Ryan Westfield - Defending Camp

But he needed to sleep.

He’d been pulling long watch shifts back at camp. He’s been trying to give everyone else more rest, pushing himself to stay up for long periods of time. And she knew his leg was bothering him, even though he’d never admit it.

He needed the rest.

Mandy kept her eyes moving as she drove slowly along the road.

She drove south, glancing up at the sun to make sure she was headed in the right direction.

Glancing over at Max yet again, Mandy was surprised that he hadn’t woken up with the change in speed. His mouth was open, and he snored lightly.

Mandy drove past a few large parking lots, a couple big box stores. Billboards lined the streets, and trash tumbled around in the wind. Empty plastic bags, mostly, and a couple empty food containers. Some newspapers. All sorts of things.

Mandy passed only one abandoned car, a minivan with all the doors open and no one in sight.

Up ahead, though, there was something.

Mandy downshifted, slowing the truck down.

“Max,” she hissed. “Wake up. There’s something on the road.”

Max continued snoring, not stirring.

“Max,” she said, speaking more loudly. “Wake up, Max.”

He remained asleep.

The object on the road was in view now. It was a public bus, parked perpendicular across the road.

“Max!”

Mandy reached across the bench seat and grabbed Max by the arm.

“What’s going on?” said Max, speaking briskly. He was ready for action, his Glock already out.

“I don’t know,” said Mandy.

A noise behind them.

In the rearview mirror, two black SUVs were approaching, seemingly out of nowhere.

“This is just too stressful,” complained Cynthia, her voice rising to a wine.

“You have a better suggestion?” said Georgia, her voice level.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” said Cynthia. “Why are we sitting here and waiting for them to come to us? Why don’t we just head out there and get them all while we can, before they get to us?”

“We’re not talking about just a couple people,” said Georgia.

“And we don’t know where they are,” added John.

They were all sitting around the remains of the campfire, near the van and the tent.

James and Sadie had been fairly quiet, letting the adults talk. Sadie, in particular, looked more scared than usual. She was sitting partially hunched over, her elbows resting on her knees. James was trying to look like he wasn’t bothered, but he kept glancing over his shoulder, and his rifle hadn’t left his hands for hours.

Cynthia stood up.

“Where you going?”

“Nowhere,” said Cynthia.

“You can’t go off on your own,” said John.

Cynthia felt everyone’s eyes on her.

“Like I said, I’m not going anywhere,” said Cynthia. “I’m just heading into the tent for a minute. I need to clear my head.”

Cynthia stepped nimbly around their entire cache of guns and ammunition that lay spread out on the ground, ready for use.

John and Georgia continued talking, discussing their plans, leaning in close together, both seated on the old log someone had dragged next to the campfire.

Cynthia felt like she might explode with the stress of the whole thing, the pressure. It was one thing to be on the run, to be hunted down. It was another to have to sit there and wait.

To Cynthia, it didn’t seem like any of this planning mattered at all. They were facing a completely different enemy than when the men from the compound came. The compound guys had been tightly organized, essentially a small regiment. That meant they were predictable.

Now they were facing a mob. By its very nature, it was completely unpredictable. So anticipating their movements was difficult. Devising some kind of strategy for fighting them off was even more difficult.

It seemed like their best bet was to hide, to avoid being found.

Fortunately, that was a real possibility.

The hunting grounds were large and they were somewhat hidden among the trees.

Then again, if the mob was large enough, and scattered enough, people would come across them sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

Cynthia heard a noise. Sounded like a cracking twig.

She froze.

She wasn’t far from Georgia and John and the others, but they didn’t seem to have heard it. They kept talking.

“Guys…” said Cynthia, speaking in a low voice.

Their conversation paused.

“I heard something.”

There was movement behind a tree.

Cynthia had her rifle ready. A semi-automatic. Georgia and Max seemed to feel more comfortable using Georgia’s hunting rifles. But now that she and John had gradually gotten more comfortable with firearms, they preferred using something that could fire more rapidly.

Cynthia watched with wide eyes and a pounding heart as a man stepped out from behind the tree.

He barely looked human. His hair and beard were long and in complete disarray. Sure, it wasn’t like Cynthia had exactly kept up her normal hygiene and beauty routine, but she certainly didn’t look completely wild like this man.

He wore no shirt, despite the chill in the air. His pants were nothing but tatters.

There was a wild look in his eyes. More animal like than human.

“What do we do?” whispered Cynthia.

Her first impulse was simply to open fire. She was tired of being a victim, of being attacked at every opportunity. She was tired of giving strangers the benefit of the doubt. Being tortured just a week ago, Cynthia was more on edge than ever before. More ready to squeeze the trigger without asking questions.

But something held her back.

She just wasn’t that sort of person.

No matter how hard she tried.

She couldn’t push herself into a mold that wasn’t her.

The man stood there, looking confused. He stared at them.

Cynthia heard John and Georgia’s footsteps around her. They were standing next to her, their own guns ready.

“Stay back, kids,” Georgia said.

Cynthia glanced back at James and Sadie, making sure they were OK and a safe distance from the men.

Even though he didn’t appear to be armed, there was no telling what he might do, what tricks he might have up his sleeve. And what was more, he might not be the only one there. There was a mob coming, apparently.

“What do you want?” shouted Georgia, her voice commanding.

The man didn’t answer.

Cynthia found her gaze settling on his eyes again. Those wild animal eyes told nothing. Nothing except hatred and anger. The way he stood made him seem like he wasn’t capable of violence. He was rail thin, to the point of being emaciated, and he stood like a limp rag doll, slouched over, his shoulders rolling forward, his spine curved terribly.

But those eyes told a different story. They said that that he was capable of anything, that violence, no matter how extreme, was exactly what he wanted.

This is what had happened, probably, to the majority of humanity. Civilization had fallen and the human animal had risen in its place. This man represented something, something bigger than himself.

Three quick shots rang out.

Cynthia’s ears rang with the sound.

Three bullet holes appeared in the stranger’s chest, red pockets of blood decorating his bare hairy skin.

The stranger seemed to remain standing as Cynthia’s adrenaline kicked up and time seemed to slow down. Then he crumpled to the ground, his arms stuck out at odd angles, an expression of confusion on his face. His eyes remained open, never losing that look.

Cynthia turned to her right, to see John, standing slightly behind her. His gun was raised. He stood still, almost frozen, his finger still on the trigger.