Ryan Westfield - Getting Home

It’d be those little moments, those small injuries, that would bring them down.

As he was firing, Max’s thoughts drifted to the members of his group. He couldn’t help himself. It felt as if he was looking at them for the last time. Their faces seemed frozen in time. Maybe that’d be the last time they’d be seen by anyone before they became dismembered corpses. Probably eaten raw later on by men and women who had become barely human, or maybe all too human, depending on how you looked at it.

Max wanted to do something. He’d sacrifice himself if it would do any good.

He’d be willing to run head-first into the mob, guns blazing, if it would have made the slightest difference.

But there was nothing he could do. There was no grand gesture. No last minute play.

And they were surrounded. Max couldn’t have broken free if he’d wanted to. Not that sneaking around the side would have done any good.

No strategy would save them.

Through the gunshots, Max heard another noise. It came through the roaring of the mob, somehow cutting through.

It was a machine. An engine.

His brain struggled to attach meaning to the noise. He felt scrambled. Like he couldn’t think.

His finger had been pumping the trigger. The gun was hot.

The smell of death was in the air.

Blood was everywhere.

Some of the men and women had made it all the way there.

Max shot one of them in the chest at close range. Nearly point blank.

Someone behind him turned around and fired. Georgia or John. He wasn’t sure.

It was happening so fast, despite the adrenaline-fueled slow motion.

Something slammed into his head. Something hard. His vision shook for a second, the world seemingly tilting on its axis.

The gun was pulled from Max’s hands. No matter how hard he gripped, it wasn’t enough. There were four or five or six hands on the gun.

Something slammed into Max’s shoulder.

A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

He gasped for air. His head felt like it was on fire.

They were all around him.

Max’s hand went for his knife. Somehow, he found it.

He gripped it tightly and brought his hand up swiftly, swinging with his arm viciously.

He caught someone in the neck. A long, slicing cut. But deep.

Hot blood was all over. Max tasted it in his mouth. He felt it on his face.

That strange sound of the engine was coming back, rising above the din of the battle at hand.

Yes, it was an engine. Max’s mind focused in on it, like a camera lens.

The engine roared. It was close now.

Max looked up. He was on his knees, with a body lying on the ground in front of him.

Somehow, those who’d broken through had been killed.

But those were just the first.

More were coming. At least another dozen.

The roar of the engine was closer. Coming from the south side, where Max faced.

Max saw the flash of a chrome bumper first.

It was a car. His exhausted brain registered on it and categorized it.

A car that was speeding through the rushing mob. It was something like an old Chrysler, decades out of date. It jumped and careened over the uneven terrain, mowing down countless mob members as it did.

The car left a tangle of bodies in its wake. It bounced over some of them. One careened off the bumper and landed on the windshield, cracking it.

Some of the mob had jumped out of the way successfully. Max didn’t waste any time. He seized his gun from where it lay in the dirt. He caught them in his sights and pulled the trigger in rapid succession.

The car kept coming. Someone, alive or dead, lay on the windshield.

It went right over the shallow ditch, the car barely buckling as it did so. So much for that plan with the ditch. It hadn’t stopped more than a couple of the mob members. It might have turned an ankle or two, and some of the spikes might have torn someone’s skin, but that was about it.

Could the driver even see out?

The car slammed to a stop mere feet from Max.

The door flew open.

A large man stepped out, holding what looked like an AR-15.

“Max?” he said, flashing a lopsided grin that looked more like a grimace than anything else.

Max didn’t know who the man was, or how he knew his name. But there wasn’t time to get into it. As far as he could tell, the man was on his side.

Max just nodded.

Inside the car, there was a woman and a teenage boy.

The kid, holding a handgun, was already halfway out the back door.

The mob was still coming. The car hadn’t stopped nearly enough of them.

But it had made an impact.

All around them, the fighting continued.

“More coming from the north,” shouted Georgia, over the gunshots that never seemed to stop.

But before Max could even turn, there was another rush from the mob coming from the south.

They screamed as they ran. Max tried to keep it together as much as he could, knowing that his aim would be better. He focused on his breathing, and taking the time to aim properly.

Shooting at random wouldn’t accomplish anything. And at this point, every bullet needed to count.

The car would serve as a sort of barrier. The big man with the AR-15 was already crouching down behind the hood, shooting over it.

The kid with the handgun was unloading it into the crowd.

“Help!” shouted someone.

“Help!”

Max couldn’t turn. If he looked away for a moment, they’d be overrun. They’d just have to hold out as best they could on the other side.

They were coming in from all sides. At each moment, it seemed like they’d be overrun.

John expected he’d die at any moment. He was OK with that. It was what it was. He knew that Max felt the same way.

But he wasn’t going to let his life go in vain.

If there was just the slimmest chance that he could help save his friends, or some of them, he’d do anything.

But that was where the frustration came in.

There wasn’t anything to do. There wasn’t any way, as far as he could see, to sacrifice himself for the benefit of his friends.

Cynthia was next to him. Close by. She’d ceased making sarcastic remarks. That was one barometer for how serious the situation was.

“I’m out of ammo!” shouted Cynthia, above the roar of the mob, the screams of pain and the shouts of anger.

With one hand, John fished into his pocket and grabbed a clip. He couldn’t take his eyes off the mob. He held his hand out and felt Cynthia grab it.

Something had happened behind him. Some kind of vehicle. It didn’t seem to be a threat, so John didn’t bother shifting his attention.

Suddenly, something slammed into his shoulder.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened.

It was a bullet.

Not far away, a woman in her fifties held a handgun in an outstretched arm.

A moment later, bullets ripped into her chest, and she collapsed face-first into the dirt.

Everything was collapsing. The mob was gaining ground.

From the east, someone had broken through, reaching the van where the group was.

John saw the flurry of movement more than he saw the person. It was a man. Someone big. That was all he registered.

John needed to keep shooting to keep the mob at bay.

But someone needed to deal with this man who’d broken through.

The man brandished a tire iron. He was headed right for James, who hadn’t even taken his eyes off his scope.

John would have to be the one to act. The others could keep shooting.

The tire iron man was caught up in the midst of John’s friends. John couldn’t get a good clean shot. It’d have to be hand-to-hand. Or something like it.