Pushing On

by Ryan Westfield

  The knife cut easily.

  James pulled to the right. The blade moved across the man’s throat, slicing it right open.

  The man screamed. A gurgling scream. Horrible and bone-chilling.

  James felt the hot blood pouring over his hands.

  James pushed the guy off of Chad. He fell with a heavy thud onto the concrete floor.

  James only gave the body a quick glance. He’d killed before. This was nothing new, unfortunately.

  “You OK, Chad?” said James.

  Chad may have screwed everything up with his drugs. But he’d also tried to defend James’s family. Not to mention Mandy. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

  Chad nodded, sitting up slowly.

  “Come on, we’ve got to go. We don’t have much time. They’ll be coming for us. We’ve got to get to the women.”

  James ran over to his pack and started shoving everything he could into it, as fast as he could. It’d been drilled into his head over and over again that the gear and supplies would often be the line between life and death. He needed that stuff. He couldn’t afford to run off without it.

  James had his pack stuffed in mere moments. He grabbed his rifle. It felt reassuring in his hands. But he had a funny feeling. Something was off. He checked it, and cursed as he saw there was no ammo.

  Then it hit him. There’d been no spare ammo in his pack either.

  Someone had taken the ammo.

  “Chad! Come on!” hissed James, as he rushed over to the dead guy.

  People would be coming. And coming soon.

  Chad finally got up. He moved slowly. But he didn’t move towards his own pack, which he hadn’t unpacked or even opened.

  Chad got to the dead guy at the same time as James.

  “Chad! Move out of the way. I need the guy’s gun. He’s got a pistol on his hip.”

  “Get away!” cried Chad, blocking James’s access with his large body.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting what I need.”

  “You’re getting those pills he took from you? You’re sick.”

  James tried again to rush past Chad, to get the gun.

  Chad turned, and with a nasty expression painted on his face, he gave James a furious shove that sent him tumbling down. James fell flat on his back, his head banging against the concrete. The fall took the wind out of him. He saw stars in his field of vision.

  James’s vision was blurry, but he could see clearly enough to watch as Chad’s hand came out of the man’s pocket with the orange prescription bottle. He had a greedy expression on his face as he took off the cap with fumbling fingers.

  A noise outside. Heavy footsteps.

  “McGovern? What’s going on in there?” Another deep male voice.

  Before James could move, someone was in the doorway, standing tall in the concrete door frame.

  His face grew dark as he glanced to the ground, seeing McGovern’s body with his throat slit, a pool of blood gathering around him on the concrete floor.

  The man’s hand flashed to his gun’s holster. He drew it and raised it, pointing it to Chad.

  “What have you done, idiot?” he bellowed.

  Chad said nothing. Instead, he glanced at James. His eyes seemed to say something. Maybe it was an apology, like he realized he’d screwed everything up. It was hard to say, though. It was just a glance.

  Chad rushed the guy, letting out a yell as he did so.

  The gun went off. The noise was deafening, echoes off the walls. The whole place was a perfect echo chamber.

  Chad fell to the ground, his heavy body making a thud.

  James stared up at the tall guy. Fear coursed through him. His blood ran cold. He was unarmed. The only loaded gun was on the dead man, about five feet away from where James lay on his back.

  24

  John

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  John rose from where he’d been lying down. He moved slowly. His arm hurt.

  “Let me check it.”

  “How’s it look?”

  “The bleeding’s stopped.”

  John nodded.

  “I didn’t want to tell you, but you were getting pretty close there…”

  “I know. I could hear it in your voice. You did a good job, though. I never would have thought of using sugar.”

  “Well, me neither. It was just thanks to that little book. You sure you’re feeling OK?”

  “About as well as could be expected. I’m still weak.”

  “Here, have some more of these.”

  “Ugh. I don’t think I can eat another energy bar.”

  “Your body needs fuel. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “I can see that.”

  They’d made it through the night. Cynthia had kept watch, and she looked dead tired now, with bleary, blood-shot eyes as she crouched near John. The sun was rising in the sky, casting light onto the ground. For the first time, John could see the dark splotches his blood had made on the ground. It was incredible he’d lost that much blood and still lived.

  John took the energy bar from Cynthia. He struggled for a moment with the foil packaging.

  “Here, give to me.”

  “It’s pathetic. I can’t even open it.”

  It felt like he had no strength in his hands.

  “Here, let me do it.”

  Cynthia took the packet from him and opened it easily.

  “Thanks.”

  Cynthia nodded.

  John ate the bar slowly. It didn’t taste good. He’d eaten too many of them. But even so, he began to feel a little better.

  “We’ve got to get going,” said John. “Who knows where those criminals are now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”

  “You can’t even open a foil packet.”

  John tried to stand up, to demonstrate his strength. But as he rose, the world seemed to swim before him. He felt incredibly weak, like he might topple over.

