Constant Danger (Book 2): Defeat The Anarchy

by Westfield, Ryan

  Heading to the major highways for a long, long drive down to the bottom of the country probably wasn’t a good idea. He probably wouldn’t have made it, getting stuck somewhere on some highway, having who knew what happen to him. Maybe he just would have succumbed to dehydration out there on the highway, scared to leave his truck in traffic that hadn’t moved in days.

  “You okay, James?” said Meg, giving him a tap with her hand.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Just thinking.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “Not good, thanks for reminding me.”

  It was true. The pain was bad. It was that sort of all-over pain, but with plenty of hot spots that were about ten times worse than anywhere else. One of those hot spots was his left knee, making it hard to walk. In fact, he now walked with a pronounced limp. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t correct it, and his foot dragged annoyingly along the ground.

  “Come on, keep up with us.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “We’re almost there,” said Barb, turning around, leading the way.

  “Hey,” whispered James, tugging on Meg’s arm.

  “What is it?”

  “What about your truck? And the gear?”

  “No need to tell her about it. Not yet, anyway. I want to make sure we can trust her.”

  “Me too. But you think it’s okay out there?”

  “As okay as it’s going to be anywhere. I don’t think anyone’s going to go near it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Me too.”

  “You think she has any weapons?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “We need two more…”

  “I know. One’s not enough.”

  “Finally something we can easily agree on.”

  “Something will turn up.”

  “Okay,” said Barb. “We’re here. Like I told you, it’s not much.”

  They stood for a moment, looking at the little house.

  “More of a little house than a cabin.”

  Barb shrugged. “We always called it a cabin. I don’t know. Now like I said, there’s no heat…”

  “Maybe we can figure something out,” said Meg.

  Barb unlocked the door, and they followed her inside, stomping their boots and trying to shake the snow off their pants as best they could.

  It wasn’t a large place, and it wasn’t new. It had furnishings from a few decades ago, but it was generally tidy and neat.

  James sank onto one of the couches, still wearing all his clothes, including his jacket. It was warmer inside, and it was warmer than the shed had been, but not by a whole lot. The heater was broken.

  “Here, let me show you what I have in the kitchen, Meg,” said Barb, leading the way.

  “Have fun,” called out James, who was too exhausted, not to mention in too much pain, to get up off the couch.

  As the two women disappeared into the kitchen, James found himself looking around, wondering how such a building would serve in the long-term, should society collapse completely and never recover.

  What would they need to ride out the winter and stay alive indefinitely?

  Food and water were the big ones. They’d soon run out of both. Water, James supposed, could be collected from melting snow.

  But what about food?

  There were only so many animals to hunt, and they had no means to hunt them.

  Maybe nearby supermarkets and homes could be raided for food.

  But that would only last so long, no matter how restrictive they were with their daily calorie intake.

  Well, even more basic than that was shelter. Simply not dying from hypothermia or exposure was a tough problem to crack up here, as far north as they were, where the climate was about as inhospitable as it could get.

  Then there was the matter of security.

  If the three of them somehow managed to keep themselves alive with food, water, and warmth, then they’d immediately become targets for others who wanted what they had.

  And what did they have to defend themselves with? One large handgun, a limited amount of ammunition? Probably several knives, maybe a hatchet or an axe that was lying around.

  And what else? Nothing. Maybe they could fashion some pathetic weapons out of wood, something like a large club. But what was even the point of that? That kind of thing never really worked right.

  What’s more, there were windows all over the place. How could they defend a place with glass windows that could be easily broken? It wasn’t like they had the means to fashion iron bars, and it was doubtful that they’d be able to find someone to do the work for them.

  Suddenly, this thought thrust James down a dark path of thinking about what the world really would look like in the weeks and months to come. The economy would collapse. There’d be no transport system to ship foods or medicine. Many would die from violence as humanity tore itself apart. But many more would die just from starvation and dehydration. Many would die from not having access to the medicines and medical procedures that would keep them alive.

  Disease would become rampant, as people’s immune systems were weakened from malnutrition, stress, and a lack of proper medicine.

  People would die from things that hadn’t been serious enough to take time off work for only a year ago.

  Suddenly, James was thrust out of his little nightmarish reverie by the sound of an engine.

  In a flash, Meg appeared back in the room, rounding the corner from the kitchen. Barb followed her, concern on her face.

  When James saw Meg, he saw the seriousness in her eyes. Not just concern. Not just terror and fear. But something else, something that could maybe be called “the will to fight.”

  He didn’t know yet if Barb had it.

  But he knew Meg did.

  And he knew he did too.

  Maybe they wouldn’t even remain alive long enough to have to worry about food and water. None of the long-term considerations would even matter if they were killed here and now. Killed for what they did have. Killed for what they might have. Killed for what they didn’t even have.

  There was no calling the police.

