Ryan Westfield - Defending Camp

“So you’re selling me into mining slavery?”

“Basically, kid, yeah. But that’s the breaks. That’s how the world works these days.”

“And her? What about her?”

“Got to rebuild society somehow. I guess the guy wants a bunch of wives or something.”

“Who is this guy?”

“What the hell are you rambling on about back there?” shouted out the soldier who drove the pickup. “Let’s get a move on it. Stop chatting with the prisoners.”

“Whatever, man. We’re fine on time.”

“Just get in the bed and shut up.”

The soldier grumbled as he hoisted himself into the bed of the truck. He pushed against the dead body of the guard, shoving him until he fell with a dull thud onto the pavement.

“Don’t worry, miss,” said the soldier, looking at the woman. “I know you’re dirty now, but they’re going to get you all fixed up. I’ve seen this guy’s wives, and they’re, well, they’re living at a whole different level. Showers, baths, makeup, you name it.”

“I’m not worried about looking nice.”

The soldier laughed. “Well, then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

The woman said nothing, but Dan could see the fire and anger in her eyes.

The driver to the pickup flashed his lights at the military truck, and they started rumbling along again.

Dan remained silent, but his mind was racing. How was he going to get out of this?

He needed to do something before they got to wherever they were headed. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of what would certainly be a short life slaving away in some preposterous mining scheme.

He didn’t have much time. The guard had said ten minutes.

He had to act soon.

They were in a tight circle, back to back, near the fire.

The mob had arrived.

And it was worse than everyone had expected.

Everyone except John. “I told you,” shouted John. “I told you all.”

There wasn’t anything to say back to that. It wasn’t going to do anyone any good, anyway.

Their situation was their situation. Reality was reality, no matter how strange it seemed.

James was sweating profusely despite the chill in the air. He’d already had to reload his rifle three times.

He’d lost track of how many of them he’d shot. They just kept coming, like some kind of pack of wild animals. The mob seemed to have lost everything, everything that had made them individuals. They were desperate and willing to rush those who seemed to have more than they had.

Some of them had guns. Others had axes, saws, crowbars. Others had sticks, and many had nothing at all.

James was trying his best just to act. Just to keep shooting. Keep fighting. He tried repeating the words in his head, despite the intensity of the sound of the gunshots around him, the sounds of the roars of pain as the mob fell.

Strange thoughts started popping up, no matter how hard he tried to control it. Thoughts beyond fear and pangs of regret each time he pulled the trigger.

Their lives were in danger. They needed to defend themselves.

But had his own thoughts become twisted up? Was he viewing these individuals that he was gunning down just as a mob because it made it easier for him to kill them?

“James!” shouted his mother. “What the hell are you doing?”

James looked down at his gun and realized he’d just been standing there. He didn’t know for how long.

James didn’t apologize. He just acted. He got a man in his sights, a young man, maybe five years older than James himself. He had an overgrown beard, overgrown hair, and filthy rags that substituted for clothing. He brandished an axe, swinging it high above his head. He wasn’t far from them. James squeezed the trigger, and watched as a splash of blood appeared on the man’s forehead and he crumpled to the ground.

James knew his thoughts were stopping him from fighting effectively. But he couldn’t stop them.

He knew what Max would have said. There was no point in philosophizing about things when lives were on the line. Anyone would have said that. James would have said that himself.

Suddenly, ten people broke free from the ranks of the mob and started sprinting towards the small circle inside which James stood.

No one spoke. No commands were shouted.

But gunfire erupted.

Men and women fell.

Blood stained the ground.

Bodies piled onto bodies.

The death count was high.

It was more than James had ever seen.

Two of them hadn’t been shot. They were too close.

James drew his handgun, took aim, his arm straight, and pulled the trigger.

The break-off group had washed over them like a tidal wave. The bodies were at their feet.

James had barely been aware of what was happening around him. He’d just concentrated on his man and shot him dead.

The tidal wave was over, the bodies at their feet, the rest of the mob seeming to hang back for a moment.

“Make sure you’re reloading,” shouted Georgia, over the noise.

James’s ears were ringing terrible from the gunshots.

He looked at his mother, who grabbing another rifle. Her face was drenched in sweat and her expression fierce.

John and Cynthia were back to back. Cynthia looked startled, but determined. John looked angry. Angrier than anyone James had ever seen. The anger seemed to drip out of him, pouring from every pore.

Sadie?

Where was Sadie?

“Sadie?” shouted James, suddenly overcome with a frantic, sinking feeling of desperation.

He looked towards his mother, but she already had her scope to her eye, getting another threat into her sights.

“Has anyone seen Sadie?”

No one answered. No one seemed to hear him.

More men and women were rushing them. No one could respond. They were fighting for their lives, trying to defend against the horde.

James looked left and right, his thoughts growing more frantic by the minute.

James was facing the opposite direction from his mother.

Off in the distance, he spotted a flash of a yellow sweater.

There was no doubt in his mind. It was Sadie’s sweater.

His sister had been taken away.

Rage boiled through him. His blood felt hot and his hands felt ice cold.

He acted without thinking.

He sprinted forward, right through the middle of the mob.

Hopefully Sadie was still alive.

If not, there’d be hell to pay.

Either way, there’d be hell to pay.

“James!” Someone was shouting after him.

But his mind didn’t even register who it was.

“James!”

An older man, with a grey beard and a long ragged overcoat was swinging something right at James head.

James ducked just in time, avoiding what looked like a long metal pipe.

The old man lost his balance and went tumbling down into the dirt.

James sprinted forward through too many people to count or really take note of.

His mind was a blur of rage and revenge. Everything was a cloud.

Maybe it was the fog of war, where the events would soon dissipate from his memory, becoming nothing but the cloud vapor of the violence.

The ground was filled with the partially-uncovered roots of the barren trees. The roots laced together, intertwining in unanticipated patterns.

The toe of James’s sneaker snagged on a root, and he went down.

As he fell, time seemed to slow down. He saw his sister off in the distance. Her hair in the sun. Her yellow sweater. He saw her face twisted up in a cry for help as someone dragged her away, through the trees, disappearing from view.

She was alive.

For now.

James hit the ground hard. His nose smashed into the dirt. Blood gushed forth from it.