They walked quickly, side by side when they could, following the path. It was clear and easy to follow.
“It looks like they were dragging something else,” said Mandy.
Max nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“You think it’s John and Cynthia? They were supposed to be over in that area.”
“Could be,” said Max.
They were already going as fast as they could. There wasn’t any point in running. It would just tire them out more.
Mandy kept glancing at Max as they walked, apparently trying to read something from his expression. But Max’s face remained impassive.
They had walked for another half an hour when Mandy’s boot caught against something in the snow. She tripped, falling forward, before Max could catch her.
“You all right?” he said, bending down to help her.
“Yeah,” she said, wincing in pain. “I’m fine.”
“What hurts?”
“My ankle.”
“Let’s see if you can put weight on it.”
Max helped her to her feet, but when she tried to support her own weight, she simply couldn’t. She grunted in pain, trying not to let out her scream.
“It’s bad,” said Max.
“No shit,” said Mandy, gritting her teeth.
“You’re not going to be able to walk on that.”
“You go on ahead,” said Mandy, looking him dead in the eyes. “They might be alive. They need you.”
Max gave her a stiff nod. “I’ll get you propped up against this tree here. Keep your gun ready. Keep your eyes open, and stay alert, no matter how bad the pain is.”
“It’s not that bad. I’ll be fine.”
But Max had to basically carry her to the tree.
“If I don’t make it back,” said Max. “Make a set of crutches and get back to camp.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to make it back.”
“Stay alert,” said Max.
Then he was off, walking as fast as he could through the snow, following the tracks.
In another fifteen minutes, he was there. He saw no one. Not yet. But he heard a voice, loud. It sounded like someone was ranting. A man’s voice.
Max decided to cut around the side, circling the area, so that he wouldn’t arrive from the same direction that the man had. That way he could hope to have the element of surprise more on his side.
Max made his way through the snow and the trees, trying to keep behind the trees as much as possible.
The voice continued. Max could hear it more clearly now. He was closer. He didn’t stop to look through his scope. He wanted to act as quickly as possible.
Max flattened himself behind a tree, finger on the trigger. He was ready. He was breathing heavily. His leg throbbed.
“I’m giving you a break. Now that the both of you are awake, it’s going to be a lot more interesting. I don’t want to overwhelm you. At least not yet. There’s plenty of time for that. No one’s going to find us here.” It was definitely a man’s voice, loud and powerful.
“Why don’t you just let her go? You can do what you want with me.” It was Max’s brother’s voice.
“No! John!” It was Cynthia’s voice.
“Don’t worry, lady. I’d never pass up the opportunity to torture both of you to death. I’m not letting your boyfriend go.”
There was silence for a long moment. Then a scream. Cynthia’s. Loud, filled with pain. It pierced the silence of the woods, reverberating in Max’s brain. He had to act. Fast. Who knew how long John and Cynthia had.
Max moved out from behind the tree. His rifle was ready. The area was in his scope.
A man was standing over two bodies on the ground.
Max pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked back.
The man moved. Going for a gun. Fast.
Max had missed.
Max threw himself back behind the tree just in time. Bullets slammed into the trunk. It was last night all over again.
“Who’s out there? Who’s come to play?”
Max thought for a moment. Should he answer?
Max didn’t know who he was dealing with. Except that they were dangerous. And an indiscriminate killer.
Max moved again, out from behind the tree. He was ready, his eye to the scope. But the stranger wasn’t there.
On instinct, Max got behind the tree again, rather than looking for the stranger.
Another blast of gunfire. Bullets thudded into the tree.
Max was breathing heavily. Sweat dripped down his brow despite the temperature. One of his boots had dug into the dirt underneath the snow.
“You can’t beat me!” shouted the stranger. There was a strange quality to his voice. Taunting, but cold and emotionless. Yet excited at the same time.
“What are you doing here?” shouted Max. “What do you want with the man and the woman?”
“I’m torturing them to death.”
“We can give you want you want. Name it.”
“I don’t need anything.”
Max didn’t understand. But he didn’t have to. All there was to know that this man couldn’t be bought. Otherwise he would have had a demand ready. Otherwise he would have acted completely differently.
“Max, is that you?” It was his brother’s voice.
Max didn’t respond. He didn’t want to give the stranger too much information.
“You’re all alike,” shouted the stranger. “Your emotions get you killed. I assume you’re friends, maybe relatives. One comes looking for the other. It’s the oldest story in the book. And I’m the spider, just waiting patiently. You can’t fool a spider. Now come out from behind that tree with your hands up. I won’t shoot you.”
“What will you do?” shouted Max. He wanted to know more about this man’s mind. His intentions.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Don’t believe him, Max!” shouted John.
“He’s torturing us to death!” shouted Cynthia.
“Don’t think I’m going to believe that. That you’ll do nothing.”
“Are you trying to prove you’re a little smarter than the rest of them? These two fell right into my trap.”
“You want to torture me?”
“That’s right.”
The stranger’s voice sounded like it was getting closer. Was he trying to sneak up on Max?
“If you come out,” shouted the man, “what I’ll promise you is that it’ll take me a long time to kill you. One of your other friends might come to rescue you. It’ll work for both of us. I get to be the spider and catch another fly. You’ll get to hold out hope as you die.”
“No good,” shouted Max.
“That’s disappointing.”
The voice was closer.
Max knew now he was dealing with someone with an altered mind. He had to approach the stranger on that same level. He had to appeal to something inside him.
“I’ve got a proposition,” shouted Max.
Silence.
But no footsteps nearby. The stranger wasn’t dangerously close. Not yet. Was he trying to sneak up on Max or wasn’t he?