  No calling any authorities.

  No one to come and help.

  No one.

  Just the three of them.

  With one gun.

  Meg had the gun in her hand. Her finger still outside, resting flat against the trigger guard.

  “You know how to use that thing?” said Barb.

  Meg nodded. “Do you?”

  James knew why she was asking. There was the possibility that Meg would be injured and unable to use the gun. She knew that James knew how to use it, so the hypothetical scenario required that both he and Meg were dead or injured, leaving only Barb to work the gun.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Does that work?” said Meg, pointing to an ancient shotgun hanging over the mantle.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Shit.”

  “Aren’t you overreacting? We just heard a vehicle.”

  “And it stopped outside. Can’t you hear the engine running?”

  “Yeah, but so what? That doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re coming in here to hurt us.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Meg. “But it’s likely. Think about it this way, what are they doing driving around, whoever it is? Why are they coming out here, to the middle of nowhere to some little house, unless they’re looking for something? If it’s an honest person worried about their own safety and their family, and you’ve got to admit that just about everyone now who doesn’t have their head completely buried in the sand is going to be pretty worried...”

  “What she’s trying to say, I think,” interrupted James, “Is that if someone is honest, they’d likely be at home… hunkering down… this isn’t yet the time to go out searching for supplies…. no one’s out there dying of dehydration… hunger won’t kill anyone for weeks…. shelter is the only thing…”

  �
��Maybe they’re getting a head start.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You two are worrying too much,” said Barb. “I’ll just go out there and see what’s what. I heard you two in the shed and it turned out that you were fine, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s just us.”

  Barb scoffed, making a move as if she was about to head out through the door.

  “I’ll go,” said James. “Better me than you.”

  “No,” said Meg. “I’ll go. You’re barely functioning.’

  “Who’s barely functioning?” said James, standing up abruptly and powerfully, meaning to show that he still had some strength left.

  But it didn’t work. In fact, it backfired.

  As soon as he stood up, his vision went all blurry and he blacked out for a moment.

  Next thing he knew, he was crumpled on the floor, a terrible pain in his head.

  “What… happened?” he muttered, his mouth once again full of blood.

  “I’m starting to lose my patience with you,” muttered Meg, grabbing him roughly by the hair, turning his head to examine his face. “Yup. Another couple teeth gone. Do me a favor next time and don’t try to show off, okay?”

  “I’ll get something! Just a minute!” said Barb, sounding frantic and anxious to help. “I think there’s a first aid kit somewhere.”

  “He’s been through a lot worse,” said Meg. “Forget it. We’ve got more pressing matters at hand.”

  “She’s right,” said James, trying to push himself into the sitting position. But it was no use.

  Shit. He hated being this weak. He hated that the pain itself was preventing him from being useful. Maybe he should get back on those pain pills. They at least allowed him to function. What was worse, dealing with the deleterious effects of the pills, or not being able to do anything? He hated the idea of not being able to fight. Not being able to defend himself, or Meg.

  “I’m going,” said Meg.

  The gun was in her hand.

  She’d already turned around, away from James, striding swiftly toward the door.

  Barb was nowhere in sight.

  “Don’t…” muttered James, but he was so weak that the words didn’t go anywhere.

  There was no one to hear them anyway. Barb was out of sight. Meg was already out the door, which now was open, the frigid air blowing in.

  6

  Hank

  The sound of shots being fired rang out through the frigid air.

  The cloud cover was back and it was thick, letting almost no light in. Everything looked gray and washed out. He felt the cold deep in his bones.

  But the cold wasn’t a priority right now.

  Shots had been fired and Hank was surprised to find that he hadn’t been shot. At least, he felt no pain.

  He himself had fired two shots. Maybe three.

  It was a little hazy.

  It had happened like that before. Memories of the heat of the moment seemed to fade away as if they were dreams. It probably had something to do with hormones.

  Whatever.

  It didn’t matter.

  Hank was flat on his stomach, pressing himself against the freezing pavement, right next to his car.

  What had happened? Who’d been shot? Who was alive?

  There was nothing but a tremendously loud silence that rang out.

  Or was it just his ears ringing?

  “Jimmy?” he called out.

  It was worth the risk, to know whether Jimmy had made it.

  No answer.

  “Jimmy!”

  Louder this time. As loud as he could shout.

  Still no answer.

  “He’s dead!” shouted someone.

  Hank waited in silence, his ears ringing, his heart pounding against the freezing pavement.

  Nothing more. No more shouting. No more gunshots. No footsteps.

  Hank tried running everything over in his head. Had Jimmy fired shots? Had the other three? Probably, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been focused on his own survival.

  “Who’s there?” Hank finally shouted.

  “You don’t know me.”

  It definitely wasn’t Jimmy. Definitely a voice that Hank didn’t recognize. It was one of the other guys. One of the men who’d instantly become the enemy when the gunfight broke out.

