Ryan Westfield - Staying Alive

There were a lot of stores in the King of Prussia area. That meant a lot of goods. John knew there were hiking and camping stores. There were probably plenty of people who’d had the idea to head to those stores in search of things to help them survive. Maybe the rogue militia was there. Maybe there were other dangers John hadn’t even considered.

He had a little while to decide. The road was long. His shoulder was killing him. His back ached too, from the weight of the pack. The hoe helped as a walking stick. He was able to transfer some of the weight of the pack onto it with every other step.

There was a rumbling on the road. The sound of engines. Someone was approaching.

John crouched down behind a large rose bush. He was in the backyard of a stone home. It wasn’t unusual for homes in the area to be 200 years old or more, and this one could easily have been that old. It was nicely maintained, with a tidy garden. There weren’t drawn curtains on this home, and there was no vehicle in the driveway. Likely, the occupants had left.

John briefly considered whether he should break into the home to hide out for the coming day. He didn’t know the time, but if he had to guess, he would have said it was about three in the morning. There were still a couple good hours of hiking through the night. It was better to get farther away than to stay here. But it wasn’t like the rose bush was the greatest hiding place.

John waited too long making up his mind. Before he knew it, the sounds were closer than ever.

They must have been trucks. Large, heavy trucks. He felt the rumbling beneath his feet.

To John’s horror, the trucks stopped somewhere nearby. He couldn’t see them. The house was blocking the way. He could hear them, rumbling, the engines clearly idling. The engines cut off, leaving silence.

Then came the shouts. Orders being barked out. Brusque and crude.

Gunshots, loud, in quick succession.

Horrible screaming. Calls for help.

The truck engines started again. John heard the trucks driving off.

It had all happened so fast. John barely had time to process it all.

He knew he should stay behind the bush. But the cries for help continued. The soldiers, or whoever they were, seemed to have left in the trucks, leaving behind their victims.

John stood up. He had a choice. Did he move on, cutting through the next yard, or did he go address the screams?

He thought of Lawrence, who had died in his arms. John didn’t know whether Lawrence’s insistence on helping people had been foolish or not. He’d thought it was, and he’d convinced Lawrence to leave the city. That was what had gotten him killed. Then again, he surely would have died had he stayed…

John walked to the road, working his way through the tidy gardens that lined the side yard of the old stone house.

Across the road, there was a woman in the front yard. She bent over a man who lay on the ground.

“Help me!” she yelled, spotting John.

Why did she think John was someone she could trust? For all she knew, he could be someone who wanted to further harm her and her family.

John didn’t know why, but he rushed across the street, setting his backpack down to bend over the man.

The woman had tears streaming down her face. Her hair was tangled. Blood was on her hands from holding the man. He must have been her husband. And he was dead. There wasn’t any way to save him. His eyes were open and he wasn’t breathing. He lay still on his back, blood all over his torso. The spurts of gunfire had torn open his chest and stomach.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “He’s dead.” It felt strange stating the obvious.

“He can’t be dead, he just can’t.”

There was nothing more to say. John didn’t need to convince her that he was dead.

John put his arm around her shoulder. He didn’t tell her that everything was going to be OK. He couldn’t bring himself to utter those words.

“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

“He was your husband?”

She nodded. Her face was red and blotchy from the tears. Her body was shaking. John tightened his arm around her, pulling her close to him.

Maybe he should have moved her away from the corpse. That was what people did sometimes after tragedies, soothing their emotions by removing them from the body. She was staring into her dead husband’s lifeless eyes. The body was a reminder of the horrors that had just passed, and the horrors that would pass. John didn’t see the point in shielding her from reality. Sooner or later, they’d all have to face it.

“What happened?” said John.

“They came,” she said, between sobs. “Yesterday. They came yesterday. They wanted food and… John wouldn’t give them what they wanted… They said they were being nice… They’d give us one more day… I pleaded with him, but he said we’d die without it…”

So her husband was named John as well. What a strange coincidence.

“You don’t have any food?”

“None,” she said, shaking her head. The tears still hadn’t stopped and her body still shook violently. “They took everything… Everything…”

Comforting her wouldn’t do any good. She could come to terms with her husband’s death and she’d still be dead soon enough without food.

“Do you have any family around here? Children? Any friends?”

She shook her head.

It was all too common not to know one’s neighbors. John remembered his own situation back at his apartment in Center City, the apartment he’d never see again.

John had become somewhat desensitized to death and violence. That didn’t mean that he had no reaction whatsoever to the dead body on the ground in front of him. It just didn’t hit him hard like it should have. Truthfully, it barely hit him at all.

But while his emotions had become blunted, something else had changed in him. John had always looked out for himself. He’d looked after his own money, his apartments, his clothes. He’d had his own best interests in mind, and no one else’s. He’d mocked Lawrence’s attitude, and had brought Lawrence along only to serve his own ends.

It wasn’t like now he was going to try to go and save the whole world. It was impossible. But maybe while trying to save himself, he could help one single person. This woman, who’d lost her husband. Why didn’t she deserve a chance?

“Come with me,” said John.

“What?”

“I’m getting out of here,” said John. “I’m heading north. My brother has a farmhouse. I’m sure he’s there, with the whole place set up with everything he needs. I don’t know if I’m going to make it up there. But at least there’s a chance. Come with me. Maybe we’ll make it out of here.”

She just looked at him. Her sobbing slowed down.

“You’re going to die here,” said John. “Without food, you won’t make it. And the militia will keep killing, even when it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think many will survive here.”

John didn’t know what to expect, whether she’d say yes or no.

Finally, after a long pause, she nodded her head silently at him.

John stood up and offered the woman his hand.

Taking her along would have its risks. But John would be lying if he told himself he was only doing it as some type of selfless sacrifice. Sure, he wanted to help her. But that self-serving part of himself still did exist somewhere inside him, albeit in smaller quantities than before. Two people instead of one definitely had its advantages. It meant one person could keep watch while the other slept. It meant two people to fight, not just one.

They’d been driving a full two hours in tense silence. The Bronco kept following. No matter how fast or slow Georgia drove, the Bronco was there behind them. It kept its distance. Sometimes Georgia could see it in the mirror and sometimes she couldn’t. But when she couldn’t, and she hoped for a brief moment that the nightmare was over, Max in the back with his binoculars would confirm that it was still there.