Ryan Westfield - Staying Alive

Safety wasn’t guaranteed on the other side of the window. Most probably, certain death awaited him, in the form of a man with a gun. But if he got outside, at least there was a chance. If he stayed in the basement, he’d die. That was really certain.

John squeezed himself through the window. He had to breathe in deeply to get through, and for a moment he thought he was stuck. But he pulled and pushed as hard as he possibly could, ignoring the horrible pain in his injured shoulder.

He heard noises behind him in the basement. He ignored them. It wasn’t like he could turn around to see.

He finally broke free, squeezing himself out into the dark night.

A gunshot echoed in the basement. They’d fired at his feet, missing maybe by just an inch.

John looked around frantically, expecting a gun in his face.

But there was no one.

There wasn’t time to think.

He simply ran, as fast and as hard as he could. He didn’t know what direction he was headed in. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do next.

John felt his feet hit the pavement. He must have reached the street.

He kept running, knife in hand. He heard the door to the house swing open so forcefully that it slammed into the siding.

They were after him. And they had guns. They’d shoot him dead in the street like a dog.

Unless he could do something.

But what was there to do?

The sky was patchy with clouds, letting a substantial amount of moonlight through. If only the street had been darker, maybe they wouldn’t be able to see him well enough to shoot him.

There was a dark patch off to the right. It was a small neighborhood park, full of tall trees with full leaves.

John’s only hope was to get into that thick darkness, where the trees would shield him from the moonlight.

He didn’t slow down as he turned, aiming towards the park.

A shot rang out. He didn’t know if he’d made it yet to the darkness. There wasn’t time to check, to analyze the light. He just kept running. He felt no pain except in his shoulder. They must have missed him.

John ran as fast and as hard as he could, for as long as he could. He ran through the park and he ran through empty suburban yards. He ran between houses and he ran across streets.

He didn’t know if they were behind him. But he couldn’t continue. He collapsed onto the ground, his breathing ragged and his heart thumping crazily with fear and exertion.

John lay on his back and looked up at the moon. He was too tired to check his surroundings, to see if he’d been followed, or if anyone else was there.

He knew he had to keep going. Not immediately. But soon.

The killings had been senseless. What had been gained by the deaths of Bill and the others? Maybe the militia had taken their guns, and the small amount of food and water they’d had with them. But surely that couldn’t have been the real reason. From what Bill had said, the militia, or the various militias, were after one thing, and that was power. There were people who’d do anything to scramble to the top, no matter what the situation. No matter what was required, including killing.

And now, John was a wanted man. The suburbs had become enemy territory for him, and he was without supplies or backup. For just a moment, with Bill in the basement, there’d almost been a flicker of hope. A possibility that John could escape. But that had vanished. Bill was dead, and there was no hope that John was going to get out.

Somehow, John had fallen asleep. He woke up with the early morning light. The birds were chirping as if the world hadn’t ended, as if society hadn’t collapsed.

John sat up, wincing in pain from his shoulder.

He was in a nice suburban backyard. There was a small in-ground pool, a glass outdoor table, lawn furniture. There was a croquet set, a couple hoses, and a small flower garden. Someone had planted something in a series of cinderblocks that lay against the back of the house.

By all appearances, it was a charming suburban backyard.

And it felt like a peaceful day. No lawnmower engines buzzed. No cars honked.

Then again, certainly no one was making coffee and reading the daily paper. No one was watching cartoons.

If there were people still in the house, they were hunkered down, probably in the basement or the attic, clutching whatever object they’d found that was the most weapon-like.

John cursed himself for falling asleep. He needed to keep moving. The smart thing to do would be to move by night. At least that way, he could try to avoid being seen by the militia. But in the broad daylight, what chance did he have? From what Bill had said, the militia controlled all the roads. And there wasn’t any getting out of there without getting onto the roads at some point. There was only so far he could go through backyards.

John’s kitchen knife lay next to him on the grass. The blade was coated in dried blood, and John carefully wiped it along the dewy grass, cleaning the blade. The kitchen knife had become his only reliable companion. When he’d left his apartment, he’d never thought he’d last long at all. And a lot of that “lasting” had to do with his knife. Well, that and dumb luck.

John shouldn’t have been alive. He’d made four “friends” so far since his apartment, if you could really call them that. And he’d seen each one killed before his eyes. Why did John deserve to live and they didn’t?

But he pushed those thoughts away. There was no sense in dwelling on that now. In doing so, John had another thought: his own thinking process was changing. That was natural. The EMP aftermath had shaped and molded his brain. Intense experiences tended to do that. John was noticing that slowly, little by little, he was becoming more practical minded. This way of thinking reminded him of his brother Max, who always looked to the practical first. Or at least what Max considered the practical.

John needed a place to hide out for the day. He wasn’t going to risk traveling far during the daylight. Not after what he’d seen yesterday.

He didn’t dare try to enter this house here. There was no way to know whether it was abandoned or not.

If he tried to enter, there was a good chance he’d be attacked by the occupants. John didn’t want to fight some innocent family trying desperately to hold on. He was now willing to fight, but not like that. He’d fight people who came after him, who tried to take his own life away.

The thought of entering the house, though, was temping. Inside, there might be food, water, a place to rest comfortably.

But it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t risk it.

John moved over to the cinderblocks. The plants growing inside looked odd. Long green stems. But no flowers. They triggered a distant memory. He’d seen them somewhere before.

On a hunch, John dug down into the earth. His instinct had been right. Down in the dirt, potatoes were growing. He’d heard about this before—some trend of growing food inside cinderblocks. He didn’t get it, but he didn’t need to.

John dug until he’d recovered all the potatoes. There was another batch of cinderblocks, and John dug through those. These didn’t contain potatoes. Instead, under the leaves, John found small wilted-looking peppers. He picked these as well.

He couldn’t eat just yet. Instead, he surveyed the area, hoping to find somewhere to hide out.

In the yard next door, there was a small shed. Maybe that would work. He could hide out in there until nightfall. He’d need some luck, though. There was a good chance someone might enter the shed, looking for something useful, like gasoline or other supplies.

John had to climb over a fence to get to the next yard. He threw his handful of potatoes and peppers over the fence first, and then hoisted himself over. His shoulder still burned with pain from getting smacked by the gun.