Ryan Westfield - Pushing On

Cynthia came over, a smile on her face. “You know, I had a pet rabbit as a kid. Normally it’d turn my stomach, seeing this. But I don’t even care.”

“I have a feeling I’ll be feeling pretty good after eating this.”

“Looks like your aim could have been a little better, though.”

She pointed to where the bullet had destroyed a good bit of the meat.

“Yeah, I guess you’re supposed to go rabbit hunting with smaller caliber bullets.”

“Whatever, it’ll still be delicious.”

“Did you find any water, by the way?”

“Not yet.”

“Give me a hand?”

John was starting to wobble a little, having trouble remaining in the crouching position.

Cynthia put her hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t help. It knocked him a little more off balance, and he fell onto the ground again.

“You OK?” said Cynthia, bending down.

“I’m fine,” said John, starting to laugh.

“You hit your head or something? Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. Don’t worry, I haven’t lost it or anything. I just… I don’t know.”

John didn’t want to admit it, but he felt happy. Maybe it was the rabbit. Maybe it was Cynthia. Maybe it was recognizing that he’d undergone some kind of transformation.

“Come on, I’m going to get this rabbit started. I figure we can risk a fire, right?”

“I don’t see how we can avoid it. Not with this rabbit.”

“I know, my mouth is already watering.”

“We’ll have to be extra careful, though. A fire might attract someone.”

“We’ll have to stay ready.”

“You mean the guns?”

“Of course I mean the guns.”

John was too tired to be of much good, but he helped Cynthia by telling her how to get the fire started.

“Keep the knife folded,” said John, as Cynthia unfolded one of the pocket knives. “Just leave the blade in there. It’s a lot safer that way, compared to having a long cutting edge out.”

“OK, now what?”

“Just strike the flint across the back of the blade. Do it fast, with a bit of force. There you go, that’s good.”

“I don’t think it’s still called a flint. That was like forever ago.”

“Well, whatever it is, it still works like a flint.”

Cynthia was getting some good sparks, and soon the tinder they’d picked up days ago was lit.

“Quick,” said John. “Get that tiny kindling on it.”

“Easier said than done. All you have to do is sit there.”

“I know. I could get used to this.”

“Don’t joke about that. Or you’ll end up acting just like my husband.”

It was the first time that Cynthia had mentioned her husband, now dead, in a long time. Or maybe she’d never mentioned him. John couldn’t remember. But he did clearly remember the sight of his dead body in Cynthia’s front yard, when he’d been on his way up to Valley Forge Park.

It felt like such a long time ago.

Did Cynthia still think of her husband?

Maybe things hadn’t been that great between them, judging by what she was saying now. Not that it meant she was happy to see him go. She’d sobbed like crazy, after all.

Soon, there was a little fire roaring, and John was feeling good enough to sharpen up a spit for the rabbit.

The spit was easy in comparison to getting the rabbit ready to eat.

“I can’t believe how much fur is on this thing,” said Cynthia.

John laughed. “What did you expect? It’s covered in fur.”

“I guess the real problem is I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

“Just don’t think of your pet rabbit.”

“Jerk,” said Cynthia, laughing, kicking a little bit of dirt up at him with her boot.

Suddenly, John had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You know,” he said. “Things are…”

“What?”

“Going good.”

“You sound like that’s not a good thing.”

“It just has me worried. How often do we laugh?”

“Basically never. I figure we’re just happy to have some meat to eat soon.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s been less than an hour. No need to worry. I’m sure things will go to shit soon enough.”

It was quiet for a while. He heard their boots moving on the hardwood floor outside. For the moment, they’d stopped attacking the door. He couldn’t remember how many there’d been. The adrenaline should have made his mind sharp. But it was foggy. Maybe it was the pain from the gunshot wound. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was something else.

Miller didn’t regret anything. He didn’t regret the fact that he was going to die. He’d taken some of them out. That was what he wanted.

If there was a shred of regret, it was that he hadn’t thought about his plan more, and gotten to the leader. But it was unrealistic. He should have known that. He would have never gotten there.

His plan had sounded like something from a spy novel, not something from real life.

He’d done what he could.

These hadn’t been the men who’d killed his wife and son. But they were close enough. They were cut from the same cloth, so to speak. They were part of the same organization.

They started again.

Miller was reeling in pain. But he stood tall and strong.

Bullets sprang through the thin wooden door.

The door was shaking with kicks. And body slams. They were throwing their bodies against it.

The dresser couldn’t hold out much more, and Miller couldn’t get close enough to hold it back, unless he wanted to take another bullet.

Finally, the dresser had danced back a bit from the door, from the impacts.

A heavy boot broke through the door, splintered wood going everywhere. A hand reached through, going for the doorknob. The weight of the dresser was enough to keep the door mostly in its frame.

Miller aimed carefully, squeezing the trigger.

A howl of pain. The hand retreated, bloodied. He’d shot good. But it wouldn’t be enough.

It happened so fast it was hard to register it all. The door was opened, the dresser kicked back.

One of them entered. He knew where Miller would be. His face was contorted in rage. His hand was bloodied. He had his gun in his other hand.

He and Miller shot at the same time.

The guy went down, thrown back a little.

Miller took the bullet in the chest. His breathing was going all funny. He felt the blood pooling.

These would be some of his last moments. He wasn’t going to make it.

But he was going to take out the last one.

Or were there two?

He couldn’t think straight. His mind was a mess of adrenaline and pain. Everything was confusing.

The only thing he could do to steady himself was keep the grip on his gun tight. And his finger on the trigger.

More movement.

Someone else came through the door.

Miller had his gun on him.

But the other guy was too fast.

Miller saw everything in slow motion. But his own reactions were too slow. The guy pulled the trigger.

Miller felt the bullet hit the center of his chest.

He had several seconds of consciousness before he died. Nothing but a flash of his past memories, playing in his mind’s eye. Like he was watching a film, surprisingly clear, but as if he was peering down onto everything. He felt close to the events, but far away at the same time.

His son’s first birthday party. His wife was sobbing in the kitchen, because none of their friends had even bothered to respond to the invitations. And no one had showed up. The balloons hung sadly up around the ceiling.

The first time he’d met his wife. That tight sweater she’d been wearing in the dead of winter, when the sun never seemed to rise high enough to burn off the winter doldrums.