Ryan Westfield - Pushing On

John was eager to hear something of the outside world. It would be just a little slice of sound, but it would make him feel… connected again. The way he’d been before the EMP, with the internet at his fingertips, with his smartphone always in his pocket.

“Well, there’s nothing now,” said Dale. “No broadcasts scheduled, as far as I’m aware. Nothing but static. We can listen first thing in the morning, though. The place in New York will be sending something out.”

John nodded. That was good enough for him. It was something to look forward to. How the world had changed—he now considered a few minutes of a person’s voice on the radio a little jewel, a little sliver of hope.

“Now,” said Dale. “I imagine after all this talking, you two are starting to work up an appetite again.”

Cynthia nodded eagerly.

“I don’t think it’s fair that we eat your food,” said John. “I mean, I really appreciate it, but you’re already doing so much by letting us stay here. We’ve got some food left, some energy bars and things like that.”

“Nonsense, I’ve got plenty. And you’re having some. No arguing.” Dale laughed like this was the funniest thing in the whole world. “I’ve got a whole root cellar packed to the gills. And it’s hidden real good, too, so don’t think anyone’s going to find it. When I’m feeling chipper, I’ll just be out hunting some deer, supposing they decide to pass by.”

“I wish I could have your attitude about things,” muttered John, looking down at his feet.

“Hey, you’ve had it harder than I have. I’m a lucky man and I know that, and that’s why I’m willing to share with good people like yourselves.”

John nodded without saying anything.

Dale got out a huge cast iron pan and put it directly onto the wood stove.

“These are venison sausages,” he said, holding them out for John and Cynthia to see, before adding them to the pan, along with a healthy amount of butter. “These will have you feeling better than you’ve felt in a long time, trust me. Loaded with nutrients.”

John and Cynthia fell silent as Dale banged around the kitchen, chuckling to himself over this or that. Who knew, really, what inspired his laughter.

Before he knew it, John had fallen fast asleep in his chair. It’s been so long since he’d sat in one that he’d almost forgotten how comfortable they were, and how easy it was to fall asleep in one.

The next thing he knew, Dale was thrusting a plate of steaming venison sausages into his hands and clapping him on the shoulder to wake him up.

John looked up and saw Cynthia beaming at him, her mouth already full of sausage.

The three of them chatted through dinner, enjoying the sausages immensely.

Now, with the rabbit and the sausages together in a single day, John had eaten better than he had in a long, long time. It was almost more protein than his body knew what to do with. He hoped it would store it away for a future time, when the meals would be lean and miserable again, when they’d be tightening their belts and soldiering on to some new and dangerous land.

The conversation turned this way and that, and somehow Dale always steered it away from the new world that they lived in. Nothing bleak was talked about. Nothing horrible. Nothing tragic. Instead, they talked about things they’d read, things they’d heard, things they’d seen on television. Dale was particularly fond of retelling funny conversations he’d overheard in highway rest stops all over the country. As a truck driver, he’d been over practically every inch of the country, always with his ear cocked and his eyes open for comedic situations. Or at least what he considered comedic situations. He seemed to see the humor in everything, even when others would recoil in horror or disgust.

It was pleasant and convivial, sitting there in good company, enjoying a chat that had nothing to do with surviving, nothing to do with what was needed to be done.

John knew, though, that it was only the briefest of respites. Soon, they’d be back on the trail, heading to who knew where. Soon all the conversations would turn again to guns and watches and food rationing.

Mandy couldn’t believe that they were out of there. She couldn’t believe they were alive.

They’d barreled down the back roads in the Bronco. Mandy had been terrified, behind the wheel, her foot not letting up on the gas pedal for a second. She hadn’t had any idea where she was taking them. The only thing she’d known was that she’d needed to get as far away from the compound as they could.

Mandy had driven down dusty back roads on tree-lined streets, through the middle of the night. She’d driven until they’d run out of gas.

The backseat had been full of frantic activity. They’d been trying to treat Georgia’s bullet wound.

Georgia had woken up. She’d been in incredible pain, trying to grit her teeth. But she’d had to scream. It’d been inevitable. The pain would have been too much for anyone.

Mandy had kept her eyes on the road as much as possible, but when she’d glanced in the rearview mirror, she’d seen nothing but bloodied hands and a sweating Georgia, her face contorted in pure pain.

Somehow, Max had gotten the bullet out. James had been fishing through the gear constantly, finding things for Max, acting as the dutiful and silent doctor’s assistant.

And there in the backseat, Max had performed the procedure, in silent concentration, with only a few words here and there to James.

Sadie hadn’t been able to turn around and watch. She’d sat there with her eyes closed, her knees pulled up to her chest, shaking in fear of losing her mother.

Eventually, the Bronco had simply run out of gas. There was nothing there except the trees. No nearby towns. Nothing. They had no idea where they were.

They stayed in the Bronco through the night. A sleepless night. Mandy kept her hand on her gun the entire time. Unfortunately, most of their ammo had been stolen. They’d had it all with them in their packs—none of it had been left in the Bronco, for fear of it getting stolen. So all Mandy had was what she’d taken from the guard Georgia had shot.

If it hadn’t been for Georgia, they’d all have been dead. They’d never have made it. Not even Max. Because he would have busted into the compound no matter what, and Max would have died there if Mandy and the others hadn’t been alive when he’d come in.

As the sun rose, Max finally stepped down out of the Bronco and joined Mandy at the rear bumper, which she leaned on.

“How’s she doing?” whispered Mandy.

“Not good,” said Max. A grim look was on his battered face.

“Is she going to make it?”

“I hope so.”

“That doesn’t mean much.”

“No. It doesn’t. I got the bullet out, but she’s sick. She’s running a high fever.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing. Nothing I know of.”

“What do we do?”

“Wait.”

Mandy nodded in the early morning light. There wasn’t anything else to say about Georgia. Either she’d live or she wouldn’t. It was out of their hands. They could bring her water and stay by her. They could give her antibiotics. They could hope for the best. But after that, it was out of their hands.

Mandy hoped she’d live, but she didn’t dare say it out loud.

Max and Mandy stood there, staring off into the sky together, side by side, not speaking. They’d been through so much that it seemed to have taken all the words right out of them. It’d taken more than words, but it was hard to say exactly what.

Several minutes passed.

“You think we’ll make it?” said Mandy, finally.