Ryan Westfield - Pushing On

“You’re laughing at me?” said Cynthia, but there was laugher in her voice and a smile on her face.

Pretty soon, they were all laughing.

The tension was broken, along with the silence.

And it wasn’t even that funny of a joke.

“Maybe we’d better call the post office and tell them to hold the mail,” said Sara.

That made them all laugh even harder.

“And I’ll call the paper and tell them not to deliver,” said Derek, chiming in.

John laughed so hard that his stomach ached.

John hadn’t even realized how much tension he and the others had all been holding onto. Now that it was broken, he felt a little better. A little warmer. A little lighter.

He felt like he was traveling with good people. Something could come of this. He felt optimistic, a little hopeful. Even though he knew he shouldn’t have.

So far, he’d been lucky. And he knew it.

He’d been unprepared. There wasn’t a reason that he should have survive. Neither he nor Cynthia deserved it. Maybe Derek and Sara didn’t either. John didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to make that judgment.

John had cheated death. There were probably others who’d done the same. Statistically, there were bound to be people who’d survived, even when the odds were against them.

In all likelihood, most would die. Like John had seen in the cities. The majority of those who’d survive, long-term, would be those who’d been prepared. In some fashion, whether it was gear or simply a good plan. They’d know what to do. And how to act. Right when it happened.

The faster someone responded, the more likely they were to have gotten out, to have survived. John had waited too long, holing himself up for two weeks in his apartment. He’d been unbelievably lucky.

So far.

Long-term survival was different than just getting out. It meant having more than a plan and gear. It meant finding the right environment.

Most of all, it meant having a certain attitude. Gear, of course, was required. But the attitude, that drive to survive, to keep going, that was what would separate the survivors from the less fortunate.

And luck.

So far, John had been able to dive deep inside himself and marshal resources he’d never known existed. It’d been as much an internal struggle as an external one.

He knew he had it now. But the others? That was perhaps John’s reservation about them. Derek and Sara were good people, but did they have that drive? Did Cynthia? John wasn’t sure. And that worried him.

“Well,” said John. “Let’s head out. We’ll try to find that trail you two told us about.”

“Sounds good,” said Derek. “Should just be a couple miles down the road.”

They set off, leaving through the back door of the farmhouse. John turned his head only once to look, to say goodbye to the place that, truthfully, held no sentimental value for him whatsoever. The only thing the farmhouse had meant to him, before the EMP, was bitterness that Max had inherited it and not himself.

The moon was out, which made walking at night easier. They had flashlights with them and plenty of batteries, for when the moon was covered by clouds, or when it was a mere sliver in the dark sky. The batteries, like everything else, had come from the packs of the dead men in the farmhouse.

John’s only concern with the flashlights was that the lights would give them away. It’d be better to let their eyes adapt to the darkness and make their way as best they could.

They hadn’t discussed it as a group, but John was planning on traveling exclusively at night. That had worked for him and Cynthia on their way out of the suburbs. And he hoped it would work for them again.

It didn’t take them long to cross the field. Under the cover of the trees, it was darker.

Derek led the way. He’d said he knew a shortcut, a path that would take them a little ways down the road. Then they’d take the road to the next trail.

John followed Derek close enough to talk to him. Cynthia and Sara followed.

“If we can find a vehicle somewhere,” said John. “It’ll make this all a lot easier.”

“Only problem,” said Derek, “is we don’t know where we’re going.”

“Well, it’ll help us get to hopefully safer areas faster,” said John.

“I think it’s better if we stick with the trails,” said Derek.

Sara nodded her agreement.

“We can stay hidden on the trails,” said Derek. “I’m hoping we can avoid using these guns.”

“You don’t think there’ll be others at some point?” said John. “Others with the same ideas?”

“Well,” said Derek. “Hikers are good people. I mean, when we did the Long Trail, we met so many great people. Great friends. I hope they’re OK now.”

“They may have been good people then,” said John, “but the EMP changed everything. Everything is different. You’ve got to realize that. People will do whatever they have to do.”

“People stay the same,” said Derek. “They’re either good or bad.”

John didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to waste his energy arguing, but he was becoming quickly concerned that Derek saw things in an unrealistic black and white way. Derek seemed to think that good people never did bad things. Hadn’t he seen what had happened in the suburbs? Or at least heard about it? He’d been the one to tell him the rumors about the militia leader, Kor.

But for Derek, it seemed that Kor was bad because he was already a bad person. Derek wasn’t considering the good people who’d likely joined up in the militia and then gone on to do bad things, simply because it was easier. Sure, some of them may have been deluded into thinking they were recreating a new world, a new system of order.

What would happen when they came across someone who was ready to do whatever it took to survive? John didn’t think he could count on Derek. In fact, he didn’t know if he could count on any of them.

And that wasn’t a good feeling.

Miller was breathing hard. His hand clutched his handgun.

Should he fight or try to execute his plan?

He still hadn’t worked out that plan that he’d been thinking about. There were a lot of complications. A lot of problems with it.

He glanced in the mirror. They were getting close.

Three of them. No, four. Maybe five. He wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell. Nothing was ever clear in a situation like that.

Miller took a deep breath, focusing on his breathing. He let himself have one slow, controlled inhale and one slow, controlled exhale.

Miller was smart enough to know that in a situation like this, the mind was the best weapon any man had at his disposal. The guns and the knives and the fists—these were just dumb implements. Sure, they were helpful. Necessary, even.

But the mind. It was the most dangerous of them all.

Miller got himself under control.

He rolled down his window.

He stuck out his arm and gave a casual wave.

“How’s it going, boys?”

One of them was right up at his window. He looked mean. He had a big red beard, bushy and untamed. Wild looking. There was the glint of violence in his eyes.

“Identify yourself.”

He pointed the muzzle of his assault rifle right at Miller.

Miller wasn’t scared. Not for his own safety. They only thing he feared was not being able to carry out his plan.

“Miller. Just Miller. That’s what they call me.” He tried to make his words sound as casual as he could.

“What are you doing here?”

“Doing what anyone’s doing,” said Miller. “Just surviving. Just hanging on.”

Miller kept a smile fixed to his face.

The red-bearded man glared at him. His buddies stood behind him, their guns ready.