Ryan Westfield - Pushing On

Chad rushed the guy, not even bothering to swing his fists. He simply jammed his body forward, trying to body slam him.

But the big guy was agile, and he wasn’t screwed up on drugs like Chad. He had the reflexes Chad didn’t have, and he stepped to the side.

Chad’s head collided with the concrete wall and he fell down.

The guy was on top of him in an instant, straddling his chest. He pressed his thick forearm down into Chad’s neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

Chad moved his mouth, trying to talk, but no words came out.

“You don’t get a say in this,” growled the man, pushing his arm harder down. “Don’t you get that?”

Chad puckered his lips and spit in the guy’s face.

James was paralyzed with fear. He was just standing there. But anger got to him. It overtook the fear, and he sprang into action.

James’s bed was all the way over on the other side of the room. His rifle lay there. It was too far. The guy looked like he might kill Chad at any moment.

Chad’s face was turning a funny color. The life seemed to be draining out of him. He was kicking his legs.

James had to move fast. And he had to make the right move. The man was much bigger and stronger than James. James couldn’t afford to attack him and then receive a counterattack. He simply wouldn’t make it.

James reached under his shirt. His fist grabbed the metal handle of a skeleton knife Max had given him. “This might come in handy sometime,” Max had said, as he’d shown James how to wear it around his neck under his shirt.

The sheath was form-fitting plastic. The knife was securely inside it.

James tugged on it and the knife came out.

The big guy saw the flash of metal out of the corner of his eye.

But before he could turn, James was on him, going right for the guy’s neck.

James had to get it done in one shot. Stabbing him in the back was risky.

James had the edge of the knife almost against the man’s throat, his own arms wrapped around the guy. James’s body was pressed against the man’s back.

Chad was making gurgling noises. The weight of both James and the big guy was pressing down on him.

The guy’s hands were on James’s wrists, trying to keep the knife from his throat.

James pulled back with all his strength. But the guy was strong. He couldn’t get the knife there.

Not yet.

James leaned back with all his weight. It was too much for the strong guy.

James felt it as the knife cut into the skin.

Max had shown James how to sharpen it. He’d given him a little lesson, saying that it was a hard skill that needed plenty of time to master. Georgia, too, had given James some tips here and there. She’d shown him long ago when he was a kid, but he hadn’t retained it. The blade was still razor sharp with the fine shallow edge Max had put on it, running it along his leather belt for a final stropping.

The knife cut easily.

James pulled to the right. The blade moved across the man’s throat, slicing it right open.

The man screamed. A gurgling scream. Horrible and bone-chilling.

James felt the hot blood pouring over his hands.

James pushed the guy off of Chad. He fell with a heavy thud onto the concrete floor.

James only gave the body a quick glance. He’d killed before. This was nothing new, unfortunately.

“You OK, Chad?” said James.

Chad may have screwed everything up with his drugs. But he’d also tried to defend James’s family. Not to mention Mandy. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

Chad nodded, sitting up slowly.

“Come on, we’ve got to go. We don’t have much time. They’ll be coming for us. We’ve got to get to the women.”

James ran over to his pack and started shoving everything he could into it, as fast as he could. It’d been drilled into his head over and over again that the gear and supplies would often be the line between life and death. He needed that stuff. He couldn’t afford to run off without it.

James had his pack stuffed in mere moments. He grabbed his rifle. It felt reassuring in his hands. But he had a funny feeling. Something was off. He checked it, and cursed as he saw there was no ammo.

Then it hit him. There’d been no spare ammo in his pack either.

Someone had taken the ammo.

“Chad! Come on!” hissed James, as he rushed over to the dead guy.

People would be coming. And coming soon.

Chad finally got up. He moved slowly. But he didn’t move towards his own pack, which he hadn’t unpacked or even opened.

Chad got to the dead guy at the same time as James.

“Chad! Move out of the way. I need the guy’s gun. He’s got a pistol on his hip.”

“Get away!” cried Chad, blocking James’s access with his large body.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting what I need.”

“You’re getting those pills he took from you? You’re sick.”

James tried again to rush past Chad, to get the gun.

Chad turned, and with a nasty expression painted on his face, he gave James a furious shove that sent him tumbling down. James fell flat on his back, his head banging against the concrete. The fall took the wind out of him. He saw stars in his field of vision.

James’s vision was blurry, but he could see clearly enough to watch as Chad’s hand came out of the man’s pocket with the orange prescription bottle. He had a greedy expression on his face as he took off the cap with fumbling fingers.

A noise outside. Heavy footsteps.

“McGovern? What’s going on in there?” Another deep male voice.

Before James could move, someone was in the doorway, standing tall in the concrete door frame.

His face grew dark as he glanced to the ground, seeing McGovern’s body with his throat slit, a pool of blood gathering around him on the concrete floor.

The man’s hand flashed to his gun’s holster. He drew it and raised it, pointing it to Chad.

“What have you done, idiot?” he bellowed.

Chad said nothing. Instead, he glanced at James. His eyes seemed to say something. Maybe it was an apology, like he realized he’d screwed everything up. It was hard to say, though. It was just a glance.

Chad rushed the guy, letting out a yell as he did so.

The gun went off. The noise was deafening, echoes off the walls. The whole place was a perfect echo chamber.

Chad fell to the ground, his heavy body making a thud.

James stared up at the tall guy. Fear coursed through him. His blood ran cold. He was unarmed. The only loaded gun was on the dead man, about five feet away from where James lay on his back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

John rose from where he’d been lying down. He moved slowly. His arm hurt.

“Let me check it.”

“How’s it look?”

“The bleeding’s stopped.”

John nodded.

“I didn’t want to tell you, but you were getting pretty close there…”

“I know. I could hear it in your voice. You did a good job, though. I never would have thought of using sugar.”

“Well, me neither. It was just thanks to that little book. You sure you’re feeling OK?”

“About as well as could be expected. I’m still weak.”

“Here, have some more of these.”

“Ugh. I don’t think I can eat another energy bar.”

“Your body needs fuel. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I can see that.”

They’d made it through the night. Cynthia had kept watch, and she looked dead tired now, with bleary, blood-shot eyes as she crouched near John. The sun was rising in the sky, casting light onto the ground. For the first time, John could see the dark splotches his blood had made on the ground. It was incredible he’d lost that much blood and still lived.