Ryan Westfield: Surviving Chaos

Cynthia took another sharp turn. John felt his knee scraping the ground.

When the bike was upright again, he turned back to look.

The third bike had stopped in its tracks. As Cynthia and John sped along, it disappeared into the distance.

They rode and rode, not stopping, not pausing.

Minutes passed. John kept checking over his shoulder.

He was expecting the third dirt bike to appear.

Actually, he was hoping it would appear.

It would mean more danger. More risk. But if he could take him out, then they’d be safer in the long run. As it stood now, there was someone dangerous out there who wanted them dead. Someone who worked for a dangerous militia, possibly in the process of expanding to more remote corners of the state. And beyond. States didn’t mean anything anymore, after all.

The minutes turned into hours.

Finally, they were out of gas. Night was starting to fall.

They’d made it out of the woods, across a paved road, and back into another forested area. Then across another road. And the same thing over and over again.

When there was no more gas, they coasted to a stop. John put his feet down, as did Cynthia, to keep the bike from toppling over.

John hadn’t let go of his gun. His back was sore from riding with the backpack.

He’d probably killed two men. And he felt nothing.

Nothing except the continuing will to survive.

“Not bad riding, eh?” said Cynthia, flashing John a grin as she got off the dirt bike.

“I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” said John.

“Seen it? You lived it.”

“You sure can ride that thing…”

Cynthia paused for a long while, suddenly seeming to get lost in her own thoughts. “So what now? Any idea where we are?”

John looked around. “Nope,” he said. “I don’t have the slightest clue.”

“I guess this is as good of a place as any to set up camp, then.”

“Well, we might want to leave the dirt bike behind. Someone could easily follow the tire tracks.”

“Good point. Hand me a water, will you?”

John opened the backpack, dug past Dale’s radio, and found a bottle of water. He handed it to Cynthia, who took a long drink and handed it back. He put the bottle to his mouth, and let the cool water flow past his lips. He’d never tasted anything better.

He looked around, and the forest seemed to appear more beautiful than it ever had to him. Maybe it was just the thrill of being alive.

“Come on,” said John. “We’re losing light.”

He shouldered his pack and set off. Cynthia followed him. They kept their guns out, and looked over their shoulders periodically as they walked.

But John didn’t feel nervous.

He didn’t know why, but he felt calm. The sort of calm he’d never known before the EMP. It was almost like he was now, for the first time in his life, really alive.

Nearby, there was a field of what looked like marijuana plants. They were tall, green, and almost wild looking, with their distinctive leaves poking out in all directions.

They were dealing with dangerous people. These were professional pot farmers, likely hardened criminals even before the EMP. And now, with no semblance of law, they’d be even more dangerous, even more free to create their own perverted justice.

Max had read the stories of hikers disappearing in state parks. They’d stumbled upon fields of pot, and been simply executed on the spot for their ignorance.

“Uh, Max,” whispered James urgently.

“Yeah?”

“I think I stepped on something.”

Max knew James wouldn’t have bothered to say something unless it was urgent. After all, they could be spotted at any moment. They were only getting closer to the tent.

“What’d you step on?”

“Some kind of wire. Take a look.”

Max glanced briefly down at James’s foot. Sure enough, there was a wire there.

Max knew instantly what it was. James had been right to tell him, rather than ignore it. It was some kind of trip wire that would alert someone to their presence. It was too much to hope that it’d been deactivated by the EMP. There were a hundred other ways to design a trip wire that didn’t rely on electronics.

So Max didn’t hope. He acted.

“Down!” whispered Max.

They both threw themselves down on the ground at exactly the right moment.

A loud crack rang out. A rifle shot.

There were a couple tree stumps nearby. Max gestured to James, and they both crawled on their bellies over to the stumps, keeping their bodies as close to the ground as they could.

The tent was in view. Max scanned the area, but at first he saw no one.

Then he spotted it. He could just see the head of the man, his tousled hair lying on the ground. He couldn’t see the rest of him, except for part of his rifle. And he was far off.

Max wouldn’t be able to get off a clean shot. Not with a handgun. The distance was too great.

It seemed hopeless. Surely there were others. Surely they stood no chance.

But Mandy was there.

They had to get Mandy.

Max had to make an impossible decision.

He made it fast.

The odds were stacked against them. It seemed impossible. It was a suicide mission. But it was one that Max had to follow through on. He simply couldn’t leave Mandy there.

But while he could throw his own life away, he couldn’t sacrifice James’s, too.

“James,” said Max, his tone commanding. “I’m doing this alone. It’s too dangerous. Head back to your mom and sister.”

“And let you go in alone?” said James.

“Yeah. And I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

“Tough luck,” said James.

In that instant, James sprang up from the ground. Gun in hand, he dashed towards the pot field.

He was running fast, sprinting, his feet hitting the ground hard. But he was an easy target for the man with the rifle.

Another crack of the rifle. Loud.

Max’s heart stopped for a moment.

He watched, waiting for James to fall.

But he didn’t. The man with the rifle had missed.

James had gotten into the field alive. He disappeared into it. Even Max couldn’t see him. He was safe for now. But he’d probably do something else stupid soon enough.

Max wouldn’t be able to face Georgia if he got her son killed.

That idiot!

But Max shouldn’t have expected him to act any differently. In fact, if Max had been in James’s place, he would have done exactly the same thing.

If Max didn’t act soon, James would get himself killed.

Max tried to ignore the pain in his leg. His hand gripped his gun tightly.

Not much ammo left. But he tried not to think about that.

Max’s eyes scanned the surrounding area. The marijuana field led almost up to the tent. What James was likely planning was to sneak all the way to the end of it, and then attack the man with the rifle, who was lying there near the tent.

The only problem was that it was obvious. Too obvious. Unless the man with the rifle was a complete dunce, he’d come to the same conclusion as Max.

There was some shouting near the tent. So there was definitely more than just one of them.

If Max got up and ran to the tent, he’d be shot dead. No question.

If he ran to the field, he might be shot dead. He wasn’t as fast as James. Not with his leg.

The only thing to do was wait until James made his move, and then try to distract the man with the rifle.

He just hoped that whoever else was there wouldn’t cause too much of a problem.

And that was too much to hope for.

It happened fast. Too fast.

James burst out of the field, sprinting straight to the tent.