Ryan Westfield: Staying Alive

Georgia peered through the scope of her hunting rifle. There was a doe right in the crosshairs. It looked like it had some fat on it, which was good because food was scarce these days. Eating pure protein could kill you, and eating fat gave you more calories. That meant surviving longer.

It had only been two weeks since they’d arrived at the farmhouse, but their supplies were dwindling rapidly. They hadn’t brought that much food with them. And there were six of them to feed. The canned food they’d found in the basement had turned out to be bad. Bacteria had gotten in.

Georgia’s finger was on the trigger. She was about to squeeze it when she heard a noise off to her right.

She was already frozen, but she felt her muscles tense up with the sound. It was an eerie sound, too far away to tell what it was. It was slight, barely audible. The only thing she knew was that it didn’t sound like an animal. It didn’t sound like something natural. From all the time she’d spent hunting throughout her life, Georgia was well aware of the normal sounds of the forest.

There was another sound. This time it sounded like laughter. Human laughter.

Georgia’s heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t want to admit it even to herself, but she was scared. Perhaps terrified.

This was what they’d been fearing: other groups moving into the area. It had been two weeks since the EMP, and while many must have perished in the cities, there were certainly plenty who had survived. And now they’d be doing what was only natural and heading out into the rural areas. They’d be looking for food, space, and security.

And the ones who made it out of the cities would be the strongest, smartest, and most heavily armed. They posed the biggest threat to those who lived in the farmhouse.

Georgia was lying flat on her stomach, and she tried to make herself lie even flatter. Fortunately, she was wearing camo hunting gear, and she blended fairly well into the surrounding woods. She hadn’t worn anything orange. Leaving for this hunting trip, she’d been well aware of the possibility of running into someone else. That was why she didn’t want anyone else to come with her. The more people, the greater the risk of getting discovered.

For now, the safest thing for everyone in the farmhouse seemed to be to try to remain undiscovered.

But that would only work for so long.

The farmhouse was back quite a ways from the road. And the geography of the area made it difficult to discover accidentally while hiking through the woods.

Difficult, but not impossible. In fact, maybe it was easier than they’d assumed.

After all, there was that trail that Max, Mandy, Georgia, Chad, and Georgia’s children had taken.

Sooner or later, someone would come along.

And that someone, or someones, would pose the biggest threat to their survival.

Now it looked like that time had come.

Georgia waited, frozen, trying to keep her breathing as silent as possible.

Soon, she heard footsteps and voices. They were moving towards her, whoever they were.

By the sounds, she guessed there were three or four of them. She could identify three distinct voices. They were male voices, harsh and loud. But she couldn’t yet make out what they were saying.

Would they pass right by Georgia?

Her hiding spot was good, behind a rotten old log over which she held her rifle, but it wasn’t good enough to conceal her if they were going to pass right by her.

The trees with their full green leaves blocked the men from Georgia’s view.

Their footsteps were getting louder. Soon, she could hear their conversation.

“Did you see the look on his face?” one of the men said. His voice was callous and had a cruel tone to it.

“Damn, I’ve never seen someone like that. He should have taken it like a man.”

“He was crying the whole time.”

The men laughed.

“I hit him right between the eyes.”

“It was a good shot, but I would have done better.”

“How could it get any better than right between the eyes? Haven’t you ever seen any movies?”

Georgia’s mind was moving a mile a minute. These men sounded like cold-blooded murderers. And here they were, celebrating the pain and suffering they had caused. Part of her fear was turning to disgust.

Georgia was strong, and while she feared for the safety of her children, she wasn’t going to let it overtake her. She would do what she had to do, whatever that was.

She could see the men now.

There were three of them, walking in a single file line through the woods. It seemed as if they’d pass by Georgia, but not run directly into her. With a little luck, they wouldn’t spot her.

The three wore an assortment of clothing and gear. Judging by their conversation, Georgia guessed that they’d taken gear from their victims, slowly assembling their hodgepodge outfits.

One had a crude tattoo visible on his neck. Maybe it was a prison tattoo.

Two men had assault rifles. One was definitely an AR-15, with a scope on it. The other looked like an AK-47 knockoff, cheap and crude but still quite lethal. The third man had a handgun in a holster.

They outnumbered her. And they had considerably more firepower.

And it was too late to run. If she got up, they’d see her. Judging by their conversation, they weren’t going to simply want to make friends. They weren’t going to want to chat about the end of the world. They were, like everyone else, looking to survive, by whatever means necessary.

Georgia had a feeling that these men had survived so far by simply being crueler, and willing to take their “whatever means necessary” farther than most.

“I’m starving,” said one of them, speaking loudly. He had a buzzed haircut and a gaunt face. “We’re going to have to find someone with food soon. I’m tired of the food we’ve got.”

“Maybe we can have some fun while we’re at it,” said his companion.

“Don’t we always?”

The third one didn’t speak, but just laughed deeply. It was an ominous sort of chuckle, low and rumbly.

With any luck, they wouldn’t see Georgia.

But they were headed in the direction of the farmhouse. If they kept heading that way, it’d be almost impossible for them to miss it.

Georgia knew that someone would be on watch. When she had left, it had been Chad.

She just hoped that he’d kept his eyes open.

Max’s leg was still hurting him, but he was doing better. Mandy kept telling him not to expect too much. After all, it had only been two weeks. “You’re doing better than most people who’ve been shot,” she’d said. “You got really lucky.”

The bullet hadn’t hit the bone. It’d been a good bullet wound, as far as bullet wounds went.

To everyone’s surprise, including Max’s, he was starting to hobble around the house with the aid of a makeshift cane. If the bullet wound had been anything more than minor, walking simply wouldn’t have been possible for many more weeks, in the best circumstances. Still, it was incredible. He’d been lucky.

Max had been taking antibiotics to ward off a possible infection, and Georgia and Mandy had even helped him pack sugar into the wound. Sugar was an old trick used by field doctors when supplies ran short, and it worked well enough, sometimes even better than anything else.

“How you doing?” said Mandy, knocking on the already open bedroom door.

Max motioned for her to come in.

“What are you doing?” said Mandy. “You need to be in bed, resting.”