Ryan Westfield - Final Chaos

“What’s the other option?” said the oldest and tallest brother.

“The other option,” said Jim. “Is that I let you walk out of this house alive. And you and your family leave the property and don’t come back.”

“What kind of assurances can you give us?”

“None,” said Jim. “Just like you can’t give me any. Words don’t mean much. Not these days.”

One of the brothers mumbled something to the other. The one who was facing Jessica’s direction kept looking back nervously.

“Jessica!” shouted Jim. “I need you out here.”

There was a noise as if Jessica was moving a piece of furniture. Then the door opened and she stepped out slowly, leading with her Glock.

Her hair was a mess. After all, she’d just woken up.

But there was fire and determination in her face and her eyes. She looked like she could have taken on all three of the brothers herself. Or at least die trying.

“What’s it going to be?” said Jim. “You’ve got two seconds to decide.”

“We’ll go.”

Jim nodded. He kept his Ruger pointed at them, and Jessica did the same.

The brothers walked single file out the front door that they’d come through. Jim followed them closely, with Jessica behind them.

Aly and Rob stood there tall, guns in hand, with the Carpenter parents completely under control.

Mr. Carpenter wore an expression on his face that was a confusing mixture of fear and shame. Mrs. Carpenter looked strangely haughty, as if she was a rich woman who’d been forced into less then luxurious accommodations.

“Keep your gun trained on them,” said Jim to Jessica.

But there wasn’t any need to tell her that. She had some innate sense of what she was doing. He said it more for the Carpenters.

“What’s the deal, Jim?” said Rob, who had blood on his hands and his shirt sleeves. “Take their rifles? Kill them?”

“No,” said Jim. “We’re not executing them. And we’re not taking their rifles. Keep the handguns, though.”

“Why not?” said Aly. “You’re going to leave them with guns, Jim?”

“Consider it a gesture of good faith,” said Jim. “We’re going to continue being neighbors. With rifles, you’ll be able to hunt for food. Between game and the fish in the lake, you’ll do fine.”

“Jim!” shouted Aly. “You can’t just let them go with their guns. They’ll come back and murder us.”

Jim hesitated for a moment.

Maybe she was right.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t kill an entire family like this. If it had been in a gunfight, that would have been different.

But it was no longer the heat of battle. There’d hardly even really been a battle.

Now it would be simply murder in cold blood.

But was he putting the life of his wife and his friends at risk?

Yes.

“I don’t trust them, Jim,” said Rob.

“Me neither,” said Jessica.

Jim’s thoughts were flickering, changing rapidly.

It was a hard decision.

Maybe they should confiscate the rifles.

It was just foolish to let them keep them. Especially after what had just happened.

How had he been about to do that? His mind must have been weak from the week of little food. And from the stress. He wasn’t thinking clearly. There’d been too many nights where he’d taken an extra watch, letting someone else get some sleep.

The brothers were standing there dumbly, their rifles held in limp arms at their sides. They didn’t look like a threat.

But they were.

Then again, it wasn’t really about taking their guns or not.

If the Carpenters wanted guns, they could get them.

If the Carpenters wanted to attack the lake house again, they’d do it, guns or not.

It was really a decision about whether or not to execute the Carpenters.

And Jim wasn’t going to do that.

“Let them keep the rifles,” said Jim. Now he turned towards the patriarch. Towards Mr. Carpenter. “I want you to remember this,” he said.

Mr. Carpenter nodded meekly, looking down at the gravel driveway, not meeting Jim’s eyes.

“Now get the hell out of here,” said Jim.

The Carpenter family loaded into their truck, the brothers hopping into the bed, and Jim and the rest of them watched the truck back up slowly down the driveway.

“I hope I did the right thing,” said Jim.

“I can’t believe you let them leave with their guns,” said Aly.

“It was either kill them or let them go,” said Jim.

“I think they’re trouble,” said Jessica.

“Maybe,” said Jim. “But we’re going to have no shortage of trouble. Soon enough, survivors from the city will be making their way out here, and one neighboring family is going to be least of our concern.”

The pickup reached the road and turned. Mr. Carpenter was visible through the windshield, his hands on the wheel.

The pickup paused there, the engine idling.

“What are they doing? Why aren’t they leaving?”

Mr. Carpenter leaned his head out the rolled-down window. But he turned backwards, towards his sons, rather than towards Jim and the others.

Jim didn’t hear what he said to the brothers.

But the next thing he knew, one of the sons was raising his rifle.

“Get down!” shouted Jim.

Jim seized Aly’s arm and pulled her towards him, trying to pull her out her out the line of fire.

But it was too late.

Time seemed to be moving slowly.

The shot rang out. The rifle cracked.

Holding onto Aly, Jim felt the impact himself as the bullet hit her.

Someone shouted.

The tires of the pickup spun, kicking up clouds of dirt.

The pickup moved forward with a jolt, the rear wheels slaloming.

With a roar, the pickup had sped off and was gone.

“Aly!” shouted Jim, peering down into her face.

He lowered her gently onto the ground.

It was his fault.

All his fault.

He hadn’t taken the guns.

He’d never forgive himself if she died.

He’d never forgive himself even if she lived. And she certainly wouldn’t forgive him.

But those thoughts of guilt weren’t going to help him now. He had to push them to the back of his mind.

“Aly, stay with me,” he said. “Hang in there.”

Rob and Jessica had already rushed over.

“We’ve got to get her into the house,” said Rob.

“I need to find the wound.”

Aly’s eyes were slowly closing, and she wasn’t speaking. She was just breathing slowly and heavily, as if she was in great pain.

There was blood on the ground, seeping out from underneath Aly.

“Jessica, get me something inside to stop the bleeding. Quick!”

Jessica was still reeling from the near-death experience minutes ago. She’d almost been in a shootout with the three brothers who’d come into the house.

But there wasn’t any time to deal with the experience.

Aly lay on the driveway, blood flowing out of her and staining the gravel around her.

Jim, remarkably, was keeping it together. He wasn’t having a breakdown or becoming useless, the way most romantic partners probably would in a similar situation.

They’d all been trained, as a society, to call 911 in emergencies. They’d been trained to look to the authorities for help. All you had to do was contact the right person, and then the situation was out of your hands.

Sure, there were those few who knew something of CPR, of first-responder situations. But that wasn’t the norm.

Now there was no 911. No telephone. No one to call.

Jessica didn’t know the first thing about first aid.

The only thing she knew, merely by instinct, was to stop the bleeding.

Jessica had grabbed as many of their medical supplies she could and brought them back out to the driveway.