Ryan Westfield - Defending Camp

Sure, it meant that they might be attacked in the night if anyone was crazy enough to try to attack one of the militia’s own regiment houses. If enough people attacked, they might take the regiment by surprise, and Art and all the others would have died. But most of the men had just grumbled vaguely at the possibility. They’d known their lives weren’t worth that much. Even to themselves.

Janet didn’t have to tell Art to keep quiet.

They tiptoed through the hallway. They were upstairs. Several bedrooms had their doors open, with men and women slumbering on the floors. The beds weren’t there for some reason.

One guy was sleeping in the hallway, with his face up and his mouth open, snoring. Janet went first, stepping carefully over the man.

Art followed. He hoped his legs had made a full recovery. He still felt the rush of the pins and needles in them, as the blood flow returned them.

He made it over the guy.

They were headed down the stairs. As slow as possible.

Janet turned back to Art in the dim light of the flickering candles from upstairs. He could just barely see her face in the darkness.

They exchanged a knowing look. They both knew that the second to last step creaked loud enough to wake up someone.

Janet stepped carefully over it.

Art started to do the same.

And then he slipped. Maybe it was his leg. Maybe it was his footing.

It didn’t matter.

In trying to step over that creaky step, he lost his balance completely and fell with a crash down the last steps.

“What’s that?”

“If you’re going to wake me up, at least bring me a beer,” someone shouted.

“Come on,” hissed Janet, taking Art’s hand and pulling him forcefully to his feet.

They still had to walk past the main room, the one where Art had slept most nights.

They hurried along, Janet pulling his hand to get him to hurry up.

“Where’s my beer?” shouted someone’s sleepy voice.

“It’s Art!”

“He’s getting away.”

“Shit,” muttered Janet.

She pulled Art’s arm so hard it hurt.

They were almost out the front door. Janet had it opened.

Someone was behind them. Art heard the heavy footsteps.

He turned to look.

It was someone whose face he knew. But he didn’t know the man’s name. He was one of the more intense members. He wasn’t like Art. He hadn’t been an employed member of society. He’d been a criminal, and he had the look to prove it. He somehow kept his head shaved despite the lack of running water. It must have hurt to shave his head like that every day. His beard was long, and he was intensely muscular, despite the lack of food.

He was the kind of guy everyone stayed away from. If they needed something from him, they asked quietly in their most polite tones.

He wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to wake up in the middle of the night.

The man started towards Art. He moved fast. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that made Art shudder involuntarily.

A gunshot shattered the silence.

Art’s ears rang.

Art saw the bullet wound first. Right in the man’s side. But he didn’t fall.

Art turned to see Janet standing there, arm straight and long, a handgun held, her finger on the trigger.

The man kept coming. But more slowly.

Janet fired twice more.

Two more shots to the chest.

He fell.

The gunshots had woken up the entire house.

Now they had everyone after them. An entire regiment of this ragtag criminal militia.

Janet was already out the door, running across the suburban front lawn, towards the street.

Art dashed through the doorway, trying to keep up with her as best he could. But he was weak.

And he had no gun.

Art’s entire body was in pain. He was running across the lawn.

Up ahead, Janet was already way past him, disappearing down the street.

She turned back to look at him once. And she kept running.

Art tripped over something on the lawn, falling face down onto the ground.

Somehow, despite his weakness and intense pain, he managed to turn himself over.

The last thing he saw was the barrel of a revolver, pointed right at his face. He didn’t see the face. He didn’t know whether it was a man or woman. Or whether it had been someone he’d been vaguely friendly with once or twice or someone he’d offended in an accidental way.

It didn’t matter.

He was done.

Maybe he should have had Mandy go through the back window he’d just smashed out.

No, it was better this way. There wasn’t much room to squeeze through. It was hard to get the glass out of the edges.

She’d have been exposed.

Max looked up from where he squatted in the tiled-over pickup cab. Mandy’s butt was disappearing through the window.

No one from the SUVs had appeared.

Not yet.

All Mandy had to do was get to cover.

Max was more worried about her than he was himself.

He had his rifle ready. He kept it in the middle of the two cars, not knowing who’d exit first.

Mandy was out of the car.

“Go!” shouted Max.

One of the black SUV doors opened. Passenger side.

Max was quick. He took aim.

Hopefully Mandy was sprinting. But he couldn’t keep his eyes on her and get off a good shot at the same time.

A man appeared out of the SUV. He held a handgun that he leveled towards a target away from Max. Obviously he was aiming at Mandy.

The man was lowering his arm, his elbow bent.

Max was quicker.

He squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out.

Max had hit him. He didn’t have the time to see whether it’d been lethal.

Hopefully it had at least disabled him.

All Max had to do was buy Mandy enough time to get to cover where she could return fire.

Then Max could get out of the truck.

If they got that far.

Max was waiting. Waiting for the SUV doors to open.

These men couldn’t have been professionals or else they would have acted as a team.

Instead, Max imagined them waiting inside the SUVs, goading each other to get on out. Maybe they were picking straws or something, trying to decide who was next.

Well, if they were going to take their time, Max was going to take advantage of the situation.

Max climbed up through the cabin of the pickup, following the path Mandy had taken.

It wasn’t hard to do, except that his leg hurt as he tried to use it to push himself up.

He’d lost track of where Mandy had gone.

He threw himself over the edge, dropping down to the ground hard. Pain shot through his injured leg. He ignored it.

Max couldn’t see Mandy. She’d most likely gone to the trees.

Any second now, he expected a window to roll down or a door to open. But the black SUVs remained still. The backdoor to one of them remained hanging open. Their engines were still running.

Before Max could even take a couple steps in the direction where Mandy had probably hidden herself, one of the SUVs started forward.

It was driving fast.

Coming right towards Max. Bearing down on him.

Max lowered his rifle, aiming at the windshield, where the driver’s seat was.

He could have jumped out of the way. He could have run off.

But right now he had a clear shot at the driver. Even though he couldn’t see him.

If he could get off two clean shots, he knew he could probably take out the driver.

Max held his breath as he aimed.

The SUV’s engine was roaring. It was thirty feet away from him.

Max squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot rang out.

A hole appeared in the darkened windshield.

The SUV kept barreling towards him.

Maybe fifteen feet away now.