Ryan Westfield - Defending Camp

“They’re staying back,” said Max. “But they’re still following us.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Mandy.

“How long does this road go for?”

“What?”

“Does it end? Does it go for miles?”

“I don’t know,” said Mandy, her voice getting frantic. “I can’t even remember what road we’re on. Check the maps.”

Mandy was normally so good with maps, but she was panicked, and it seemed that she couldn’t call the memories back like she usually could.

She could hear Max unfolding the map, the sound of the crinkling paper somehow coming through despite the roar of the pickup.

The road was curving around the right. A wide, long curve.

The road took them right into the path of the sun. There weren’t any clouds in front of it.

Mandy squinted against the light, reaching up and flipping the sun visor down.

“Watch out!”

Mandy saw it too late. It was something big, right in the middle of the road that she was barreling down. It was about the size of a large television, one of those older boxy ones. If they hit it, that’d be it. It’d ruin the truck.

Mandy pulled hard on the wheel.

Too hard.

The pickup went careening off to the right. They were headed right off the road, where there now was a slight dip before it met the ground.

She tried to correct it. But it was too late.

She saw the front of the pickup dipping down as it went off the road.

That was the last thing she clearly remembered.

After that, it became a blur. Her head flopped like a doll’s, her neck swinging.

Somehow, the pickup flipped over. Mandy’s world spun wildly as the pickup tipped.

The side of the truck slammed into the ground.

The terrible loudness of the event suddenly faded into nothing but silence. There was some sound off somewhere, but it seemed too distant too matter.

Mandy was still alive. That was the first thing she noticed.

The next thing was that she was facing the wrong way. The truck was on its side, and so was she. The world was all cock-eyed.

She was above Max, hanging in place by her seatbelt.

Max was in his seat, below her, close to the ground.

He wasn’t moving.

“Max!”

There was a long pause.

Then Max moved, lifting his head. There was blood on it, in his hair.

“You OK?” said Mandy.

“Yeah,” said Max. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get out of here. Undo your seatbelt.”

“But I’ll fall,” said Mandy.

“Does your door work?”

Somehow, Mandy’s left arm had been injured. She felt the pain now as she moved it. But she got a grip on the door handle and pulled it.

Nothing.

She pushed it, despite the pain in her arm, pushing and pulling at the same time.

Still nothing.

“It’s stuck,” she said, her voice full of anxiety. She felt frantic. Her heart was pounding.

“It’s OK,” said Max, his voice calm. “Roll down the window. Quick.”

Mandy rolled it down as quickly as she could.

“Try your seatbelt.”

“I’ll fall onto you.”

“It’s OK,” said Max. “Do it.”

Mandy found the seatbelt button and pressed down hard.

Nothing.

“It’s stuck.”

Mandy felt the tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t want them to be there. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to stand tall and go out fighting. But she couldn’t help how she was reacting.

“We don’t have much time,” said Max. She could tell he was keeping his voice calm just for her. “Can you reach your knife? You’re going to need to cut yourself free. You’re going to fall on me. But you can climb up through the window. We need to hurry.”

Mandy glanced back through the tilted rear window. The black SUVs were there, but so far the doors were closed and no one seemed to have gotten out.

“I’m going to cut my belt first,” said Max. “That way there’s no risk of you falling on the blade.”

Mandy had her hand on the handle of her Mora knife. She removed it from its sheath and held it tightly, waiting.

“OK,” said Max. “Got it. My knife’s away. Cut it.”

Mandy sliced through the belt. It was more difficult than she’d thought it’d be. A serrated knife probably would have worked better.

She tried to hold onto the steering wheel, but she fell, right onto Max.

“OK,” said Max, his eyes on the black SUVs. “I don’t know how much time we have. This part is tricky. I’d get out before you, but we’re not going to be able to manage that. You’ve got to go first. I’m going to cover you.”

“How?”

“I’m going to break the window and start shooting.”

Mandy started climbing. She used the dashboard, the stick, and the steering wheel to hold on to, eventually grabbing hold of the open window.

As she climbed, Max hammered away at the back window with something. Mandy heard a couple cracks as the glass started to break.

“You got it?” said Mandy, holding herself up there, but not yet going through the window.

“Almost,” said Max.

“Why aren’t they getting out yet?” said Mandy.

“No idea.”

There wasn’t time to worry about that. The more mistakes the enemy made, whoever they were, the better it was for Mandy and Max. Their chances of survival had already increased drastically because of that error. But they still weren’t high.

It was strange, almost insane, that Mandy was thinking of her odds of survival. Almost on a daily basis, too.

Another noise, and Max said, “I’ve got it. I’ll open fire on the count of three.”

Max counted it off. “Three…two…one…”

Max opened fire.

“Go!” he shouted. “Get out there and get to cover!”

Mandy’s heart was pounding, her vision a tunnel. She climbed up through the pickup window, handgun in hand, rifle on her back. She didn’t know what was coming. She might take a bullet in the next seconds. This might be her last moment alive.

But she had to go.

There was no other option.

Dan had lost his grandfather, his home, his job, his old co-worker. And now he’d lost his knife and his pack. He had nothing and he felt that he was no one.

Before the EMP, if he’d been out in public and lost, he would have stopped an adult, probably a policeman, and explained the situation. He would have given his name and address, and the telephone number of his grandparents.

But now, there was no one to turn to.

Dan didn’t know who the men were who had cuffed him and shot Joey. But he knew for certain that they weren’t good guys.

But why hadn’t they just shot Dan?

What were they going to do with him?

He was still cuffed, his hands tightly bound with some kind of plastic cord. Probably zip ties.

He was riding in the back of a pickup truck with an open bed. He was seated cross-legged on the dirty metal bed. He hadn’t noticed the pickup on Dwight Street, but it must have been there all along.

A soldier rode in the bed with Dan.

There was one other prisoner here, a woman in her early thirties with long, dirty hair. She wore tight jeans that were torn.

Her hands and ankles were bound together with rope. Why hadn’t they used the same zip ties they’d used on Dan? Maybe someone else had captured her.

Dan was trying not to panic. He wasn’t dead like Joey. That was a good thing. If he could make some sense out of the situation, maybe he could figure out a way to escape.

His will to survive hadn’t been crushed. He knew he could still make it.

All he had to do was get out of the pickup.

They were driving about forty miles per hour. They’d long-since turned off Dwight Street, following the military-type truck that rumbled along.