  “What do you want?”

  “A truce.”

  Hank didn’t answer, but he was thinking, “Tough shit.”

  Suddenly, Hank became acutely aware of the sound of an engine. The sound of an engine revving hard. And he also became aware of the sound of tires on the pavement.

  He swung his head around as best he could, trying to keep himself as flat as he could still.

  Hank knew very well that just because one of the enemy was talking to him, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to shoot Hank.

  Hank got his head in the right place, his eyes lined up down the road.

  It was a cop car.

  A cop car as clear as day.

  No sirens wailing. No flashing lights.

  The car was speeding toward them. That much was apparent.

  “The cops!”

  Hank shouted the words.

  No answer for a moment.

  Then, “Shit!”

  It was an immediate truce. It was an implicit understanding. They didn’t need to discuss it. They didn’t need to negotiate it. All bets were off now. It wasn’t Hank and Jimmy against the others. It was everyone against the cops.

  Of course, that didn’t mean that trickery and backstabbing were completely off the table. Hank still had to watch his back. He didn’t, for instance, get up. He didn’t know for sure yet that he wouldn’t be shot immediately.

  “How many of you are left?”

  It was a daring question.

  But a necessary one.

  Hank chose to answer truthfully. “Just me, I think. My partner hasn’t responded. What about you?”

  They were shouting frantically, speaking quickly.

  The sound of the engine was only getting louder.

  The cop car was only getting closer.

  “Just me.”

  Hank paused.

  Could it possibly be true?

  Well, maybe. Maybe he’d shot two of them. Or maybe Jimmy had gotten one.

  It wasn’t impossible.

  Likely? Not really.

  But possible?

  Yeah.

  The cop car was close.

  Hank wasn’t going back to jail.

  He’d rather be dead.

  Time to take his chances.

  “Only one of you?”

  “Yeah. Only one of you?”

  “Far as I know. Come on. We’ve got to team up.”

  “You injured?”

  “No.”

  “Come over.”

  “You come over.”

  It was Hank’s last play.

  It would either work or it wouldn’t.

  Hank started to show himself, exposing himself to the enemy.

  In turn, the enemy, a big man with a mean face and lots of dense muscle, stood up.

  He came trotting over, keeping his torso bent and low, gun in hand.

  They exchanged a brief look, a brief nod, and that was it. Now they were on the same team. Strange circumstances made for strange bedfellows, as the saying went.

  But it wasn’t that strange. They worked for the same organization, in a broad sense. They were both drug traffickers. They both faced multiple decades in prison if apprehended. They both weren’t going down without a fight.

  If there were any differences between them, then they’d settle the matter.

  They were crouched down together, side by side, using Hank’s vehicle as cover.

  Jimmy lay dead somewhere. Or severely injured. That was okay. Not the best scenario. But not the worst. It could have been Hank.

  Hank liked to look out for himself.

  He cast a glance over at his new partner, sizing him up.


  Then he returned his gaze to the oncoming cop car, which screeched to a stop about fifty yards from them.

  A brief pause. Mere seconds.

  Then the driver’s side door flew open.

  Hank waited, keeping his head down. He was waiting to see if the other door would open or not.

  If it opened, then it was even. Two on two.

  If it didn’t, then it wasn’t a fair fight. Two on one.

  Hank was hoping it wasn’t a fair fight. He didn’t like fair fights.

  The seconds passed.

  The passenger door didn’t open.

  Good.

  Hank would open fire when the cop got out.

  “Come on, buddy,” Hank’s new companion was whispering. “Come on. Just give me a good clean shot. I’m gonna send you right down to hell where you came from.”

  “Got a thing against cops?” said Hank, his own finger itching to pull on the trigger.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Indeed. That was just the way Hank felt. How many times had cops put him away? How many times had they swooped in on what wasn’t any of their business?

  Hank wasn’t having it any more.

  With this power outage, or whatever it was that was going on, he’d get away with it too. He’d be long gone before anyone even found out. And the cameras? They were electronic, weren’t they? So Hank didn’t see how they could be working. If the siren didn’t work, he doubted that the cameras did.

  7

  Meg

  Meg exhaled sharply as she stepped out into the frigid air.

  She was annoyed. Annoyed with this new woman who didn’t seem to understand the severity of the situation. Annoyed with James, who wasn’t going to be much use to himself or anyone else if he kept trying to do more than he was capable of.

  What was it about men that made them think they could do more than they really could? What was it about them that made them think they were impervious to danger?

  Women, thought Meg, weren’t like that. They were more sensible. Well, sometimes they were, at least.

  Meg had her gun in her hand. Her dad’s gun.

  Thoughts and images of her deceased father suddenly flashed through her mind. She shook them off.

  There’d be a time to mourn later. Not now.