Finding Shelter

by Ryan Westfield

  But now it was pretty clear.

  She'd go down fighting.

  It wouldn't have bothered her, the fact of dying, had it not been for her kids.

  Of course, she wasn't going to go down easy. The way she saw it, the more of these guys she took out, the easier it'd be on those who did survive. The easier it'd be on the good guys. On her kids. On Max. Should their paths ever cross.

  Of course, maybe they wouldn't attack. After all, Georgia and John were no threat to them. They could just get back in their truck and continue on their way.

  What did Georgia and John care about them? Let them do whatever the hell they wanted. They had some purpose with that truck, but it didn't interest Georgia.

  Not one bit.

  Georgia heard the gunshot before she saw anyone.

  It was a tremendous crack that echoed through the area.

  Georgia's ears rang.

  Shards of wood exploded outward from a tree nearby. The bullet had missed. Struck the tree instead.

  Georgia spotted the man a split second later.

  She pushed her eye against her scope. Dialed it in.

  She had him.

  Right in the chest. No point going for anything fancy.

  She needed this man down. Right away. Didn't matter so much if he died right away or not. She needed him incapacitated.

  There was an old theory of war that said it was better to injure the enemy rather than kill them. That way, the other side spent more time and resources tending to their wounded than they did on fighting.

  Of course, for that theory to be applicable, the enemy had to be civilized enough to care about their own wounded.

  Georgia had a feeling that that sort of thinking had gone the way of the dodo since the EMP.

  And she doubted that these five men cared whether or not one of their own went down. She didn't know why, but the way they moved, the way they acted, made her think that they were some type of mercenaries. Separate individuals connected only by the promise of some kind of payment.

  Georgia took a shallow breath. Held it.

  Her finger pulled on the trigger.

  Her gun kicked.

  The man fell.

  "Spot me," hissed Georgia, to John.

  "Got you," grunted John. The pain was evident in his voice.

  She knew that John knew what she meant. She needed him to keep an eye out for anyone approaching. And for anything she would have missed with her eye glued to the scope.

  This would save time. And time, in a fight like this, could mean their lives.

  Georgia stayed as still as she could. She remembered seeing firefights in movies in which the characters would move around, twisting their bodies and doing all kinds of absurd movements as they dodged bullets.

  Georgia knew that you couldn't dodge bullets, no matter how badly you wanted to.

  The way she was going to have the best chance of surviving was by shooting the enemy as fast as she could.

  They were showing themselves now, emerging from out of sight.

  She didn't bother counting them. She needed to kill them, not count them.

  She had another one in her sights.

  She ignored the bullets burring themselves into the dirt around her. She ignored the bits of dirt and the small rocks that rained against her legs. She ignored the sounds of the guns cracking as they fired.

  She ignored the shouts of the men that she couldn't hear.

  She only listened for John's voice.

  And she didn't hear it.

  She had to trust him. She had to trust that he'd alert her to someone approaching up close.

  If she didn't trust him, she'd lost time. Valuable time. Making her more likely to die.

  Georgia pulled the trigger.

  Her gun kicked.

  The man didn't fall. Blood appeared on his arm. His mouth opened in a scream.

  She'd missed. Not completely. But she hadn't made him fall.

  But maybe she'd disabled him.

  She doubted he'd be able to shoot her.

  More cracks of guns.

  Georgia ducked her head down.

  The earth around her jumped up as bullets struck it.

  So far, she wasn't hit. She didn't know how.

  Apparently John wasn't either. Unless he hadn't made a sound.

  Georgia was about to go up for another shot when she was hit.

  It was her leg.

  She felt the pain. A burst of intense pain that didn't dissipate.

  She knew the feeling well. After all, she'd been shot before.

  She didn't yelp in pain. She didn't cry out. It was easier to do since she knew the whole routine from before. She'd been through it all before. She remembered the sensation of pain well.

  Georgia didn't want the enemy to know that she'd been shot. It would only embolden them. It would only make them fear her less.

  She knew that she needed to be an impossible enemy. An all-powerful, skilled enemy. Even if these men didn't admit it to themselves, they feared her. And that meant she was more likely to survive.

  But really, how good were her chances?

  By her count, there were three men left.

  She didn't see them out there. Where had they disappeared to?

  What would happen? Would a single bullet suddenly strike her, piercing her skull, shutting her consciousness off instantly?

  That wouldn't be a bad way to go.

  Statistically, though, it wasn't likely.

  What was more likely was that she'd keep receiving bullets. Her body would shut down system by system.

  She'd get struck, for instance, in her arm. Then she'd lose its function. And she'd become more likely to get hit again.

  Right now, though, no one was shooting.

  No one seemed to be out there.

  Had they retreated?

  "John?" said Georgia. "You still with me?"

  "I'm here," said John.

  "You see anyone?"

  "Nope."

  "You holding up?"

  "More or less. You?"

  "I got shot. The leg."

  "Is it bad?"

