Getting Out

by Ryan Westfield

  Max nodded. He looked like he was thinking.

  “Everything OK?” called out James’s mom, leaning out the window of the beat-up Ford Bronco.

  “There’s someone coming.”

  There weren’t any options, in terms of where to go. There were guardrails on the side of the highway, and there wasn’t anywhere to drive anyway. If they were going to drive, it was either go forward, towards the noise, or turn around and hope to outrun whoever it was.

  The only other option was to abandon the vehicles and hike on out. James knew that that option meant leaving behind all the gear. Not to mention the vehicles.

  James’s heart was beating fast. He was nervous, and worried about not only himself, but his family. It was times like these that he was glad he wasn’t the one making the decisions. If it’d been left up to him, he might have panicked and had everyone run into the woods, only to pay for the decision later.

  “We’ve got to keep going,” said Max. His expression was hard to read. “Come on, quick. Back in the car.”

  “What’s going on?” said Chad, sounding sleepy, as Max and James piled back into the car.

  James’s rifle didn’t leave his hand. The solid feel of it made him feel a little better. But not much.

  No one answered Chad. If he was so out of it that he hadn’t figured out what was going on, then that was his own problem.

  “No one’s going to tell me?” said Chad.

  “Just keep your gun ready,” said Max, putting the Honda into first gear.

  James was practically holding his breath as they drove through the now open toll gate.

  “I can’t hear anything now,” said James. Max was picking up speed. The Honda’s movement drowned out the faint noise.

  “Hopefully we’ll just drive by them,” said Max. “Whoever they are.”

  “I’m ready to fight,” said James. “I’ll do whatever it takes. You can count on me, Max.”

  As he said the words, though, they felt hollow. Sure, they were true. He’d do whatever it took, especially when he thought about his mom and sister. But he felt anything but courageous. His body felt cold and empty, and he wondered if he’d have the strength to fight.

  “Just stay ready,” said Max. “Another fight is the last thing we need. We’ll avoid it if we can.”

  “Hey man,” said Chad, from the backseat. “Not everyone’s bad, you know? Not everyone’s out to get us. Why do you guys think it’s always about a fight? Maybe whoever it is is just like us, just looking to survive.”

  That was probably the most Chad had spoken in the last day.

  “Get your rifle ready, Chad,” said Max.

  9

  John

  The sun had gone down. It wasn’t missed. John welcomed the darkness, knowing that it would provide them the cover they’d need to escape the area.

  He didn’t know who would come or how soon they’d come, but he knew that the sooner they got out, the better.

  They’d spent the last few hours preparing, getting as ready as they could.

  Derek and Sara were already pretty loaded down. They’d started off with a lot of food, and there wasn’t much room left in their packs. Since no one knew what lay ahead, and whether the two “couples” would split up or continue together, they couldn’t let Derek and Sara take all the cooking gear, for instance. John and Cynthia weren’t exactly a couple, even though they were starting to act like that, with their own way of speaking, and their own special way of getting on each other’s nerves.

  But nothing could be perfect, and concessions were made. The main thing was that they packed weapons instead of other useful things. There were so many guns that they had their pick. They each took two handguns and some sort of rifle. They took as much ammo as they could, making sure that they had what matched their gun. Sara was a great deal of help with that aspect of things.

  Most of their packs were loaded down with food and water. Derek and Sara cautioned them on how much water they’d need. They couldn’t guarantee they’d find a water source along the way, even with their purification tablets and devices.

  John was already well aware of the water situation. It had been difficult for himself and Cynthia when they’d hiked out from the suburbs. But this journey would likely be far, far longer.

  They didn’t know where to go. The only idea they had was to head west. West was where Max had gone, to lesser populated areas.

  John didn’t hold any illusions that he’d somehow run into Max along the way. The chances were simply too slim. It was better not to hold out any hope. And what difference would it make, anyway?

  Sure, seeing family would be comforting, during these intense and trying times, but John reminded himself that he and Max hadn’t been close. It was better to simply focus on forging new relationships, new bonds. Everything had changed, and everyone John had known was likely dead, or about to die. It was better to be pragmatic about the future. New alliances and friends—that was the way to survive. Better than clinging to something that hadn’t ever really been there in the first place. Or to delusional hopes of reconnection.

  Not many words were spoken as they prepared. There wasn’t much to say, except exchange ideas on packing, and on what needed to be taken.

  Finally, they were ready. None of the four of them needed to announce it. It simply became obvious. The four of them shouldered their packs in silence.

  They were ready to leave.

  John was lost in his own thoughts for a moment. He turned towards his new companions. He barely knew them, yet he was setting out on a life and death trek across now-unknown lands.

