Michael Bunker - WICK

“Okay, man,” Lang said, nodding his head as he reached down to help Natasha lift herself out of the snow. He pulled on her with one hand and she was able to rise up. She dusted the snow off her coat and shook her legs as she did. Lang kept his other hand up, and he whispered to Natasha to quit dusting herself and raise her hands. She did so and then the trio backed slowly away. As soon as they were thirty feet or so past the shooter, they began moving faster, and soon they were over the next rise.

“How did you know he was harmless?” Natasha asked, after they had walked for a moment.

“He didn’t know what he was doing with that gun. Probably never shot it before. I’m not even sure it was loaded. He just wanted to scare us off. He was scared out of his mind. Probably peed himself.”

“I almost did too,” Natasha said. “I’m glad he just wanted to frighten us, but I don’t understand people. I’ve never been so afraid in my life… except… maybe when Mikail shot Todd Karagin.” Her hands shook as she wiped the melted snow from her face.

“Let’s try not to make that mistake again,” Peter said, exhaling deeply. He peered ahead into their path with a little more intention.

“You’re right, Peter,” Lang replied. “But we may not always have warning—and we may not always meet people who don’t know which end of the rifle to hold. It’ll get tougher when we cross 17 and get into farm country.”

“Don’t scare me any more than I am already, Lang,” Natasha said in protest.

If one listened closely, in that protest could be heard the faintest beginnings of strength.

After several more uneventful hours of walking, Peter called them to a stop with a motion of his hand, and they gathered near a rocky outcropping, and took some time once again to look at the map and compare it with the compass.

“We look to be right in this area,” Peter said, circling a section on the map with his finger. “We’ll be to Highway 17 in two to three hours if all goes well and the conditions hold up.” He turned and looked towards the sun, which was already past its apex, and he held his open hand with the top of his index finger just under the sun facing westward, and then moved his hand downwards four fingers width. He did this several times, then, adding a finger and a half for the hilly terrain, he turned to the others and told them that it seemed to him to be after 1 p.m. “Maybe 1:30,” he added.

“Well,” Lang said, “I guess we’re making good time?”

“Good enough,” Peter answered. “When we get near the highway—anywhere within a mile or so—we’re going to want to go very slowly and use all of our senses. Like the gunman in the trees said, the highway might be really rough, and we don’t want to get caught up in anything.”

The three pulled off their packs, and Peter let out a deep sigh when he dropped his to the ground. Of the three, he carried the heaviest load since his pack had the ammo can with the electronic equipment in it. In his mind he lamented his poor physical shape and was kicking himself for not getting more exercise. He felt the cramping in his muscles and reckoned that he would be sore and miserable for at least the first week of their journey.

They opened the ammo can and pulled out the radio. Peter put in the batteries and tried to tune in anything… anything at all… but all he heard was a vacant and incessant buzzing, the vacuous chorus from all the ambient electricity in the universe.

The three pulled out some of their food, and ate quickly, and Peter ate while standing guard. They all took deep breaths while stomping occasionally to ward off the cold. The three travelers were grateful for the rest, but the cold and the light in the sky gave them reasons to keep moving.

By around 4:30 p.m., they were within a half-mile of the highway and they occasionally heard the random blast or sharp staccato of gunfire. Their current location, because of the thickness of the forest, didn’t seem to be a regular path of ingress or egress to the highway, though they had crossed a few places where it had become obvious that masses of people had diverted from the highway as they set off into the forest. Peter told them that he wanted them to stay away from any areas that had become cattle paths for escaping humans.

They moved slower now and with purpose, and, though they were still in the trees, the land was flatter here. There were fewer places for natural cover. They crept along slowly, spread out five to ten yards apart, and each covered and watched a given area. They moved in short hops as they made forward progress slowly.

By 5:30 p.m., they were within fifty yards of the highway and the gunfire had slackened, but only a bit, and now they heard the almost indescribable din of human traffic and misery. The sound was like a wailing that came in around the window on a cold winter’s night, a dull cacophony of random shouts and the background sound of feet shuffling and dragging, and the cries of pain and suffering. All in all it sounded like one imagines hell to sound, but maybe not down in the very deepest dungeons. Maybe up at the front, near the check-in desk, where they keep things nicer for the tourists.

It was entering early evening, and the shadows had grown long, and darkness—not full darkness, but the gloaming—would be upon them soon. They still had not seen any people, but in the distance, over the horizon to the south, they could see smoke rising, and they still heard sporadic gunfire, and they were frightened, though none of them spoke of this fear aloud. Instead, they clenched their jaws and waited for the night.

They approached the highway access road through the trees, and, crawling slowly through the snow, they peered out over the war zone that Highway 17 had become. There were cars on fire, smoke filled the air, and a gauzy fog hung ominously in the ether. Masses of people moved by like soldiers in full retreat, solemn in their drudgery. Occasionally, fights broke out in little pockets of disturbance, like dust devils swirling across the desert floor in a sweltering heat — only it was cold, and the sound reached them through the icy air like sharp reports or echoes.

The trio looked on helplessly as armed gangs opened fire on groups of the marching people. They watched as mothers, pulling carts with their children and belongings in them, were pushed to the ground by human animals so that unspeakable acts could be committed. They saw men beaten without provocation or limitation. Gunfire erupted so often, and with such alacrity, that in every way imaginable the three Warwickians could only describe what they were viewing from their vantage point as a massive, running gun battle the likes of which they’d only heard from the safety of their houses when the civil war had broken out in Warwick. Only Natasha had been out in the street during that battle; she swallowed and felt a bitter empathy for the people below.

To the right, northward up the highway but still in their view, a group of men rocked a van loaded with people, and the van eventually overturned, and the men hopped up on it and stomped at the windows until the glass shattered on the occupants inside. They reached their arms into the van and ripped the doors open, pulling the occupants out violently. A few of their victims inside the vehicle escaped and ran up the highway, slipping in the snow, trying to disappear among the crowds. Others, thrown to the ground, lay haplessly while the vandals stomped them and struck them with sticks, rods, or anything else that was at hand. The gang then rifled through the van, stealing whatever they could, before moving on to the next car and repeating the scene.

A high-powered rifle shot rang out from somewhere and one of the gang members fell to the ground, then another shot rang and another thug fell. The crack of the rifles echoed through the clearing like a gong. The surviving gang members took off running northward, leaving their dead comrades behind.