

Not only was it not a dangerous person, but it was food.

Georgia put her eye to the scope, and, without moving, got the deer right in her crosshairs.

Most hunters went for the heart or the lungs first. It was easier than a bullet to the brain.

But a bullet to the brain would drop the deer in one shot. And Georgia knew she could pull it off. She just had to wait until the deer emerged a little farther. She wanted a clean shot.

The deer moved, inching forward, its head bent down as it searched for food on the ground.

But before Georgia could pull the trigger, a shot rang out.

Georgia threw herself to the ground. She was on her stomach, her rifle in front of her, her finger still on the trigger.

The deer jumped forward, looking startled.

It was running at top speed. Right towards Georgia, who it didn’t seem to see.

Blood trailed behind the deer, spurting out of its body.

Someone had been hunting that same deer, and they weren’t as good a shot as Georgia. They’d hit the deer, but it hadn’t been a killing shot.

Another shot rang out.

This time the deer fell. It lay there, about twenty feet in front of Georgia. Its eyes were wide open and seemed to stare at her.

Georgia’s heart was pounding.

What should she do? Run? Stand her ground?

She didn’t know how effective running would be given her fatigue, her weakness. But maybe the adrenaline would help her. She was sure she could do it.

But while she’d been deciding, a figure had emerged from off in the distance.

A man. Tall. Big beard. Long hair. Wearing camouflage that didn’t do much to disguise his body in the current climate.

He carried a rifle at his side in one hand.

He was casting looks around, trying to spot the deer he’d shot.

In a moment, his eyes would land on Georgia. And it was too late to run.

She wasn’t going to shoot him. Not now. Not yet. It wasn’t right. For all she knew, he could be just like her, a good person just trying to survive. He could even have been someone that she’d met once on a hunting trip, someone she’d sat around the fire later with and shared a beer with.

The man was getting closer. Georgia could see his face clearly now, but he still hadn’t seen her or the deer. He had a wide face, a deep brow, and an intense way of squinting at his surroundings. Maybe he’d lost his glasses and didn’t have great vision.

But she couldn’t count on it.

Georgia would make the first move.

“Hands in the air,” shouted Georgia.

The man froze.

But he didn’t drop his gun.

His eyes moved over to her.

“Drop the gun,” shouted Georgia.

“Or what? What’s a little lost lady like you going to do to me?”

“You already know the answer. Drop it. You have three seconds.”

The man took a single long step closer to Georgia. The distance wasn’t much now. But still enough.

Georgia trigger finger quavered.

She was counting in her head. Three… two…

If she counted it out, she wasn’t a murderer. She’d given the guy options. If he didn’t want to play by her rules, then that was on him. Not her.

She wasn’t going to give second chances. She’d fire.

She may have been ethical, but she wasn’t weak.

“Fine!”

The man suddenly dropped his rifle onto the ground and raised his hands high over his head.

Georgia eased up the tension on her finger.

“Stay where you are!”

“I don’t mean any harm,” said the man. “I’m just trying to get dinner. And I don’t react well to being told what to do by strangers with guns. Never have.”

Georgia could relate. In a sense.

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter anymore? I’ll give you my name, but it doesn’t mean much.”

“Just do it.”

“William Baxter, but people call me Will.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” He laughed. “What everyone’s doing, I guess. Trying to survive.”

“Are you with anyone else?”

“Just me.”

“You know anything about a camp near here?”

“A camp? Just my own.”

“Where’s your camp?”

“Over by the big gully, over on the eastern end.”

Georgia hadn’t been there. She didn’t even know if there was a gully.

And for all Georgia knew, everything coming out of this man’s mouth could be a lie.

If he was one of the ones who’d stolen their food, what incentive would he have to admit it? Absolutely none.

She could take his rifle and leave him there. But that might as well be a death sentence for the man. Without his rifle, he wouldn’t be able to hunt. Or to defend himself.

It was always the same problem. Trying to tell if someone was out to hurt them or not.

That was the problem with being ethical, without shooting to kill and not bothering with questions. It was the problem she and Max and everyone else had grown tired of facing.

But not tired to the point of changing their ways.

Not yet, at least.

Georgia stood up slowly. She was going to let him go. It wasn’t an easy choice. But it was the right thing to do.

Suddenly, bark from the tree behind Georgia exploded. The pieces hit her in the back, pelting against her jacket.

The gunshot rang out.

It must have been far away.

They’d missed.

Georgia threw herself on the ground again.

The man, William Baxter, if that was really his name, was reaching for his rifle on the ground.

Georgia didn’t look through the scope, but she knew she had him. She pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out. The gun kicked.

But Baxter didn’t fall.

Somehow, she’d missed.

Baxter was closing the distance between them fast. She saw his face clearly, the anger contorting it. His eyes burned with intensity.

He was holding his rifle in one hand high above his head, apparently intending to use it like a club.

Georgia had mere seconds to get off another shot. She was keeping calm as he closed the distance, waiting for the moment that she could be sure her shot would be the final one.

But before she could fire, the sniper off in the distance fired again. They missed, but the bullet lodged itself into the ground in front of Georgia’s face, sending dirt into her eyes.

She heard the shot ringing out after she was momentarily blinded.