Ryan Westfield - Pushing On

Miller opened fire. The guy fell, his body slumping down. But he didn’t fall down the stairs.

Milled moved quickly. He knew he’d be in the line of fire. But if he could pull it off, it’d be well worth the risk. He exposed himself, moving out in the open at the top of the staircase. He shoved his weight against the dead guy, sending the corpse crashing down the stairs.

Muzzle flash. Another shot rang out. It missed Miller. Maybe the bullet hit the corpse. No way to know.

Another shot. The noise was deafening. Pieces of the plaster wall broke into chips, flying through the air.

The guys running up the stairs yelled as the corpse crashed into them. Miller didn’t have time to look to see if they’d get knocked down the stairs or what.

Miller was out of the way now. His little trick would only buy him a few seconds.

He sprinted into a bedroom, the farthest one down the long hallway. He slammed the door closed behind him. He fumbled for the lock, and finally got it, setting that little mechanism to the vertical position.

But the lock wouldn’t be enough.

It was harder to see in this room than in the hallway. But by feeling around, and seeing the dim outlines of things, Miller identified a large dresser. He pushed all his weight against it, sliding it across the floor until it blocked the doorway.

He wasn’t running. He wasn’t trying to merely hide. He just knew that he’d do better if he wasn’t in a direct confrontation against them all at once. The best thing to do was pick them off one by one. Creating obstacles for them was the best way to facilitate those advantageous scenarios.

Heavy footsteps on the floorboards. The guys were already upstairs, checking the rooms.

“He’s in this one.”

There was a kick against the door.

“You can’t hide forever, asshole.”

Miller said nothing.

Suddenly, Miller had an idea.

He glanced at the window, and then at a small nightstand next to the bed. He knew right away it would work.

Another kick against the door.

Miller stood out of the way, in case they shot through the door, and fired two shots in quick succession through the wood.

No screams. He hadn’t hit anyone. But he hadn’t thought that he would. He was just trying to keep them scared, keep them from getting too complacent and being able to break through his barricade easily.

They fired four shots back. A fifth. Then a sixth. But they weren’t overly stupid. They knew not to waste their ammo.

Miller seized his opportunity. While they were still figuring out what to do, Miller ran to the window and opened it. It was difficult to open, one of those old wooden frames that decides to swell at inexplicably inconvenient times. And it was hard with his missing finger. But he got it, pulling up with all his strength.

Miller had to put his handgun down on the bed to pick up the nightstand.

His plan was to throw the nightstand out the window. They’d hear the noise, and think that Miller had jumped out the window in an attempt to escape. They’d either send one guy outside or they’d both go. Miller would shoot them from the window above. And then deal with the one that remained inside, if there still was one.

He thought it was a good plan.

His finger was throbbing as he pushed the nightstand out the window.

Just as he got it out, another two shots blasted through the wooden door. One bullet embedded itself in the wall right next to Miller. The other hit him in the back, off to the side. The pain seared through him.

It happened so fast that Miller wasn’t sure whether the nightstand hit the ground outside before or after he’d been shot.

His vision became even more of a tunnel as the adrenaline coursed through him.

Miller gritted his teeth, trying not to make any noise, as he fumbled for the gun on the bed.

“Did he jump?”

If Miller could just keep silent, they wouldn’t know he was still in there.

But as he reached out, extending his arm, trying to get the pistol, he groaned in pain. It was simply too much, and he couldn’t keep silent forever.

“He’s still in there.”

They started kicking the door. And slamming their bodies into it.

Miller didn’t have much time left. His plan had failed, and he was badly injured. He didn’t know how bad the bullet wound was, but he knew from the pain that soon he’d be too incapacitated to fight.

Miller looked around the room, a quick, sweeping glance. He needed somewhere to hide, or something to get behind. But there wasn’t much there. No closet. Just the bed, and the dresser that was now jammed against the door.

The only strategic advantage he had, aside from being a good shot, was being in the room before them. They were the ones who had to enter.

Standard practice for Miller would be to stand to the side, back against the wall next to the door. But they’d be expecting him. They’d know he’d be there. It was too obvious.

Miller’s heart was pounding like it never had before. He had mere seconds before they came in.

The dresser against the door was inching its way back, tap dancing across the hardwood floor, as the militia guys slammed their bodies into the door.

Miller’s sweat was ice cold. He felt it on his skin. The pain in his back roared, so intense it completely eclipsed the pain from his missing finger.

This was his one chance.

His last chance.

Cynthia was feeling better. She was finally not just paralyzed by fear and misery.

“We’ve got to do something about your wound,” said Cynthia.

“We need to get the packs first. We’re not going to last long without them.”

“They also have the medical supplies.”

“Let me just look at it. We might need to stop the bleeding now.”

Truth be told, John was feeling a little weak. He could feel the blood flowing out of his arm. His heart was beating in a strange way. He could feel his blood pulsing. His feet, nose, and hands felt freezing cold, as if they’d been dipped in ice water.

Cynthia cut aside the sleeve of John’s shirt.

“It’s not lodged in there or anything. It grazed your arm.”

John nodded without looking at the wound. He didn’t want to see it.

“You’re really lucky. Took away a good bit of flesh, though. And it’s bleeding a lot. I’ll tie this around it.”

“A tourniquet?”

“I don’t think that’d be good for this situation. Let’s just tie it around the wound, to create some pressure.”

John nodded. He was gritting his teeth against the pain.

Cynthia twisted the shirt around the wound. She took a small stick from the ground and used it to tighten the cloth. She twisted it all around on itself, locking it in place.

“That should hold for a while.”

“Good enough,” said John. “Let’s get those packs.”

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.”

John had been sitting down while she’d worked on his arm. He stood up quickly, and he felt dizzy as he did so. His vision seemed to swim before him.

“You don’t look good. Are you dizzy?”

“I’m fine. Come on.”

They set off. Cynthia led the way, since John was a little disoriented. He didn’t know why he was feeling that way, since it didn’t seem like he could have lost enough blood to cause those symptoms. But then again, maybe he had. He’d kept moving after receiving the wound, and who knew how much he’d bled without realizing it in that time.

The going was rough for John. His legs felt like lead, but he kept going.

“I think it’s this way,” said Cynthia, turning back to address John.

As John looked to where she was pointing, he tripped over a thick root in the path, lost his balance, and went tumbling down.