Ryan Westfield - Getting Home

Her stomach was empty. But hunger wasn’t on her mind. It was just revenge. And nothing more.

She tried to slow her breathing in an attempt to clear her mind. She needed to think clearly if she was going to accomplish what she wanted to.

She needed a plan.

The way she saw it, she had two options. She’d get to Sarge and finish him. Right away.

If she waited around, if she delayed any longer, the hunger and fatigue would soon overcome her. She’d be too weak to continue fighting. If she took that route, she’d have to hole up somewhere for a few days and get some food, make preparations, make more elaborate plans.

What she wanted to do was simply rush off and fight. Right now. No more waiting. No more hesitating.

But she knew that wouldn’t work as well as a real plan. Rushing off now meant rushing off to die.

The fights from yesterday were still fresh in her mind. The dead men’s eyes were still fresh in her memory. The sounds they’d made when dying were still fresh in her ears.

Something’d been different about those kills. She wasn’t going to overanalyze it.

But she knew that the memories were going to continue to haunt her. They’d distract her. If she found some basement or home to hide out in, some food to eat, she’d have to deal with those thoughts and memories for the next few days.

She’d be all alone. Nothing but her own mind and her painful memories to torment her.

She knew she couldn’t deal with it.

She knew that going to find Sarge now would end in quick death. She knew that she’d never get anywhere near Sarge. She knew it was hopeless.

But she was going to do it anyway.

Most likely, she’d be gunned down by the nearest militia soldier on patrol. Most likely, a description of her had been passed around to all members. They’d had plenty of time to do it.

It was the easiest way out. A sort of suicide. An end to everything. Going out in a blaze, not of glory but of something else entirely, would be the easier approach.

And she wanted easy. Everything had been too hard. Far too hard.

Janet stood up. Her boots sunk a little into the wet dirt by the creek. She walked over to the creek, bent down, and splashed some of the cool, almost icy, water onto her face. She took more of it in her cupped hands and dumped it on her hair, over her head. She stood there with water running down around her ears, over her nose. She stuck out her tongue and tasted some of it.

Janet had no compass or maps. But she didn’t need any. She knew this area as well as any of the other militia members.

Taking in a deep breath, she walked straight across the little creek. It didn’t matter if her boots got a little wet.

She crossed through the reeds on the edge of the park and started walking straight across the field.

There was a baseball field. The grass was overgrown.

She was out in the open. She wasn’t trying to hide herself. She wasn’t trying to sneak around.

It’d be easier this way.

It didn’t take long for her to be spotted. After all, there were patrols everywhere.

On the road that ran parallel to the far side of the park, an old Jeep rumbled along slowly.

Janet glanced at it and kept walking.

She had her shotgun in both hands. Her grip was tight. Her finger was on the trigger.

She kept walking, knowing that they’d seen her. There was no way they couldn’t have. She was a solitary figure walking alone with a gun. No one else dared to go outside in this area. No one but the militia.

She heard the Jeep’s engine. Louder now. Getting closer.

Her eyes darted off to the side. She didn’t turn her head.

The Jeep took a sharp turn, heading right towards the curb. It jumped the curb, bouncing violently.

The engine was louder. The Jeep was coming at her, driving across the field.

She kept walking, picking up her pace. It wasn’t like there was anywhere to hide. Nothing to duck behind. Nowhere to take shelter.

She didn’t bother thinking about how she’d thought she’d have gotten further. She’d thought she’d have gotten a little closer to Sarge. Not all the way there, obviously. But she’d never have suspected they’d have spotted her so quickly.

What she thought about instead was her chances.

She’d taken many of them out already.

What were two more?

She could do it.

But she couldn’t ignore the issue any longer. Even if she broke into an all-out sprint, there was no chance she could get off the field and to some kind of shelter before the Jeep reached her.

She stopped and turned towards the Jeep.

It was headed right at her.

She could see two men in it. She could see their faces. They wore the blank expressions so common to those in the militia. They’d disassociated themselves from everything they’d felt.

How else could they survive doing what they were doing, experiencing what they were experiencing?

She didn’t have much time. The Jeep was going fast. Maybe forty or fifty miles per hour.

She didn’t have many options. If she let it get too close, it’d be too late to jump to the side. She’d think she could make it, and then it would crash right into her, mowing her down.

Janet leveled the shotgun, pumped it, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Her aim was good. The gun kicked. Her ears rang. The windshield shattered.

Aiming for a tire would have been useless. They would have just kept driving. It would have hardly slowed them down. It wasn’t like in the movies, where shooting out a tire would make the Jeep suddenly flip over and explode. At least, not usually.

The Jeep was still racing towards her.

She dove to the side at the last moment. Hopefully the limited visibility of the driver would be to her advantage.

Sure enough, the Jeep didn’t swerve to hit her.

She’d hit the ground hard. The shotgun had somehow fallen from her hands. She reached for it, took it in her hands, and pumped it. The empty shell popped out, landing on the overgrown grass.

The Jeep slammed to a stop not far from her.

Both doors opened.

This was it.

She was on her back, aiming up with the shotgun.

A man she didn’t recognize was coming at her, an AR-15 in his hands. His partner, the driver, was still on the other side of the stopped Jeep.

As he raised his weapon, Janet squeezed the trigger. The kick from the shotgun was harsh, her shoulder slamming back into the ground.

The AR-15 clattered to the ground. The soldier fell. Her shot might have caught him in the chest. She didn’t know. There wasn’t time to look.

Before she could pump the shotgun, a bullet slammed into her left shoulder. The feeling surprised her more than scared her. It felt more like a brick slamming into her than a small projectile piercing her flesh.

She tried to move her arm, but it wouldn’t work properly. Her left hand felt weak.

The shotgun slipped out of her left hand. She couldn’t maintain her grip.

She tried lifting the shotgun with her right hand, but the gun was long and heavy and her strength suddenly seemed to be sapped. The barrel of the gun hung loosely as she struggled to raise it, pointing into the ground. Useless.

A tall man strode towards her across the grass. He glanced casually at his companion, who lay there moaning.

He held a large caliber pistol. His arm was level and he pointed it at her.

Janet let the shotgun go. It rolled off her and fell onto the grass. She struggled to her feet, reaching for her handgun.

Her left arm hung uselessly at her side. The pain roared through her.

Her right hand found her handgun’s handle. But before she could draw it, another shot slammed into her. This time it hit her knee.

Janet collapsed before she registered the pain.