Ryan Westfield - Getting Out

Max just kept driving normally, although he made sure to stay as far over to the shoulder as possible.

He was only a couple minutes from his apartment building, when he came to a police barricade.

There was a single cop standing in the road. Not near a traffic light or anything, just in the middle of the road. His police cruiser was parked sideways on the road, and he had the rest of the road blocked off with yellow crime scene tape and a couple folding chairs. Pretty shabby for the local police, who were known for having a higher than normal budget, especially considering the low crime in the area.

Max wasn’t worried. It wasn’t like the cop was going to arrest him.

That said, Max didn’t know how the military and police were going to handle this new crisis. Maybe they’d enforce road blocks, or some kind of curfew. Something like that could interfere with Max’s plans to leave the area.

But there was no doubt in Max’s mind that he would do whatever it took to get out. Staying there would be certain slow death. Without the shipping system, no food would arrive, and chaos would ensue. The police and military would only be able to contain the masses for so long.

Max pulled up slowly to the police officer, who Max noted had his hand already on the handle of his pistol.

“What’s going on, officer?” said Max, in his most polite tone. He tried to act just like a normal concerned civilian, who would do whatever he was told by an authority figure.

The cop didn’t answer him. He just gave him a steely stare.

“License or identification,” said the cop.

This was a big departure from the standard “license and registration.” It meant they already weren’t concerned with who was driving what.

Max realized suddenly that the cop’s radio wouldn’t work. He doubted the cops would have taken the precautions of shielding some two way radios from possible EMP blasts.

Max took out his wallet and handed the cop his ID.

“What’s your destination?” said the cop, not breaking from his deadpan voice and stare.

“Just heading back to my apartment,” said Max. “I work on a computer all day. So, you know, there wasn’t any power so I figured I’d just take the day off.” He gave a little laugh at the end to try to show that he was just a regular guy who wasn’t up to anything. He figured the authorities would want everyone to stay home.

The cop nodded at him and handed the license back.

“Any weapons?” he said.

Max laughed. “Nope,” he said. “Never was the type. My girlfriend was all anti-NRA and everything. She would never let me have one.” Of course, he didn’t have a girlfriend.

The cop looked at him, studying him.

Max wondered if he was going to get a pat down. If he did, it’d be beyond easy to find the Glock in his waistband.

Max tried his best to look relaxed, innocent, and clueless.

He’d only ever used the Glock at the firing range. But today was the day, of all days, when he really needed it. Max knew that there might come a time soon when the Glock would be what stood between life and death.

What measures would he be willing to take to keep the gun?

The cop kept staring at him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he turned his gaze to the car behind Max, giving Max a brisk wave of his hand to signal that he should continue onward.

“Thanks, officer,” called out Max, cheerily.

But Max’s fake smile turned to an expression of grim determination.

He could already see that it had started: the police were going to have their own agenda, and it wasn’t going to be in Max’s best interest to adhere to whatever rules they put in place. They would soon become fractured without radios, without a central guiding principle. Max wondered what principles they were operating under right now.

He pulled into the large parking lot of his apartment building, just as a military truck was pulling out. It drove slowly. There was a turret gun, manned by a soldier, in the bed of the extra large pickup. It wasn’t any civilian model, but some type of vehicle that Max wasn’t familiar with.

The driver stared Max down as he drove slowly by.

Max only noticed that he was holding his breath until the truck passed. He watched it in his rearview mirror. With that kind of fire power, they could riddle his Jeep with bullet holes in seconds, killing him instantly. His Glock wouldn’t do anything against that, obviously.

It was only a matter of time before the authorities became splintered, fractioning off into their own groups, looking out for their own survival. And they would be the ones with the guns. Or they would fall prey to others who wanted their weapons. Either way, Max simply wasn’t equipped to fight off people with huge guns like that. His Glock was certainly not going to be a match for well-trained police officers and soldiers with automatic rifles.

Max took a deep breath as he parked his Jeep. He knew what he had to do. He had to get into his apartment, get his supplies, gather all the food and water that he could, and high tail it on out of this town.

He didn’t know if the roads would be blocked. He hadn’t planned on that before, that a serious curfew type situation might be implemented. But seeing the cop and the soldiers, his mind was starting to change.

Better to get out as soon as possible, before things got really bad.

The lights in all the apartment buildings were off, of course. There were four apartment buildings that faced the parking lot, which sat in the middle, like a kind of courtyard.

He used his small pocket LED flashlight as he walked into his apartment. It was clean and tidy, but not overly so, not that you’d be able to tell without the lights on. Not much light ever came in through the windows, and today was no exception.

There was his pull up bar, in the doorway, and there were his weights stacked neatly against the wall. He was glad now that he’d put in all that work. But would it be enough? Would his body be able to sustain the rigors of the journey ahead?

Max moved quickly through his apartment. It was a small unit, exactly the same as all the apartments in the building. He had a bedroom, a living room, and a small kitchen.

Max didn’t feel sentimental at all about leaving things behind. He grabbed what he needed. In the kitchen, he methodically yet quickly took every piece of food and put it into paper bags, which were the only bags he could find. He’d worry about what might spoil later. Fortunately, most of what he had were canned goods, rice, sugar, that sort of thing.

His camping stove, with extra fuel containers, was already in his bug out bag. He cursed himself again for not completing the bag.

It was sitting in the corner of his bedroom, looking tidy. Tidy, but not yet complete. There wasn’t a single mark on the bag. He’d bought it new at the store, and had never used it. He’d never even so much as been camping or hiking in the last few years.

Yeah, he was seriously lacking in a lot of areas.

As Max gathered the possessions he would need, he didn’t hear a single sound from the neighbors. Everything sounded deathly quiet. The background noise of the cars was simply absent, as it had been since the EMP. It was funny that he’d never noticed the background noise before.

Max took trips out to his Jeep without seeing anyone, his arms loaded down with paper bags full of food.

Next, he brought out his bag, which contained the camping stove, the water purifier tablets, the first aid kit, the compass, etc.

Maps… shit…

The thought suddenly hit him. He didn’t have any maps.

He’d been meaning to buy them for months now. But he’d always put it off. That was part of the malaise he’d been feeling. He didn’t think it had been depression, but more like a general discontentment with the way things were going. He’d been motivated in some area—doing his exercises daily, for instance. But he’d slacked off severely in other areas.