Ryan Westfield - Surviving Chaos

“Well,” said Jake, folding his hands together. “We came looking for help, but it seems as if your friend needs more help than us. We have it comparatively easy.”

“I hate to think of her being forced to work on that horrible farm of theirs,” said Rose.

“I’m sorry we can’t be of any help,” said Jake. “But we can’t defend ourselves against them. I don’t know what we could do.”

Georgia thought to herself that if that was their attitude, they’d have a hard time no matter where they were. They had it comparatively easy, if some dangerous pot farmers were all they had to contend with. If they’d been anywhere else, they’d already be dead. Not that this wasn’t an area with the potential to be as dangerous as any. And not that the pot farmers weren’t a serious danger.

To Mandy, mostly.

“Max and James are already headed there,” said Sadie, piping up.

Georgia groaned inwardly. She hadn’t wanted to divulge the existence of Max and James yet. She didn’t yet completely trust these two newcomers.

“Who are Max and James?” said Rose.

Sadie must have seen the way Georgia had looked at her, so she said, “Nobody.”

“Well,” said Georgia. “The cat’s out the bag. They’re with us, and they’re headed to rescue our friend Mandy. Hopefully they’ve found her by now.”

Rose looked startled at the mention of two new people.

But Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Shit,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“They’re going to run into problems if they reach that farm,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t worry about them,” said Sadie excitedly. “They know what they’re doing. You should see Max… he can take down anyone.”

“That’s not true, Sadie,” said Georgia. “But we do have confidence that they’re up to the job.”

“The only thing,” said Jake, worry on his face, “is that that farm is booby trapped like crazy.”

“Booby trapped?”

“Yeah, they’ve got it set up where they’ll know if someone’s coming before they get anywhere near it.”

Sadie shot Georgia a worried look.

“How do you know?” said Georgia.

“They told me,” said Jake. “They told me not to get any ideas, not to sneak onto their place, because they’d shoot me in the stomach before I was anywhere near there… They said they had the whole place rigged up. And they said not to worry, that EMP hadn’t affected their defense at all. Shit, I wish there was some way we could warn your friends. It’s times like these you really wish cell phones still worked, right?”

Georgia didn’t say anything. She bit her lip in worry.

And she wasn’t the type to get worried.

At least not easily.

“Is James going to be OK, Mom?” said Sadie, tugging on her sleeve.

“He’s with Max,” said Georgia.

He’d almost gotten them both killed in the process, but John had gotten the radio.

Cynthia hadn’t even gotten off the dirt bike. She’d sat on it, gun in hand, screaming at him to hurry up.

It hadn’t been easy. Cynthia had left the radio buried in the pack. And he’d had to really dig through it to get the radio out.

He’d hopped back on the bike, and his leg had barely been over it, when Cynthia had gunned it and they’d sped off.

John’d had just enough time, as he’d run back to the dirt bike, to shove the radio into his own bag. He’d had to ditch a few things that’d been packed into the top. He hadn’t even registered what they were, and he hoped he wouldn’t need them later.

Maybe it’d been stupid. Maybe it’d been completely idiotic.

But he was hoping against hope that somehow the radio would be helpful in the long run. Risks and danger were worth it. So long as they survived. And so long as it paid off in the end.

At the very least, the radio would be valuable. Valuable for bartering.

So long as they eventually found someone they could barter with. Someone who wouldn’t just attack them outright. Not friends, necessarily, like Dale. Just neutral people. Surely they had to exist.

Somewhere.

The ride was bumpy. Rough and chaotic.

A couple near misses with trees. Cynthia was cutting it close, taking risks and making sharp turns.

He hoped she knew what she was doing. She was probably the last person in the world he’d expect to have known how to ride a dirt bike. Let alone handle one the way she was handling it. The guys behind them could barely keep up.

But they were keeping up.

And that was the problem.

John had to take action.

He turned his head. It was hard to see behind him, with his pack.

He couldn’t ditch it. It was all they had left.

Of course, if it came down to them dying, then he’d ditch the pack. But they weren’t there yet.

He hoped.

John had his gun out, one hand stretched out behind him.

He had one spare magazine within reach. The rest of the ammo was in the pack. It wouldn’t be possible to get it out.

“I’m going to try to shoot them,” shouted John. But his voice was drowned out by the whine of the motor and the rushing wind.

He didn’t know how fast they were going. But it was fast.

Too fast and too bumpy to get off a good shot. He had a realistic understanding of his abilities. Most likely, once he started firing, he’d just be wasting ammo.

But he had to try.

After all, they had one unusual advantage. There were two of them on the bike. Not just one.

But just as John was thinking he had the upper hand, he turned his head again and saw a dirt bike getting close. Really close. And the rider had a handgun out.

Only it wasn’t just any handgun. It was large. Too large for a normal handgun. A long clip hung out the bottom of it.

Shit. It was an automatic. Or semi-automatic? An Uzi? John didn’t know. He was learning about guns with only hands-on experience. He didn’t have any manuals. Or the internet.

But the bullets that began spraying out confirmed his suspicions. It may not have been an Uzi. But it was definitely automatic in the sense that it was firing more bullets than John’s own gun could. Much more dangerous.

“Go!” shouted John. “Turn!”

He didn’t know if Cynthia heard him or not. It was hard to tell.

But she turned anyway. Maybe she’d heard the gunfire. Hopefully.

Their knees almost scraped the dirt as Cynthia turned the bike sharply to the right.

John tried to keep his hand straight and steady. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself down. He needed a clear head. Anything else would just make him a worse shot.

The militia man wasn’t wearing a helmet.

But John didn’t go for the head. He aimed for the chest. It was a bigger target.

Back on a relatively straight course, John pulled the trigger. He thought he had the shot.

But it missed.

He pulled the trigger.

Once more.

Twice.

It was the third shot that hit him. Right in the chest.

The militia dirt bike went completely out of control, slamming right into a tree. The sound was tremendous.

There were two more.

John’d been hoping the second bike would crash into the first one. But no such luck. The first had gone so far off the “path” that the second one just zoomed on by, as if nothing had even happened.

John saw a sawed-off shotgun appear in the man’s hand. It seemed to happen in slow motion. It was close, too.

John acted instinctually. He pulled the trigger. Three times in quick succession.

He didn’t know which shots had hit and which hadn’t.

The only important thing was that the rider slumped over, dead, or almost dead. His bike ran off course lazily.