Michael Bunker - WICK

“But we’re Americans,” Natasha whimpered.

“No, we’re not, Natasha. At least not to these people. We have no country,” Lang replied.

“Lang’s right,” Peter said, “we need to go over this rise and stay hidden from them or anyone else like them.” He looked into the bright blue sky and judged the time. “We’ll keep our eyes open and stop every fifty yards or so to look out and around us. Each of us should be watching and aware of our surroundings all of the time. Listen and look. Remember all of the training we did back in the shed at the water plant. Remember what you learned when you were in school. Keep moving and constantly be aware. We’ll stop regularly and check our surroundings so that we don’t walk into a trap.”

Natasha looked back down over the impromptu camp and she wondered what would happen to these people. Whatever it was, she feared that it wouldn’t be good. The campers seemed to be heedless of any real danger. They acted as if they were just on a day trip; as if things were going to get better in a few days; as if they could all go home soon. Perhaps if they’d seen their homes, families, and friends wiped off the map by a handful of drones, as the Warwickians had, or if they knew that there was no home to go back to, they’d have a little different perspective. As it was, the children ran and sang and shouted and threw snowballs, and the parents just sat looking dead-eyed into the fire — all except, that is, for the one couple that screamed and shouted at one another, each unsatisfied with their situation and blaming the other, each hoping that the other would somehow make it all better.

The walk proceeded, and the trio made good time, keeping to their plan. Not too long after they passed the last group of campers, they spied another man walking along the crest of a ridge. He was silhouetted against the sky and was scampering over the rocks heading who knows where. They watched as the man leapt over something in his path and came down on a branch at the top of the ridge that sent a crackling echo down the mountain. He sank down in the snow as the branch gave way beneath his feet.

They stopped, well hidden in the trees, as they watched the man disappear over the ridge. Peter pulled out his map and partially unfolded it across his knee as he knelt in the snow. He compared the map to the compass, and he nodded his head in the direction that they should go.

“We need to head towards Carbondale. That ought to let us avoid the worst of the towns and highways, although we’ll inevitably have to deal with some of it. On the track we’re following, hopefully we’ll cross Highway 17 sometime this evening. We need to be across that highway and have it far behind us by dark fall. We don’t want to stop or camp anywhere near roads or people.” Peter traced the intended route with his finger on the map so his two companions could follow.

On their way again, they benefited by not having to cross fence lines or private property. Being in the Forest Preserve had its advantages. As they walked, they noticed in the distance the occasional plume of smoke, heard the random blast of gunfire, but they stayed well clear of any sign of humans, and, in time, they found themselves walking with a single-mindedness that comes from being alone in the wide open spaces.

Mistakes are part of the learning curve, and often they are fatal. Sometimes, for some unknown reason, they could very well have been fatal, but are not. Rounding the corner of a stand of trees almost too thick to walk through, Lang saw him first. Looking up to watch a flock of birds shoot out into the wide blue sky, Lang caught a glimpse of a black coat behind the thick brown branches.

Seated in the trees, with a scoped deer rifle pointed directly at the three refugees from Warwick, a young man sat accompanied by a woman who was huddled next to him in the cold. The two, perilously balanced in the crook of a branch, cowered behind a second limb.

Lang could see that the gunman’s hands shook as he pointed the gun first at Lang, then at Peter, then back at Lang again. Despite his superior position, the man was afraid and his fear caused his hands—and therefore the gun—to shake uncontrollably. Peter and Natasha did not see the man at first, as they fought through the branches, and Lang had to alert them, tapping Peter on the arm and indicating toward the gunman in the trees.

“Okay, okay, okay…” Lang said loudly, but calmly, bringing his hands up to show that he was unarmed. As he did this, Peter, and then Natasha, looked up and saw the man with the gun, and the woman behind him. Natasha instinctively dropped to the ground as if she were on fire. She brought her hands up as best she could into the air, though her face remained buried in the snow.

The quick motion spooked the gunman, and with a terrified squeal more than a shout he hollered for the trio to “freeze!” which they all did instantly. Natasha steeled her nerves and pulled her face out of the snow, straining to look up into the gunman’s eyes. Peter raised his hands slowly, and Lang tried to clear his thoughts and take in a fuller picture of what was going on.

The man is not going to shoot, Lang thought. Not on purpose, and not unless he is provoked. The young man with the gun was scared, and Lang determined that he wasn’t a killer. Judging from the look in his eye and the uncertainty with which he held them through the scope, he wasn’t going to murder them in cold blood. He might kill one of us on accident, though.

“Easy there,” Lang said, firmly. “Easy with the gun. We’re unarmed. Just take your finger off the trigger for a second, and let’s talk. We don’t want anyone getting hurt because a muscle twitches in all this excitement.”

It was not true that they were completely unarmed. Peter still had the Ruger 9mm pistol in the pocket of his coat, but the man with the rifle didn’t know that.

The man obediently took his finger off the trigger, actually moving his head from behind the scope and looking at the trigger guard to see if his gloved finger was clear. He wasn’t planning on shooting anyone; this Lang knew, and the knowledge allowed him to relax his body slightly.

“Easy there, and thank you for not shooting us.” Lang didn’t move, and made no motion as if he were going to approach. No need to be foolish. However certain he was that the man was harmless, at least in his intentions, Lang wasn’t taking anything for granted.

Lang concentrated and put on the best New England accent he could muster, though it wasn’t great. “Okay, pal. We’re just moving through, here. We’re just trying to get home, and we’re unarmed and we’re not going to hurt anybody. We’re not even going to approach you. Do you understand me?”

Peter looked at Lang and communicated wordlessly that it would be a simple thing to rush the man, to pull him down from the branch and disarm him, but Lang slowly closed his eyes, silently saying “No.” The two men agreed without saying a word.

The gunman nodded, and the woman next to him huddled closer behind him, as if she were a little less sure of the group’s lack of harmful intent. “Just keep moving!” he shouted. “Don’t make me shoot anyone!” He tried to make the words sound ominous and threatening, but Lang could hear the desperate uncertainty in his voice.

“We don’t want you to shoot anyone either, bro,” Lang said, calmly. “We’re just going to walk on. You’re welcome to come with us, if you want. We’re heading towards Pennsylvania.”

“Yeah?” the man said, with a voice that suddenly betrayed a hint of a sneer. “Well, you can have that!” He looked at them as if they would understand, but they didn’t. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near the highway if I were you. It’s a bloodbath over there.” This seemed to be all he was willing to give them as far as explanation, as if his reasons were too painful to discuss. He rattled his gun again. “You guys keep walking or I’ll shoot, I swear!” There was a little more certainty this time, seen in the steadying of the gun.