  "Not too bad. Not too good."

  They weren't speaking loudly. They didn't want to cover up any noises of an approaching enemy.

  It was easy to hear the intense pain in John's voice. And it was obvious that he was trying to not let it show.

  Georgia could hear the pain in her own voice. And she knew that John could too.

  It was a strange conversation.

  There was that feeling that this might be their last conversation. But it didn't feel like it did in the movies, when the slow-motion effects came on, and intense music gave the scene a timeless feeling.

  No, there wasn't any special feeling. Just regular old pain. Just regular old fear. Just slightly fumbling hands, shaking from the adrenaline. Just the thoughts of how to survive.

  "What are they going to try?" said John.

  "You don't think they've retreated?"

  "No," said John. "They may be acting weird. As if their under orders. But they don't seem like they're going to retreat."

  "I think you're right," said Georgia, pausing to make sure she didn't miss any sounds around them. Like the sounds of footsteps.

  "So how will they come at us?"

  "I think they'll send one guy to get close to us," said Georgia. "And keep two in the back, distracting us."

  "I'm keeping my eyes..."

  A gunshot interrupted John's thoughts.

  The gunshot was loud. A loud crack.

  Georgia felt the bullet. It felt like it scraped across her thigh. Or maybe it buried itself inside it. Hard to tell without looking.

  Georgia had the scope to her face.

  She had the man in her sights.

  Same deal as before. She pulled the trigger.

  It was a good shot. She hit him.

  Right in the neck.

  A spot of blood appeared there as he fell to the ground, his arms spasmi
ng, his weapon dropping away from him.

  There was no time to celebrate. John let out a scream.

  A loud scream.

  The crack of a gunshot. Right beside her. Very close.

  No time to worry about who'd shot who.

  Georgia flipped herself around as quickly as she could. She didn't think her leg would support her weight. But she needed to at least face the attackers.

  She saw them.

  Two of them. Standing there. Guns in hand.

  John was there. Still breathing.

  Whoever had shot had missed.

  Georgia's mind was racing. The moment seemed stuck in time, as if time was moving in slow motion.

  But it still wasn't like the movies.

  Everything had an empty, hollow sort of quality to it. Her movements felt fast. Her body felt light.

  Georgia had been right and wrong about the enemy's plan. They'd tried to distract them, while also going in for an up-close attack. But they'd left one man behind in the distance.

  They'd left that man there as a suicide sniper. A man who wasn't going to make it.

  The two who'd come in up close thought that they were the ones who were going to make it.

  Not if Georgia could help it.

  Time still seemed to be moving slowly.

  John was bringing his rifle around. Lying on his back, he swung it down from over his head. He got it leveled at one of the men. Not bothering to really aim it, he shot it like he was a cop in the 1950s, shooting a revolver from the hip.

  The man's chest exploded. Inwards and outwards at the same time. A splatter of gore. Blood, bone, and heart tissue.

  His body seemed to remain standing in the deafening noise of John's gun.

  One man left.

  Georgia was about to do the same with her rifle. She was bringing it around.

  But before she could, the man threw himself on top of her.

  He did it as if he were a track and field athlete, making a crazy jump forward across the finish line, trying desperately to win the race, to break the record, to attain glory for himself despite the imminent threat of physical harm.

  Georgia grunted as he fell on top of her.

  He was heavy. The sharp parts of his body dug into her flesh. Sharp pain.

  The impact of his heavy body knocked the breath right out of her.

  She dropped her own gun. Simply let it go. It wasn't going to do her any good. It was too long.

  Georgia didn't know where his gun had gone. Had he dropped it as he'd jumped on her?

  His hands and arms were moving around. He was trying to get them into position.

  Georgia's hands were pinned down underneath him, against her belly.

  Her leg was still throbbing and shooting pain. It made her feel weaker.

  But even if she'd had her own strength, she didn't know if it would have been enough.

  Georgia tried bringing her knee up, to hit him in the crotch, but he blocked it, tightening his legs together.

  With a flourish, he suddenly brought his hands up and out.

  The next thing he did was wrap them around her neck.

  They were strong hands. Wiry. Long fingers.

  He had a good grip.

  She used the only weapon she had left. Her teeth.

  She lunged forward, chomping down on his neck as hard as she could.

  He yelled in pain. A high-pitched wail.

  But he didn't release her.

  "John!" screamed Georgia. "Do something!"

  She could barely get the words out. And when they came out, they sounded garbled. She didn't feel like she had much time left.

  There wasn't much air in her lungs.

  She was already out of breath. Already feeling like she was suffocating.

  The hands weren't tightening around her neck, because they were already as tight as they could get.

  She tried to speak more. She tried to shout. She tried to cry for help.

  But no sound came out.

  Where was John?

  She could hear something. Some kind of scuffle. Some muffled shouts. She couldn't see what was happening.

  As so often had happened in Georgia's life for one reason or another, it was up to her again.

