Ryan Westfield - Defending Camp

Joe looked at him, pausing in his pacing.

“I can’t do it, Art. We’ll never make it out of here.”

“Where the hell are we anyway?”

“Just another house. Filled with militia guys. Just like our place.”

“Ah,” said Art. “We’re nothing to them, you know? We’re nothing but foot soldiers, doing the bidding of Sarge, and whoever the hell’s in charge of him.”

Joe said nothing.

“What’d you do before all this, Joe?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was your job? Your line of work, whatever.”

“Insurance,” muttered Joe. “I worked in insurance.”

Art would have never suspected that. Joe seemed like anything but a white collar worker.

Not that it mattered.

Heavy footsteps outside the door.

“Shit,” said Joe. “Look, Art. I’m sorry, man.”

Joe moved rapidly to the doorway before Art could say anything. Hell of a lot of help he’d been.

The door burst open before Joe could get out. Someone had kicked it. The door smacked right into Joe’s head, causing him to reel back a little. He looked stunned.

Sarge stepped through the doorway. He looked wide. Powerful. Strong. Tall. He wore big boots. His large hands were formed into large fists.

Sarge took one look at Joe, who was holding his head, reached for his handgun, pulled it out, and shot Joe in the forehead. One shot and it was over.

A spot of blood appeared on Joe’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor, as limp as a rag doll.

Sarge took big powerful steps towards Art, who didn’t struggle against the cords that bound him. Not at all. What was the point?

Art had no more power of his own. He was just a puppet. Along for the ride. Whatever that might be.

Sarge leaned down over Art, his nose touching Art’s. Beads of sweat rolled off his ugly forehead. His face was redder than normal. Every pore was enlarged, as if under a magnifying glass.

Sarge took his handgun and put the barrel into Art’s mouth.

This was it.

Finally.

“I know you want me to kill you,” growled Sarge. “But you’re not going to be so lucky today. I know you’re a traitor, and you’re a no-good son of a bitch, but you’ve got one more job on this planet before you bite the dust.”

Sarge’s lips were twisted up in a nasty grin. He took the gun from Art’s mouth and re-holstered it.

“I’m going to untie you,” said Sarge. “And I know you’ll be smart enough not to try anything.”

Sarge dug into a pocket and took out a large folding knife. He flicked it open with one hand. The blade glinted momentarily in the dim light of the candle.

Sarge got behind Art and cut the cords with deft single slices.

Art didn’t have the strength to even hold himself in the sitting position on the chair. Without the cords, he slumped forward onto the ground, unable to even stop himself from falling. His limbs felt like they were filled with lead.

Art lay there on the floor, gazing at Sarge’s boot, unable to lift himself up.

“Drive!” shouted Max.

“Where?”

The bus in front of them blocked the road.

“Around the bus!” shouted Max.

His head was turned as he watched the black SUVs behind them.

“What are they doing?” Mandy’s voice was full of anxiety. Her body felt shaky. Her right hand fumbled as she tried to get the gear shift into first.

“Don’t worry about them. Just drive!”

She finally got it into first. Her coordination seemed to be gone. She was panicking too much. Her hands and feet felt like ice ran through them.

Mandy let the clutch out jerkily and jammed down on the accelerator. The pickup lurched forward. The engine revved, the tachometer shooting up into the red.

“Shift!” shouted Max.

She got the clutch in, got it into first. She let the clutch out suddenly, unable to control it. Too much was happening.

Gunshots rang out behind them.

“Just drive!” shouted Max. “Don’t turn around.”

Mandy was driving the pickup right towards the public bus, which was zooming up towards them.

“Around it! To the right!”

It didn’t look like they could make it over the ground around the bus. It was all mud, pitted with deep trenches that had been formed by the spinning tires of stuck trucks and cars.

And there wasn’t much space. A large boulder sat not far from the front end of the bus. Hopefully it would be enough space there for the pickup to squeeze through.

Mandy jerked the wheel to the right, sending the pickup over the rough ground.

The engine whined and the truck bounced viciously through the mud.

The side of the truck scraped violently against the front of the bus. Mandy had misadjusted slightly, by mere inches.

Max urged her on.

The gas pedal was on the floor, and Mandy shifted again. They were out from the narrow pass between the bus and the boulder.

She jerked the wheel.

They were back on the road.

Nothing ahead of them. The road was clear as far as she could see.

“Are they following us? Did they get through?”

Mandy was starting to calm down slightly.

“Yes,” was all Max said.

“What do I do?”

“Drive,” said Max. “Fast.”

Mandy was already in fifth, foot to the floor. She gripped the steering wheel as tightly as she could, her neck craned forward to see the road. At any moment, some type of obstruction could appear. There were things scattered all along the side of the road. What if there was something else big, something that she wouldn’t be able to avoid without sending the truck into a spin?

“What are we going to do?” said Mandy. “We can’t outrun them forever.”

“We’ll manage,” said Max.

“How can you seem so calm?”

“I’m not calm,” said Max.

“Well you sure sound calm,” snapped Mandy. “What do they even want?”

“No idea,” said Max, peering out the back.

“Sometimes the world just doesn’t make any sense,” said Mandy.

Max said nothing. Hopefully he was thinking of a plan.

Mandy checked the rearview mirror continuously, but she was careful not to keep her eyes off the road for very long. She didn’t want to miss anything.

The two black SUVs drove behind them at a distance of about fifty feet. They drove side by side, taking up both lanes. Mandy couldn’t see the drivers or the passengers. The windshields were slightly tinted, showing nothing but darkness and the glint of the sun.

What kind of group, after an EMP, was organized enough to have two matching SUVs, both with tinted windows?

It didn’t make sense. Especially considering that the rest of the world was a wasteland, full of abandoned cars and trash blowing in the wind.

“Who do you think they are?” said Mandy, glancing over at Max. “Someone like the militia back near Philly?”

He was holding his rifle. There was a look of intensity on his face, and in his eyes, that didn’t match how calm his voice sounded.

“Maybe,” said Max. “But it doesn’t matter much.”

They must have been driving about ninety miles per hour, but Mandy couldn’t tell because the speedometer was broken.

The pickup truck was old, and it was going as fast as Mandy could push it.

The sun was high in the sky and bright. There were a few clouds here and there, but not many. Mostly just little wisps of white against an immense backdrop of blue.

The truck wasn’t insulated well against sound. The sound of the tires on the road had become a roar. The shocks were old. They felt every little bump, which sent the pickup ratting all over.

“They could catch up if they wanted to,” said Mandy. “This rusty bucket of bolts isn’t going to outrun them.”