Max charged ahead with his plan, thinking rapidly as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “We fight. You and me. No guns. No knives.”
“We’re already fighting!” Laughter roared out of the man. It was chilling laughter, as cold as the air.
“You want to inflict pain, right?”
Silence.
“You don’t want to shoot me. At least, not kill me. Otherwise I have a feeling I’d already be dead. You’re a good shot, but you’ve been missing on purpose.” Max didn’t know if it was true, but flattering never hurt. “What I’m saying is you against me. A personal experience. Personal pain.”
Max’s throat was sore from shouting so much.
Still silence.
“Fine. You’re not like the others. You understand me.”
“Let’s just get this over with. Your hostages will confir
m whether you have a gun or not.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll toss everything into the snow.”
Max knew he might have been making a huge mistake. He tossed the rifle away from him, into the snow, where it’d be visible from the stranger’s point of view. Without his rifle, he’d be at a disadvantage if it came to another long-distant firefight. But he was already at a disadvantage.
Silence. Some distant footsteps.
“He’s put the gun down. Twenty feet away. His handgun too. He’s got a knife still. He’s putting the knife down. Ten feet away. To the east.” John was shouting out all the information he could.
Apparently Max had read the stranger right.
“Don’t do this, Max!” shouted Cynthia. “He’s some kind of monster. Don’t trust him.”
Max didn’t answer.
“He’s standing behind a tree,” shouted John. “He’s waiting for you. I don’t know if he’s armed. He might have had a hidden gun.”
A flurry of noise, footsteps. Max heard a strange sound. And screaming. Horrible screaming.
Max stepped out from behind the tree, moving rapidly, running towards the stranger, his brother, and Cynthia.
The stranger was bent over one of the bodies. Probably John. Blood was on his hand. Blood was on the snow.
Max threw himself onto one knee, partially covered by a tree, his Glock in both hands held out straight in front of him.
The stranger had a handgun too.
But Max was faster.
He squeezed the trigger once. Twice. A third time.
The stranger went down.
“He’s down!” It was Cynthia.
John was moaning in pain.
Max walked forward slowly, aiming the Glock at the stranger, who was on the ground. He was making small sounds. Blood poured out from his body onto the snow.
He wasn’t yet dead.
Max aimed, his gun arm stretched down at an angle, and pulled the trigger.
32
John
John sat there, at the edge of camp, with the remains of his ear throbbing. The pain had dulled somewhat.
Max had cut John and Cynthia loose. The three of them had taken all the gear they could carry and left the body there in the snow. When they’d gotten to Mandy on the way back, they’d had to make a stretcher to carry her back on. She was sleeping now, as were most of the rest of them. Only Georgia, Mandy, and John were still awake, keeping watch. Georgia was on the other end of camp, hidden in the woods.
“The aspirin doing anything?” said Max. He was fiddling with the radio John had brought, adjusting the knobs. So far there’d been nothing but static.
“Not much. I wish we had something stronger.”
“Maybe it’s good we don’t.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” said Max. “But caffeine might help.”
“It relieves pain?”
“I read something about it,” said Max, in an offhand way. John knew that meant that Max knew what he was talking about, but didn’t see the need to go too much into it.
“Never would have thought of it.”
“I’ll get you some coffee. We need to save the caffeine pills.”
“Max, wait, I need to…”
“What?”
“I just wanted to say… I don’t know. I’d be dead if it wasn’t you. I’ve got to admit, I was starting to doubt you. But you’re the reason we’re all alive.”
Max shook his head. “I’m not the reason,” he said. “The truth is, I’d be dead if I were on my own.”
“But you keep risking your life trying to save everyone else.”
“You don’t get it,” said Max. “The only way we’re going to get through this thing is with each other. All of us.”
“Sounds kind of cheesy,” said John. “But I guess it’s true.”
Max nodded.
“I still don’t think you’d be dead though. You’re made of tougher stuff than that.”
“It could happen,” said Max. “I’m sure it will at some point. Haven’t you read how long people lived in hunter gatherer times?”
“About forty, right?”
“The average is low,” said Max. “So you’ve got to imagine that a lot died well before whatever the number was. And that was before guns, back when the population was minuscule compared to now. The population must be thinning out, judging from what I saw, and what you’ve told me about the city. But, still, it’s dense compared to any other historical period.”
John didn’t know what to say. “Hell of a thought,” was all he could muster. He was exhausted, and he felt like he’d never been rested. Sleep was only a memory.
John turned his hand over, and examined the fingers on his left hand, where the nails had been pulled off with pliers. It still hurt like hell. Cynthia, fortunately, hadn’t gotten the plier treatment. Just a couple light cuts on her skin.
“That guy was really something, right?” said John. “He didn’t make sense. Nothing about him made sense.”
“Well,” said Max. “It made sense to him. That’s all that mattered.”
“He was just nuts.”
“Yeah. And there are more out there like him. You saw those prison tattoos just like I did. But not just people who were in prisons, but the ones who roamed free, but were hemmed in by society. Now the world is nothing but a playground. No rules. Nothing to stop them.”
“You really know how to cheer someone up.”
A voice suddenly cut through the radio’s static. “Help… help… Is anyone out there?”
John and Max exchanged a look.
The voice had faded out. Nothing but static.
“Did you change it? The station?”
“No,” said Max.
“What happened, then?”
“I don’t know. But we’ve got to keep listening.”
About Ryan Westfield
Ryan Westfield is an author of post-apocalyptic survival thrillers. He’s always had an interest in “being prepared,” and spends time wondering what that really means. When he’s not writing and reading, he enjoys being outdoors.
Contact Ryan at [email protected]
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