  If she was going to survive, she was going to have to make it happen. And it didn't matter whether she had pain or whether she was weak.

  She'd either find a way to live.

  Or she'd die.

  She probably had mere seconds left.

  Her vision was funny. Black around the edges.

  Strange flashes of light in her field of vision, as if she was staring down the end of a flashlight.

  The pain in her leg had gone. Vanished. Her body was focusing only on the absolute essentials. With mere seconds left to live, what did it matter if her leg hurt or not?

  There wasn't much point in her leg sending those pain signals.

  She didn't know what she did.

  Later, she couldn't remember.

  She couldn't distinguish between the different parts of her body.

  It was as if everything simply acted together. In complete unison.

  She threw herself forward.

  All her strength. All her power.

  She knocked into him.

  Hard.

  The hands released themselves.

  Georgia's hands were going wild. Looking for something.

  For some weapon.

  Her knife was on her belt. She went for it.

  But something was in the way.

  She was gasping for breath. Still felt like she was unable to breathe.

  But she couldn't let that stop her from killing this man.

  He needed to die.

  Fast.

  It was an animalistic struggle.

  She barely knew where she was or where he was.

  Their bodies were still twined together. Mostly on their sides. Moving constantly. A constant struggle. Impossible to tell exactly what was what, or where it all was.

  Her hand found something. Something hard.

  Probably a rock. Hopefully a rock

  Georgia didn't waste time wondering about it. She swung.

  Swung hard.

  It smashed into his skull.

  Blood everywhere. The bone caved in, like pieces of shattered peanut brittle.

  Brains oozing.

  His body went limp, fell away from hers.

  Georgia's eyes darted over to John. Now she could see him, without the body in the way.

  There was another man.

  Had she miscounted? Had they sent someone else?

  The two figures were barely distinguishable. It looked more like a single animal creature that was fighting itself, tearing itself apart, biting itself.

  The one part of the "creature" that Georgia could really identify as belonging definitely to John was his broken, busted leg that stuck way out, the bone clearly visible.

  He must have been in so much pain.

  But it didn't stop him from fighting.

  They were biting each other. Deep bites that drew blood and tore flesh. Not the sort of bites that kids used when they were mad. No, these were animal bites, the type that a wild animal would use when fighting for its life. Human teeth may not have been primarily a weapon, but they worked pretty well. They could do some damage.

  Georgia had her options. Her rifle. Her hands. Her knife. The rock.

  Each had advantages and disadvantages.

  She managed to stand up. Walk forward a little, slowly, limping.

  Her leg was going to be a problem on the way back to camp. Better worry about that later. For now, she could manage to stand up. She could grit her teeth through the pain.

  If she used the gun, she might kill John.

  If she used her knife, she also might kill John. But the chances were lower.

  No reason to think about it too much.

  Her hand went to her knife. Fingers wrapped around the handle.

  She threw herself
forward, down onto the man, striking with her knife at the same time, plunging it into the middle of his back.

  He let out a noise. A squeak. A squeal of pain.

  John grunted.

  Georgia's leg flared with pain and gave out. She tumbled down, falling too heavily to the ground.

  22

  Max

  Max's leg was killing him.

  He and Wilson were both covered in sweat. They'd been walking, or hiking, at a fast pace for the better part of five hours.

  They knew that they were being followed.

  They knew that the enemy wasn't that far behind.

  Occasionally, a gunshot would echo through the area. Occasionally, a bullet would lodge itself int he ground near them.

  But neither had been hit. Not yet.

  "How far away are they?" said Max, breathless, panting as he spoke.

  His hand was sweaty, and he had to make sure to keep a good grip on his gun as he walked.

  Wilson was walking a little bit behind Max. They had been switching positions, and eventually Max had overtaken him.

  It wasn't that Max wanted to expose Wilson to more danger. But it was that without Max pushing them to go faster and faster, Wilson would have lagged behind.

  "Half a mile, maybe," said Wilson. He sounded more out of breath than Max. Much more out of breath.

  "You still think it's Grant himself?"

  "No doubt."

  "With the others?"

  "The crack squad, yeah."

  "So the first group... they're..."

  "...off in some other direction, most likely."

  "So how many are we dealing with?"

  "Four. Maybe. There are more, but they're not with him... off in another direction... maybe trying to cut us off... we need to watch for that..."

  "Including Grant."

  "Probably."

  "How do you know it's Grant himself?"

  "I heard him. His voice... unmistakable... Shouting orders..."

  Max didn't know what to do.

  Sure, he had been in plenty of bad situations. Since the EMP, it had seemed like his life had been one constant appraisal of serious danger, one endless stream of life-or-death decisions.

  But never before had Max felt like he really didn't know what to do.

  There'd always been a set of options. There'd often been tough decisions. Tough choices. Hard calls.

  He'd had to rack his brains plenty of times before. He'd had to go with his gut. He'd had to run scenarios through his head. He'd had to just go with his instinct.