  Cynthia was at his side in an instant, supporting him, keeping him from falling.

  “Easy does it,” she said, as she helped him back to the ground.

  “Pathetic,” muttered John.

  “It’s fine,” said Cynthia. “We’ll stay here until you’ve gotten your strength back.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a day.”

  “We’ll stay here as long as we need to.”

  They fell silent for a moment, as they each considered what would happen if those criminals came back for them.

  “Maybe they’re long gone,” said Cynthia, as if they’d been discussing it rather than thinking silently themselves.

  “Who knows.”

  “If I was one of them, I’d take that gear and get the hell out of here.”

  “They don’t know how to use half that stuff. Remember how long it took us to figure everything out? And Derek and Sara showed us how to use a lot of the gear. Like that weird little water filter.”

  “I don’t know where we’d be without that thing.”

  He was referring to a small water filter that Derek had shown them on one of the first days they were walking. It was a small, compact device that could be used as a straw, to sip from a body of water directly. Or it could be used as a filter on top of a normal water bottle, as you tilted the bottle to drink from it.

  “So what does that mean?”

  “That’ll they’ll probably come back.”

  “What do they have to gain from confronting us?”

  “Maybe nothing. But they might think there’s some reason. Don’t underestimate stupidity.”

  “It’s crazy about Derek and Sara… Isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I wish they’d listened to us.”

  “You’re going to blame them? They’re dead.”

  “I’m not blaming them. I just… it’s hard to feel bad for
them. They refused to take the dangers seriously.”

  “I guess you’re right, but it sounds pretty harsh.”

  John shrugged.

  “Then again, you did everything you could to try to save them.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have. We wouldn’t be in this mess. We should have just run away.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she leaned in close. John smelled her breath, and he felt the warmth of her face as her cheek brushed against his. Their lips met, and they shared a brief kiss.

  “What was that for?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to go see if there’s any water nearby.”

  “Be careful.”

  Cynthia patted the gun at her hip gently. “Don’t worry. You’ve got yours?”

  John nodded.

  He watched Cynthia disappearing between the trees, water bottles dangling off of her pack.

  For a few minutes, John was lost in thought. His thoughts, to his surprise, turned towards his pre-EMP life for the first time in a long time. Back then, he realized now, he had been a completely different person. It hadn’t been that long, but he knew that the old John simply didn’t exist anymore. He had been completely changed, becoming something that he never would have dreamed of.

  John was proud of who he’d become. He’d learned along the way, and he’d been resourceful when it had counted. He’d become a person who was willing to do what needed to be done, and to learn new skills when necessary. He and Cynthia had stuck out the firearm thing, and somehow managed to teach themselves to be reasonable shooters, even conscious of gun safety.

  When he thought of who he’d been before, he felt more embarrassed and ashamed than anything else. It hadn’t been any way to live his life. He’d been screwing people over, one-upping everyone he could. And it had all been perfectly legal. He’d been chasing after nothing but status. He’d wanted to get ahead, to beat everyone he could. But it’d been nothing more than a race to absolutely nothing. Those numbers in the bank account meant nothing now. It had all come crashing down, and the social order had been completely upturned. John thought of his well-off acquaintances in Center City. No doubt they were long dead, having suffered horrible fates in their fancy downtown apartments.

  Only those who’d been prepared, or those who were willing to do what was necessary—those were people who’d survive. Including, of course, a fair amount of luck.

  Maybe the EMP had forced John to become the sort of person that he could have become, if he hadn’t taken a different path since childhood. When he and his brother Max had been kids, they’d been so similar people couldn’t even tell them apart. They’d done everything together, and then John had started to get ambitious, and sort of gone his own way. Maybe John had “regressed” in a way, but in a good way. Whatever. It was too complicated to think about. All he knew for certain was that he was becoming more like Max. And that was a good thing.

  Something bustled in the bushes off to John’s left.

  He didn’t even think about it—he reached for his gun and moved himself into a more favorable shooting position.

  He was ready for anything. Mentally, at least. His body still needed to recuperate.

  He no longer felt that terror that he’d felt when first escaping the city. He knew how to act. He knew that if there was someone out there now, he’d be able to fight to defend himself. He’d do the best he could, and there wasn’t any more that he could do. No point in worrying about it.

  That didn’t mean his blood didn’t turn cold and his heart didn’t start beating fast. It just meant he knew how to deal with those symptoms.

  He took a deep breath and steadied his gun.

  Another rustling in the bushes.

  He saw them moving.

  “Cynthia?” he called out.

  No answer.

  John waited. If it was someone, they knew he was there.

  Suddenly, movement. The branches moved.

  A rabbit jumped out from the bush. It seemed to see John, and it paused, frozen on the ground.

