Michael Bunker - WICK

Most Americans, prior to the events that were now unfolding in their country, would have denied that such random acts of violence and wanton cowardice would have been possible, but that is precisely because most Americans are insulated from reality. Woefully so. They are ignorant of world history and the conditions of life experienced through most of the last millennia by much of the rest of the world. When people have lived their lives carelessly, in the lap of comforts and the bosom of excess purchased for them by the hard work and sacrifice of their ancestors; when they have counted on laws and government alone to keep them safe, they come to believe that the same kindnesses they have experienced at the hands of their neighbors heretofore will be granted them when that world collapses. They believe that humanity will not revert to its animal nature when there is a disintegration of those laws, and when the power and ability of that government to impose and keep those laws is not just diminished, but eliminated. In this, they are wrong.

Man, loosed from the bonds of all law, and religion, and conscience, even if those restraints have been false or damaged to begin with, reverts to the animal nature that animates him. It is inevitable, then, that masses of men, loosed from restraints and deprived of access to the artificial means of provision they have counted on for all their lives, will soon experience unprecedented violence and mayhem. Even if it begins in small places, a little leaven will be enough to leaven the whole lump, and eventually social feelings will collapse along with society. We don’t have to like hearing it, but the truth has a way of not caring whether we like it or not.

The world is a violent place when restraints are removed. The already vanishing traditions of human care and kindness, peacefulness, and lawful living have been systematically eradicated by dialecticians who maintain power by championing division and by pitting neighbor against neighbor, race against race, and party against party. The bloody product of this will seem barbarous and horrible to those who have yet to experience it. This is strong medicine. But in times of sickness, it is medicine that is needed.

Peter checked to see if anyone was following them. No one was. Tracking quickly through a low gully and into the deeper woods, after a good five-minute walk, they came upon a stone fence line in the snow separating a field from the surrounding forest. He pulled Lang down into the snow and, by touch and instinct more than sight, he felt for the wound that he knew to be in Lang’s left arm or shoulder. He needed to know how serious it was before he made any decisions about what to do next. He found the wound, and it seemed to be a minor one in the larger scheme of things, with a clear entry and exit in the fat of the tissue. Lang was blessed that the bullet had not struck any bone, and the young man was working on adrenaline and seemed to be unconcerned by the fact that he’d just been shot. In fact, he was slightly delirious.

“You’ve been shot, Lang.” Peter said. “But I don’t think it is too serious. A scratch, really.”

“Wow,” Lang replied, his right hand reaching upwards to feel the wound. He drew back his hand with blood on it, and he grimaced slightly, but not from the pain. “I’ve never been shot before.”

“Well, now you’re an expert,” Peter said, cupping his hand behind the young man’s neck. “I think you’ll be okay. We’ll move on so that we can put some distance between us and that madness, and then I’ll see if we can build camp and clean and dress the wound.” He looked at Lang and gave him a smile, then a wink.

“Thank you, Peter.” Lang looked back at him with sincere appreciation in his eyes.

“No problem, son,” Peter said, his smile perhaps grimmer than he had hoped. “Now let’s move out.”

The way was dark and they moved very slowly, mostly by feel. Natasha switched bags with Lang so she could carry the heavier of the loads and take some of the weight off his shoulders as he slowly began to come back into his body. There was just enough moonlight to allow them to see from tree to tree and make their way, as if by Braille, through the low valley. The branches clung like webs to the nighttime sky, and the brush caught their clothes as they swept past.

These valleys, cut by receding glacial ice, ran primarily from northeast to southwest, which was good for the Warwickians as they made their escape. It meant that they could move steadily through the darkness without having to do a lot of climbing and descending.

Peter intended to walk for a good thirty minutes, but their pace, though steady, was so slow that it was nearly two hours before he felt that they had put enough distance between themselves and the road. They walked a little further, and then the trio came upon a low stone building, very small—maybe eight feet by eight feet. Peter identified it as an old well house.

The building had a wooden door that had mostly rotted away, and around the top of the building, where there had once been a few small windows, were now jagged slices of glass, long ago smashed and broken by who knows what or whom. It took the three of them a good fifteen minutes to drag out all of the trash that had accumulated in the building over the years, but before long, they had it cleaned out enough to use for the night. The floor of the well house was cement, and in the center of the building was only a protruding water pipe, maybe six inches in diameter, which someone had covered with a large rock.

Peter built a very small fire inside the building and explained that he would only let it burn as long as necessary. Fire is a beacon, but sometimes it is necessary, so he intended to obscure it from view as best as he could. He needed to produce coals that they could use to cook their food and heat water for cleaning Lang’s wounds, and then he would let the fire burn just long enough to heat the stones of the building itself, for heat in the night, before the fire would be extinguished.

The big man prepared and started the small fire and showed Natasha how to feed wood into it without letting the flame get too big, and then he took the gun and told Lang he would patrol the perimeter and keep watch until they had enough glowing red coals to do what they needed to do. He stepped out into the night to have a look around.

Lang and Natasha sat for a moment, and she tended the fire and watched him in silence.

“Are you holding up?” he asked, seeing her sink deeper into thought.

“Yes,” Natasha sighed. “I’m fine. I’m just worried about you… and thinking about Kolya.”

“I know,” Lang said. “I am sorry Cole didn’t make it back in time.”

She looked up in distress at the mention of that name, with a silent insistence that he call her brother by his given name.

“Natasha, I’m going to keep calling him Cole because I believe him still to be alive. I’m sure he’s okay. He’s a resourceful fellow.”

“Oh, there is no need to lie, Lang. We both know that he would not have disappeared unless something bad had happened to him. He probably fell into some criminals’ hands and now he’s—”

“Stop. Don’t think that way. He’s fine.” Lang looked at her and wished that he could be more certain of that fact, but the remembrance of the bombed-out remains of Warwick flashed through his mind. The simple truth was that nothing was fine. He shifted his back against the wall and suddenly felt a pain shoot down through his arm and realized that, even on that account, there was nothing about the situation that was fine.

“Here. Let me take a look at you,” Natasha said, and she pulled Lang’s shirt back slightly, hearing the cold sucking sound of the coagulated blood ripping slightly from his skin as she bent over his wound.