Ryan Westfield - Surviving Chaos

“Or shooting you dead,” said John, quietly.

Cynthia ran her hands along the inside of the pack.

“There aren’t any secret pockets,” said Cynthia. “No interior pockets at all.”

“Check the frame.”

“The frame?”

“There’s an internal frame. There’s usually a way to access it.”

“John, this is going too far,” said Cynthia.

“Do it,” said John. “Or I start cutting up his face. That’ll get him to tell us what’s going on.”

Cynthia found it. There was a Velcro-attached flap inside the back, along the backside of it. She undid the flap, and reached down inside. Her hand felt the metal of the internal frame. But there wasn’t anything else.

What was she going to do?

Just when she was pulling her hand up and out of the frame-compartment, she felt something. It felt like paper. She grasped onto it, and pulled it out.

It was an ordinary piece of paper, folded up many times. She unfolded it.

“What is it?” said John, glancing over.

Cynthia started to read.

Her jaw dropped.

Her eyes moved rapidly across the page, trying to take it all in.

The letter was from the leader of the Philadelphia suburban militia, Kor. It was an introduction to another group based around Pittsburgh. The letter described four men who’d been sent on what basically amounted to a diplomatic mission, looking to establish ties between the two militias.

It would have sounded too far-fetched, if it hadn’t been right there in black and white, neatly handwritten.

“It’s a…”

Just then, the sound of motorbikes came whining through the woods. It sounded like more than just one.

“He’s with the militia,” said Cynthia. She didn’t have time to explain further.

“You sure?” said John.

Suddenly, John didn’t seem too crazy anymore.

He’d been right all along.

“Positive,” said Cynthia. “I’ll explain later.”

That was when the man chose to strike. He lashed out at John, shoving him, trying to throw him off balance.

John was just fast enough. He shot him in the temple.

The body slumped over, falling sideways to the ground.

The whine of the motorbikes was louder.

“There are probably three more,” said Cynthia. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“We’ll have to go on foot,” said John.

They spoke rapidly. They both knew that they had less than a minute before the dirt bikes arrived.

“Why? We’ve got the dirt bike. They’ll catch us if we go on foot. They’ll hunt us down, once they see him.” She gestured to the dead man.

“I don’t know how to even start it, let alone ride it.”

“Then you’re in luck,” said Cynthia, “because I do. Grab your pack. We won’t be able to take mine as well. But there’s room for two of us.”

There wasn’t time for John to register his surprise that she knew how to ride a dirt bike. His jaw dropped for only a single moment before he got it together and dashed off to get his pack.

Cynthia had what she needed. She didn’t need that pack. She had her rifle slung over her shoulder, and her handgun.

She grabbed the dirt bike by the handles and set it upright. She threw her leg over it, and got into position.

When Cynthia had been in high school, a neighborhood boy had been a dirt bike enthusiast. He’d had a serious crush on her, and invited her over more than once. He’d taught her how to ride.

Cynthia found the hot start switch and pulled it in.

“Got it,” said John, appearing before her. He started to get on the bike, loaded down with his heavy pack.

“Give me a second,” said Cynthia.

“They’re almost here.”

“Trust me.”

It’d be hard to start the bike with him on it.

The whine of the other dirt bikes was loud. Very loud. They were close.

“I can see them,” said John. “I’ll try to hold them off.”

Cynthia engaged the clutch and the brake. She got the kick starter into the right position. She didn’t want to flood the engine by using the throttle.

She kicked it.

It didn’t start.

Stay calm, she told herself.

Going too quickly could flood the engine.

John’s rifle fired. She didn’t turn around to see what had happened.

“Get it started!”

She wanted to scream, “Don’t rush me!” But that wasn’t going to help anything.

She waited a few seconds, counting as slowly as she could in her head.

Finally, she gave it another kick.

This time it started.

John already had his leg halfway over the bike before she could tell him to get on.

“Hold on to me tight.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Cynthia released the brake and twisted the throttle. They were off, speeding through the trees.

It was exhilarating, the trees rushing past on either side, the wind on her face. They’d been walking so long, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be in a car again, let alone riding a dirt bike.

There was enough space between most of the trees for the dirt bike. But it wasn’t easy. It would require a lot of slowing down around bends and curves.

And there wasn’t much space between them and the pursuers.

On a bend, slowing down, she shouted to John, “How close are they?”

“Close,” he shouted back. “Maybe 50 feet.”

That wasn’t much.

She’d gotten pretty good, back in the day, at riding. But that had been around a track, not zigzagging through trees, pursued by three armed men. And she was rusty. It’d been years since she’d even seen a dirt bike.

Concentrate, she told herself. Just concentrate and stay calm.

“We need to get that radio!” shouted John.

“The radio?”

Was he crazy? They’d have to stop at Tom’s hiding spot, where she’d left the radio. It would mean putting themselves in more danger than they needed.

Then again, she’d thought he was crazy before. Just minutes ago.

And he’d been right.

Cynthia turned, aiming them on a path that would lead them right to the radio. She pulled the throttle and the engine whined.

Max and James had left Georgia and Sadie at the campsite with the deer. Max’s stomach was still mostly empty. They’d walked so far. He was already tired when they’d set out.

His leg hurt, but he was pushing on.

After half an hour of walking, they’d finally come to a creek.

“This must be the one Mandy came to,” said James.

“If she got this far.”

“I think she did. Look.” James pointed to the water containers that Mandy must have left behind.

Max’s Glock hadn’t left his hand since they’d set out, and he kept it at the ready. His eyes darted around.

But he saw nothing.

“What do you think happened to her?” said James.

Max didn’t answer. He was looking across to the other side of the creek. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw something there in the dirt. Some mark or pattern.

He walked across the creek. It was just deep enough to get his boots wet. Whatever waterproofing they had, it didn’t work.

“You see something?” said James, staying on the other side for now.

“Yeah,” said Max, bending down to examine the dirt. “Tire tracks.”

James was there, splashing across the creek as quickly as he could.

“It sort of looks like a road up that way,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Max. “A dirt road. I think we have our answer. Or part of it. Come on, there’s no time to lose.”

“You think they took her? Kidnapped her? Whoever they are.”

“Hopefully.”

“What if they just killed her.”

“If they did, they didn’t do it here.”

“How do you know?”