Ryan Westfield - Surviving Chaos

“John,” said Cynthia. “Come on. Come with me. We can still get out of here. We can escape them.”

John ignored her completely, and went about tying the rope so that it stretched taut across the path the dirt bikes were likely to take.

The whine from the dirt bike motors was getting louder.

John had his handgun out, and he dashed behind a tree, pulling Cynthia with him.

“They’re traveling with a good amount of distance between them,” said John. “The first one will hit the rope, and then you can shoot the second one with your rifle at a distance. He’ll stop and try to figure out what’s happening. Most likely.”

“This is an unnecessary risk, John,” said Cynthia.

“Just shut up and do what I tell you,” said John, speaking viciously.

“What the hell’s happened to you?”

John didn’t respond.

The situation alone was terrifying. And apparently something had snapped all of a sudden inside John. Sure, he’d been changing all along. But this was a sudden change. And it was more terrifying than the threat of the dirt bikes speeding towards them.

The noise from the dirt bike’s engine was louder than ever.

Cynthia glanced at John’s face. There was expectant delight. He was enjoying this, rather than being scared.

Cynthia watched from behind the tree.

The dirt bike came speeding around the bend.

Sure enough, the guy was wearing a hodge-podge military uniform. It did look similar to what the militia men had worn in the suburbs around Philadelphia.

He seemed to see the rope. But it was too late.

He hit the brakes, sending the rear wheel sliding forward. His body collided with the rope, which was at just the right height.

The rope caught him at the shoulder, knocking him off the bike. The dirt bike went sliding forward on the dirt, before hitting a tree.

“Rifle!” shouted John.

John went dashing off, his handgun at the ready.

Cynthia lowered her rifle.

The other dirt bike driver slid to a stop. About a hundred feet back.

Cynthia had her finger on the trigger.

But she couldn’t squeeze it.

These men hadn’t presented any threat to them. They hadn’t threatened violence. They hadn’t even spoken to them.

She just couldn’t do it. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe it was the wrong decision.

But she couldn’t pull the trigger.

“Shoot him!” shouted John.

It was too late. The other dirt bike had already turned around, and was speeding away.

Cynthia ran over to John and the downed dirt bike rider.

John was pressing his handgun into the mouth of the man.

“Tell me who you are,” said John savagely. “Or I won’t hesitate to kill you. In fact, I’m going to enjoy it.”

What had happened to John? Had something snapped in him? Was it what had happened to Tom? Had it pushed John over the edge?

“John,” said Cynthia, speaking as calmly as she could. “He can’t even talk. Take the gun out of his mouth.”

John glanced at her. Anger burned in his eyes.

But he did it. He took the gun out of the man’s mouth, and pressed it instead against his temple, hard enough to certainly leave a mark.

The man looked terrified. He was shaking.

“Tell me about the militia,” said John. “Are you a scout, or what?”

“Militia?” said the man, his pupils wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” said John. “I know you’re with them. Tell me your role.”

“I’m serious,” said the man. “I have no idea…”

“John,” said Cynthia. “You’re losing it. This guy isn’t part of any militia. What are the chances they’d be this far away? You’ve become completely paranoid, and you’re about to murder an innocent man.”

“Would an innocent man have this with him?” sneered John, gesturing to the man’s large, strange-looking handgun.

“We carry guns, John. We’re not criminals. Or part of a militia.”

“Check his pack,” said John, gesturing to a large backpack he’d taken off the man.

“I will,” said Cynthia. “So long as you hold off killing him.”

“Deal,” said John.

Cynthia was worried. It seemed like she didn’t know John anymore. And it had happened so fast.

Without John, she’d be lost. Completely lost in the world.

If he’d gone crazy and paranoid, she’d have to abandon him. And forge ahead alone. She didn’t think she had the strength to do that.

With fumbling fingers, Cynthia opened the pack and started taking things out.

John glanced back and forth between the man in fatigues and the contents of the pack. Cynthia placed each thing on the ground among the dead leaves.

“Looks normal so far,” said Cynthia.

On the outside, she tried to appear calm. Maybe it would calm John down.

On the inside, she was in complete turmoil, a writhing mix of anxiety and fear.

“There’s water,” said Cynthia. “Maps. Some canned food. Something that looks like dried meat. A bottle of prescription amphetamines. A bottle of caffeine pills.”

Cynthia continued, listing the entire contents of the bag.

The man in the fatigues didn’t move. His eyes darted back and forth between John and Cynthia.

“Listen,” said the man, his voice trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I can assure you I’ve never been part of any militia.” Next, he seemed to address Cynthia directly, without daring to move his head for fear that John would shoot him. “I think there’s something strange going on with your friend. I can see it in his eyes… I’ve seen it before. Something’s happening to him.”

“Watch your mouth,” said John, shoving the pistol harder against the man’s temple.

“Maybe he’s right, John,” said Cynthia in soothing tones, the way one would speak to a wounded and panicked animal. “Maybe seeing what was done to Tom was too much for you. You’re acting different. I notice it too.”

To her surprise, John laughed.

“Don’t you see?” said John, not taking his eyes off the man. “He’s trying to turn you against me. He knows it’s the only way to save himself.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He heard us talking. He heard the way you were trying to calm me down. He’s smart. He sees our weakness and he’s doing his best to exploit it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the man. “I’m just worried… well, about myself, but also about how you’ll live with yourself if you kill an innocent man.”

“I’m about to kill someone,” said John. “But I’m sure he’s not an innocent man.”

“John!” said Cynthia, finally losing her cool. “Don’t shoot. I’m still checking his bag.”

“He knows we’ll find something in there,” said John. “Isn’t that right? You wanted to distract us. Keep looking, Cynthia.”

In an effort to go faster, Cynthia finally just turned the bag upside down, dumping all the remaining contents out.

“It’s just normal stuff,” said Cynthia. “Normal stuff for survival. The same stuff we have. Nothing about a militia.”

“Anything left in there?” said John. “Because if not, I know one way to find out for sure.”

With his free hand, John pulled out his knife. He flicked it open, and slowly brought it close to the man’s face.

“You can’t do the same thing to him! Just because it happened to Tom. Think about it, John. You’ve got PTSD or something. You’re going to do what they did to Tom.”

“I don’t have anything,” said John. “I’m fine. Now look in the bag again. Check every seam, every secret pocket. I know there’s something in there.”

“What do you think I have? An ID card that says I’m part of a secret militia?” said the man. “Lady, I don’t know your name, but you’ve got to help me. Your friend is seconds away from slicing my face open.”