  John breathed out a sigh of relief. It was just a rabbit. Just a cute little rabbit, rather than an orange-suited, gun-wielding, vicious criminal.

  But it was more than just a cute little rabbit. It was large, quite plump. Pretty juicy looking, especially when John hadn’t had a proper meal in who knew how long.

  John aimed at the rabbit and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet hit the rabbit in the hindquarters, which was a shame, since that was where a lot of the good meat would be.

  The rabbit lay motionless.

  John re-holstered his gun, and struggled to his feet to examine the rabbit. With the promise of fresh meat to cook and eat, John somehow found the strength to stand.

  He hobbled over weakly to the rabbit and bent down to examine it.

  “Are you OK?” came Cynthia’s voice, worried, as she crashed loudly into the little clearing.

  “I’m fine,” said John.

  “I heard a gunshot… I thought the worst.”

  “Don’t worry any longer. I just got us dinner.”

  Cynthia came over, a smile on her face. “You know, I had a pet rabbit as a kid. Normally it’d turn my stomach, seeing this. But I don’t even care.”

  “I have a feeling I’ll be feeling pretty good after eating this.”

  “Looks like your aim could have been a little better, though.”

  She pointed to where the bullet had destroyed a good bit of the meat.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re supposed to go rabbit hunting with smaller caliber bullets.”

  “Whatever, it’ll still be delicious.”

  “Did you find any water, by the way?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Give me a hand?”

  John was starting to wobble a little, having trouble remaining in the crouching position.

  Cynthia put her hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t help. It knocked him a little more off balance, and he fell onto the ground again.

  “You OK?” said Cynthia, bending down.

  “I’m fine,” said John, starting to laugh.

  “You hit your head or something? Why are you laughing?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t worry, I haven’t lost it or anything. I just… I don’t know.”

  John didn’t want to admit it, but he felt happy. Maybe it was the rabbit. Maybe it was Cynthia. Maybe it was recognizing that he’d undergone some kind of transformation.

  “Come on, I’m going to get this rabbit started. I figure we can risk a fire, right?”

  “I don’t see how we can avoid it. Not with this rabbit.”

  “I know, my mouth is already watering.”

  “We’ll have to be extra careful, though. A fire might attract someone.”

  “We’ll have to stay ready.”

  “You mean the guns?”

  “Of course I mean the guns.”

  John was too tired to be of much good, but he helped Cynthia by telling her how to get the fire started.

  “Keep the knife folded,” said John, as Cynthia unfolded one of the pocket knives. “Just leave the blade in there. It’s a lot safer that way, compared to having a long cutting edge out.”

  “OK, now what?”

  “Just strike the flint across the back of the blade. Do it fast, with a bit of force. There you go, that’s good.”

  “I don’t think it’s still called a flint. That was like forever ago.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it still works like a flint.”

  Cynthia was getting some good sparks, and soon the tinder they’d picked up days ago was lit.

  “Quick,” said John. “Get that tiny kindling on it.”

  “Easier said than done. All you have to do is sit there.”

  “I know. I could get used to this.”

  “Don’t joke about that. Or you’ll end up acting just like my husband.”

  It was the first time that Cynthia had mentioned her husba
nd, now dead, in a long time. Or maybe she’d never mentioned him. John couldn’t remember. But he did clearly remember the sight of his dead body in Cynthia’s front yard, when he’d been on his way up to Valley Forge Park.

  It felt like such a long time ago.

  Did Cynthia still think of her husband?

  Maybe things hadn’t been that great between them, judging by what she was saying now. Not that it meant she was happy to see him go. She’d sobbed like crazy, after all.

  Soon, there was a little fire roaring, and John was feeling good enough to sharpen up a spit for the rabbit.

  The spit was easy in comparison to getting the rabbit ready to eat.

  “I can’t believe how much fur is on this thing,” said Cynthia.

  John laughed. “What did you expect? It’s covered in fur.”

  “I guess the real problem is I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

  “Just don’t think of your pet rabbit.”

  “Jerk,” said Cynthia, laughing, kicking a little bit of dirt up at him with her boot.

  Suddenly, John had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “You know,” he said. “Things are…”

  “What?”

  “Going good.”

  “You sound like that’s not a good thing.”

  “It just has me worried. How often do we laugh?”

  “Basically never. I figure we’re just happy to have some meat to eat soon.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It’s been less than an hour. No need to worry. I’m sure things will go to shit soon enough.”

  25

  Miller

  It was quiet for a while. He heard their boots moving on the hardwood floor outside. For the moment, they’d stopped attacking the door. He couldn’t remember how many there’d been. The adrenaline should have made his mind sharp. But it was foggy. Maybe it was the pain from the gunshot wound. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was something else.

  Miller didn’t regret anything. He didn’t regret the fact that he was going to die. He’d taken some of them out. That was what he wanted.