Ryan Westfield - Staying Alive

He had to force himself not to drink the whole bottle at once. Who knew when the next time he’d get water was.

John tore into one of the energy bars, which had gone hard and stale over the years. But it didn’t smell too strange, and it actually still tasted good. It had a lot of sugar in it, and John wouldn’t have been able to describe how intensely pleasing the taste of real sugar was in that moment. It seemed to warm his body and give him more mental strength to continue.

Now he had gear. Maybe he actually stood a chance.

Now all he had to do was get out of the suburbs and not get discovered. That was going to be hard, if not impossible.

But he’d try.

John dozed off once or twice during the rest of the day, but mostly he just waited. He tried his best to think of a plan, to map out a route. But his thinking wasn’t as clear as he would have liked. Probably from the intense stress he was feeling. He just couldn’t seem to conjure up a picture of a map in his head.

The best thing to do was simply try. He’d head through the yard and parks as much as he could, keeping off of the roads. He’d eventually make his way far enough north that the suburbs would give way to the more rural areas. Then, he’d stay away from the highways and roads and stay well within the woods, hidden from prying eyes by the trees and thick late summer foliage.

If he made it that far, his biggest problem might simply be finding the farmhouse. He didn’t have a map, and he hadn’t been to the farmhouse since he was a kid. He vaguely remembered what the area looked like. But it wasn’t like he’d ever actually driven up there himself. He’d been a kid, riding in the back seat with Max. His parents, obviously, had done all the navigating.

It seemed like a long shot. Almost impossible. Then again, maybe he’d see something along the way that would give him a clue to where he was and where he needed to go. Maybe he’d come across some landmark.

That was all based on the hope that he wouldn’t simply die in the woods.

The day seemed to stretch forever, with nothing to do but stare at the walls, make seemingly futile plans, and re-check his newfound gear over and over.

Finally, it was nightfall. There were still no sounds outside the shed.

John waited through dusk, growing increasingly impatient. Why couldn’t the sun just set faster? Did it really have to take its sweet time going down? Didn’t it need a rest like everyone else?

Maybe John’s thoughts were turning a little strange. Then again, maybe it was normal. Since the EMP, John had probably spent more time alone than he had in a long, long time. His work life involved dealing with people constantly, and he wasn’t the type to stay at home by himself. He’d always been out and about, with a hot date on his arm and money in his pocket.

John had read stories about people in extreme situations, people who’d had to fight for their lives. He remembered a story about a man who’d been stuck at sea for six months, living off seagull meat and blood. When he’d eventually been rescued, he’d been unrecognizable to his family. Not that his appearance had changed much. Instead, it was his personality. He was just different. A human can’t go through such a harrowing experience and come out the other side the same person. It’s just not possible.

But that man at sea had a civilization to come back to.

John didn’t.

And no one else did either.

Maybe whatever changes John was going through mentally, they’d be permanent ones. And maybe that wasn’t so bad. He was adapting to his new environment. He’d killed it in the financial field, and now those skills didn’t serve him anymore. Maybe it was a testament to his character that he was able to make the changes necessary, even if he was doing a clumsy amateur job of the whole thing so far.

In the silent darkness, John got his things together. He hoisted the ancient backpack onto his shoulders. It was heavy, and his shoulder hurt from the strap.

He tucked the rusted hatchet into one of the straps on the side of the backpack. He put his kitchen knife in an odd sort of pocket that someone must have sewn onto the side of the backpack. It fit in there nicely, and with a little luck, he’d be able to reach it easily.

One hand was free, and the other held the long hoe.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he finally reached for the handle to the door of the shed.

It was time to continue his journey.

“Get away from my car,” shouted the man in the door of the house.

“Keep going,” whispered Max to James.

James obeyed him, holding the plastic tubing through which the gasoline flowed.

“We’ve got to go!” hissed Georgia from inside the minivan.

But Max knew they needed to wait. They needed that gas more than anything. It was worth the risk. It was worth the danger.

Max wasn’t going to risk James’s young life, though.

Glock in hand, Max stood up from behind the Jeep, making himself visible. He wanted to make himself the target, and not James.

Maybe it was dumb. Maybe it was the dumbest thing he’d ever done. And at the start of the EMP, Max had been the guy who’d just been interested in looking out for himself. His attitude couldn’t have changed quicker.

“Get off my property,” shouted the man in the doorway.

His flashlight blinded Max. He tried to shield his eyes, but the flashlight was too bright.

“It’s dumb to waste your batteries on us,” said Max loudly. “You’re using the brightest setting. Turbo mode, probably. Won’t last more than ten minutes. I know my flashlights.”

Max was just stalling for time. He wasn’t actually concerned about whether the man burned up his flashlight batteries or not.

“I’ve got a gun,” shouted the man.

Max could hear the fear in his voice. He had a strong hunch that he wouldn’t shoot.

Then again, everything was different know. People were doing things they’d never have done before.

And fear could propel people to do things they’d normally never dream of.

“Got it all,” whispered James.

Max heard James pulling the tube from the Jeep.

“Make sure you get the tube,” whispered Max out of the side of his mouth.

“We’re leaving,” said Max loudly. “There’s no need for any violence.”

Max backed up slowly. He made sure James had gotten into the minivan before he himself did.

Max’s heart was thumping in his chest as he slowly got into the van. It felt like an impossibly long moment, a moment in which Max could easily take a bullet from the stranger.

But he didn’t shoot. Max’s instincts had been right.

“Go,” said Max.

The van was already moving. Georgia was on the ball.

She was driving fast, headlights back on, down the narrow country road. There was nothing in front of them, and just dark trees on either side.

“You could have both gotten killed,” said Georgia.

She sounded angry. Max knew she had every reason to be. Max had put her son, not to mention all of them, in danger. But he’d weighed the risks against the final outcome. It had paid off, but it easily could have gone the other way.

Max would take the blame. And he was OK with that.

“We needed the gas,” said Max.

“James could have been shot,” said Georgia. “And you could have prevented it. It was his neck on the line.”

She sounded angrier than Max had ever heard her. It wasn’t like her. She had a good understand of necessity, and James had been in danger before. But Max could understand why this particular situation would bother her more than others. To her, it had probably seemed as if Max was being intentionally reckless.