Ryan Westfield - Staying Alive

John didn’t know what to think or feel. He’d seen so much death already. But this was… it was different, somehow.

Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she looked at the bodies.

“Come on,” said John. “We’ve got to see if there’s any food.”

“I… can’t…” said Cynthia.

“Come on,” said John. “I know you can do it. You want to live just as much as I do.”

The truth was, his desire to live spiked and plummeted constantly, and he never knew quite where he stood anymore.

Whatever fires had burned here had long gone out, leaving scattered and charred remains of things long past the point of recognition.

John and Cynthia walked through the wreckage, through the bodies, hunting down packets of airplane food that might have survived.

They spent three hours in the rising sun looking for food. They came away from the carcass of the aircraft sweating with exertion, the images of burned and torn apart bodies fresh in their minds. Miraculously, some of the airplane food had somehow survived. Maybe 20 meals or so, and pieces here and there of other meals. Some of the pre-packaged meals had been torn apart, the food exposed to the air, but John took these anyway.

“About a week’s worth of extra food,” said John, flopping down onto the ground between two large pine trees, well away from the aircraft.

Cynthia didn’t say anything.

They both fell asleep without even getting out their blankets, completely forgetting their watch system.

John woke up when the sun was going down. His body had gotten used to this odd sleeping schedule.

“Shit,” he muttered, seeing Cynthia asleep as well.

He shook her awake.

“What?” she said groggily.

“We forgot to do watches,” said John.

“Well, we’re still alive, aren’t we?”

That was all that was said about it.

They ate in silence. John relished the airplane food. It may not have been good, and some of it may have been partially rotten, but at least it wasn’t another damn energy bar.

“You’re not going to eat the airplane food?” said John, watching Cynthia biting into yet another energy bar.

“I can’t,” she said. “Not without thinking about those bodies.”

“Well, you’ll get hungry soon enough,” said John. “We don’t have a lot of these bars left.”

They got up and started walking, heading north.

They were both tired and impossibly weary. The long journey had taken a toll on them. They stopped walking single file and began meandering through the woods, losing a lot of the discipline that John had insisted upon for the earlier part of the journey.

“I don’t think we’re ever going to find it,” said John.

“Find what?”

“The farmhouse,” said John.

“Oh,” said Cynthia, as if she’d forgotten the point of the whole trip.

“At least,” said John. “We’ve gotten pretty far away from everything. We’re safe from the militia out here.”

“Yeah,” said Cynthia.

She had never really gotten over her husband’s death, it seemed, and continued to carry the sadness with her.

“Wait,” said John, pointing ahead. “Do you see that?”

“What?”

“That big old tree there.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I… I remember that tree… Max and I used to go out there and climb up its old gnarled branches…”

When they reached the tree, John stepped closer to examine it. Sure enough, it was the tree. It was unmistakable, with its huge, knotty branches and permanently-wilted looking leaves. Whatever type of tree it was, it was ancient.

“We’re close to the farmhouse,” said John. He could feel the excitement building up inside of him. “We’re close! Shit, I can’t believe it. After all that… all those mistakes… I thought we’d missed it by miles for sure.”

“You sure this is the tree?” said Cynthia.

“Dead sure.”

“So we’re close to your brother? The one who’s super prepared and everything?”

A smile was starting to grow across Cynthia’s face. It was the first time John had ever seen her smile.

“We’re very close,” said John. “It’s just down this way. Come on.”

John was excited to see the brother that he’d barely spoken to in a decade. He was excited to find a home, to feel safe. Maybe he could become useful at the farmhouse, maybe he’d feel like he belonged. It would be their safe haven, a place to escape from the horrors of what the world had become.

“There it is,” said John, leading Cynthia out of the woods and into the field.

The farmhouse stood there in front of them, illuminated in the moonlight, looking more or less how it always had. John almost couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe that after all that, he’d finally arrived.

“I don’t see anyone,” said Cynthia.

“They’re probably inside,” said John.

“Don’t you think they’d have someone on watch?”

“Uh, I guess,” said John. It did seem a little strange to him. “But maybe they’re on the other side of the house or something. Or hidden. I mean, knowing Max, he’d have it all set up perfectly… everything would be just right.”

John suddenly had to confront an idea that he’d been avoiding since he’d left his apartment in Philly. The fact was that John didn’t actually know if Max had gotten to the farmhouse. It simply seemed like the most logical thing that could have happened. And if John had survived, how would it even be possible that Max, who was certainly going to have been wildly prepared, wouldn’t have survived? It was a sobering thought, and John pushed it aside yet again.

“Come on,” said John.

Together, they walked across the field and up the steps to the old porch at the front of the farmhouse.

“I don’t hear anyone,” said Cynthia.

“Uh, maybe they’re out hunting or something,” said John. “Or looking for edible plants. I’m sure Max knows all about that stuff…”

“Why do you think he has others with him? Maybe it’s just him.”

“Uh, I don’t know. I just kind of figured… it would make more sense with more people. Max is pretty strategic. But yeah, he can be kind of a loner too… Maybe you’re right, maybe it’s just him by himself here. Maybe he’s hiding out. Maybe he saw us approaching and didn’t recognize us or something. He’ll be glad to have us here. We can help him defend the house… We can start growing crops…”

John was trying so hard to believe that, against all odds, Max was here, that he was growing almost delirious with artificial excitement about all the possibilities. The facts were that no one seemed to be there.

“Max!” cried John, knocking loudly on the wood door. “Max! It’s me, John, your brother. Your long lost brother! Come out from wherever you’re hiding.”

No one answered.

“I don’t think anyone’s here,” said Cynthia, putting her hand on John’s shoulder.

“No,” said John. “He’s got to be here. He’s just got to be.”

John lit one of the candles from Cynthia’s house, holding it aloft in front of him.

The door was unlocked and John pushed it and went inside.

In the flickering candlelight, John saw a body on the floor, lying face down.

John gasped.

“Is it your brother?” said Cynthia, her voice quiet.

John bent down to examine the body. He turned the stiff body, grunting with exertion, until the lifeless face turned towards him.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

They moved through the house, finding a total of ten bodies, none of them Max.

“It looks like there was a huge battle here,” said Cynthia.

She was probably right. There were bullet holes in the walls and there was blood on the floor. Not to mention the ten corpses, stiff and already stinking.