Ryan Westfield - Getting Home

He took aim. Pulled the trigger. Got one in the arm. Pulled the trigger again. Hit the chest this time.

A couple more fell. But there were too many.

Many of Rob’s new companions were facing other directions. The mob was on all sides.

There wasn’t enough firepower aimed at the rushing mob.

Rob couldn’t take them all out himself.

Olivia didn’t know what she was doing.

And the kid wasn’t a whole hell of a lot better.

It was up to Rob.

He glanced at the kid. There was something about him that reminded him of his own son. He didn’t know what it was. After all, his own son had only been four years old. But there was something about the attitude, the diligence and determination that was spread across Dan’s face.

Rob knew what he had to do.

The door to the car was already open. He reached in, grabbed Olivia roughly by the arm, and yanked her towards him.

“What are you doing?” she cried out.

Rob could barely hear her. Her cry sounded faint and distant.

She fought against him.

But Rob was stronger. Her pulled harder.

He let his AR-15 drop out of his hands. It hung behind him at his side on its sling.

He grabbed her with both hands and pulled her completely out of the car.

“What!” she screamed at him.

Her face looked up at him. He saw the betrayal that she felt.

But there wasn’t any time to explain.

He had to act fast.

“What are you doing, Rob? Rob!” it was the kid, shouting at him.

“I’m going in. Don’t hold back your fire!”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

They could barely hear each other.

“Don’t hold your fire!” shouted Rob again. “Don’t hold your fire!” He needed the message to get through. No matter what. He needed Dan to understand.

Olivia lay on the ground at Rob’s feet. She was in pain. It was all over her face. He’d probably hurt her injury by yanking her out of the car like that, dumping her on the ground. But he was doing it to save her life.

Rob stepped over her and slid into the passenger’s seat.

The keys were still in the ignition.

The car was still running.

He glanced at the gas gauge.

It was on empty.

But he didn’t have to drive far.

“What are you doing?” screamed Dan.

Rob knew what he was doing. And there wasn’t time to respond.

He threw the car into reverse and hit the accelerator.

He jammed his boot to the floor. The engine roared. But he barely even heard it over the ringing in his ears.

The wheels spun in the dirt.

Would the car move or was it stuck?

The wheels kept spinning.

Finally, something happened. He felt the jolt as the tires dug out of the rut.

The car rocketed backwards.

That was good. He hadn’t been sure it was going to make it. It had taken a lot of damage from the people he’d run over.

Rob had one hand on the wheel, his other arm extended. His whole body was turned and he looked out the back windshield, which wasn’t yet shattered.

The car was rear wheel drive. But he didn’t have to turn it much.

He headed in a straight line right for the rushing mob.

He hit the first one.

A sickening thud.

If there was a scream, he didn’t hear it.

The gunshots around him didn’t let up.

Rob’s boot didn’t budge from the accelerator.

He knew he was going down. He knew this was his last drive. He knew these were his last moments.

He just hoped that Dan would keep shooting as he’d ordered.

Rob had to take out as many of them as he could if the kid and the others were going to have a chance.

It didn’t seem strange to sacrifice himself for people he barely knew. It didn’t feel good either. It didn’t really feel like anything at all.

The only feeling Rob had was that he had a purpose. He had a goal. He was going to make it work.

He let his eyes close for a brief moment as the car careened backwards. He saw his family there.

A thud.

Another one down.

Rob opened his eyes.

There were some of the mob members off to his right.

Rob yanked the wheel hard.

The car swerved.

He hit them with the side of the car.

Then another impact.

The car shuddered.

The back wheels spun uselessly.

The car was tilted slightly.

The wheels were stuck in some kind of rut. Or a ditch.

There were people all around him. They crowded the car. He saw the violence on their faces.

They’d surrounded the car.

Good. He’d distracted them.

Now all the kid and Max and the others had to do was keep shooting. They just needed to realize that Rob was a lost cause, and not to worry that they’d hit him with friendly fire.

Rob couldn’t tell if they were shooting or not. There wasn’t any point in worrying about it.

Two strong hands reached in at him through the passenger’s side window. The window was down.

Rob pulled on the sling of his gun, got it into position. His hands gripped it.

It wasn’t a bad way to go out. Gun in hand. Fighting the good fight. There were worse things that could have happened.

His finger was working the trigger.

The gun recoiled in his hands.

Someone was yanking the driver’s side door open. Rob hadn’t had time to lock it. Wouldn’t have mattered, anyway.

Rob picked up his feet and spun his body around on the battered upholstery.

He was facing the open driver’s side door. He kicked with both feet. One boot collided with someone’s stomach. The other slammed into the door. Pain shot through him.

He got his gun facing the right way. He pulled the trigger.

Someone screamed.

Blood.

Someone fell.

Someone grabbed the gun. Gaunt thin hands that shouldn’t have been as strong as they were.

Four hands on the gun. Now six.

He couldn’t hold onto it.

He pulled the trigger one last time. A bullet went somewhere. He wasn’t sure where.

The gun was yanked from him. His hands hurt from trying to hold onto it.

He saw the gun go out of view. Any second, he was expecting it to be turned on him.

But the mob wasn’t thinking. Through the crowd of hands and bodies in front of him, he glimpsed the gun one last time as it fell, unused, to the ground.

Hands were on him. They were trying to pull him from the car.

Rob grabbed his handgun. The safety was off.

He took aim at the nearest head. He pulled the trigger. The gun kicked and the man fell, most of his face missing.

Before Rob could pull the trigger again, hands were on the handgun.

He pulled the trigger anyway.

A scream.

A bullet had pierced someone’s hand. Maybe two hands.

But the gun was ripped away from him.

Rob kicked out with his boot as hard as he could.

But hands caught him around the ankle and pulled him from the car.

Rob’s head slammed against the car as he fell.

He was on his back in the dirt.

They were all around him. Too many to count.

It was the end. But at least he’d taken a lot of them out.

But it wasn’t quite the end.

Rob reached for his knife. A large, combat style knife. Sharpened on both sides. Made of good steel.

Boots and shoes and bare feet collided with his stomach. They were kicking him all over. On his back. His shoulder. His feet.

A piece of wood swung like a club and smashed into his skull.

His vision went funny.

Knife in hand, Rob swung his arm. The knife slashed against an ankle. Someone screamed.

Why weren’t they shooting?

Rob would have preferred going out by friendly fire if it meant that he’d done something. The whole point was to distract them enough that the kid and the others could take them out one by one. But it seemed like they were delaying for the sake of Rob.