  At the very least, they seemed practical-minded. And not overly prone to chitchat. And they seemed like honest people. Not to mention worried and scared. Which was good. They weren’t clueless. They understood the dangers as well as anyone could.

  John’s mind occasionally flashed back to the horrors he’d seen in the cities. And to the people he’d seen die in front of him. Their names escaped him now, maybe as a type of defense mechanism. But the images were clean and crisp, burned into his memory.

  Cynthia was the first to break the silence that hung between them all.

  “Should we do anything to the house?” she said. “Like lock it up?”

  It seemed like such a pedestrian worry that John laughed. He hadn’t thought about doing anything with the house except for simply leaving it. Worrying about locking it up, or turning off the gas—those were all pre-EMP worries.

  “You’re laughing at me?” said Cynthia, but there was laugher in her voice and a smile on her face.

  Pretty soon, they were all laughing.

  The tension was broken, along with the silence.

  And it wasn’t even that funny of a joke.

  “Maybe we’d better call the post office and tell them to hold the mail,” said Sara.

  That made them all laugh even harder.

  “And I’ll call the paper and tell them not to deliver,” said Derek, chiming in.

  John laughed so hard that his stomach ached.

  John hadn’t even realized how much tension he and the others had all been holding onto. Now that it was broken, he felt a little better. A little warmer. A little lighter.

  He felt like he was traveling with good people. Something could come of this. He felt optimistic, a little hopeful. Even though he knew he shouldn’t have.

  So far, he’d been lucky. And he knew it.

  He’d been unprepared. There wasn’t a reason that he should have survive. Neither he nor Cynthia deserved it. Maybe Derek and Sara didn’t either. John didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to make that judgment.

  John had cheated death. There were probably others who’d done the same. Statistically, there were bound to be people who’d survived, even when the odds were against them.

  In all likelihood, most would die. Like John had seen in the cities. The majority of those who’d survive, long-term, would be those who’d been prepared. In some fashion, whet
her it was gear or simply a good plan. They’d know what to do. And how to act. Right when it happened.

  The faster someone responded, the more likely they were to have gotten out, to have survived. John had waited too long, holing himself up for two weeks in his apartment. He’d been unbelievably lucky.

  So far.

  Long-term survival was different than just getting out. It meant having more than a plan and gear. It meant finding the right environment.

  Most of all, it meant having a certain attitude. Gear, of course, was required. But the attitude, that drive to survive, to keep going, that was what would separate the survivors from the less fortunate.

  And luck.

  So far, John had been able to dive deep inside himself and marshal resources he’d never known existed. It’d been as much an internal struggle as an external one.

  He knew he had it now. But the others? That was perhaps John’s reservation about them. Derek and Sara were good people, but did they have that drive? Did Cynthia? John wasn’t sure. And that worried him.

  “Well,” said John. “Let’s head out. We’ll try to find that trail you two told us about.”

  “Sounds good,” said Derek. “Should just be a couple miles down the road.”

  They set off, leaving through the back door of the farmhouse. John turned his head only once to look, to say goodbye to the place that, truthfully, held no sentimental value for him whatsoever. The only thing the farmhouse had meant to him, before the EMP, was bitterness that Max had inherited it and not himself.

  The moon was out, which made walking at night easier. They had flashlights with them and plenty of batteries, for when the moon was covered by clouds, or when it was a mere sliver in the dark sky. The batteries, like everything else, had come from the packs of the dead men in the farmhouse.

  John’s only concern with the flashlights was that the lights would give them away. It’d be better to let their eyes adapt to the darkness and make their way as best they could.

  They hadn’t discussed it as a group, but John was planning on traveling exclusively at night. That had worked for him and Cynthia on their way out of the suburbs. And he hoped it would work for them again.

  It didn’t take them long to cross the field. Under the cover of the trees, it was darker.

  Derek led the way. He’d said he knew a shortcut, a path that would take them a little ways down the road. Then they’d take the road to the next trail.

  John followed Derek close enough to talk to him. Cynthia and Sara followed.

  “If we can find a vehicle somewhere,” said John. “It’ll make this all a lot easier.”

  “Only problem,” said Derek, “is we don’t know where we’re going.”

  “Well, it’ll help us get to hopefully safer areas faster,” said John.

  “I think it’s better if we stick with the trails,” said Derek.

  Sara nodded her agreement.

  “We can stay hidden on the trails,” said Derek. “I’m hoping we can avoid using these guns.”

  “You don’t think there’ll be others at some point?” said John. “Others with the same ideas?”

  “Well,” said Derek. “Hikers are good people. I mean, when we did the Long Trail, we met so many great people. Great friends. I hope they’re OK now.”

  “They may have been good people then,” said John, “but the EMP changed everything. Everything is different. You’ve got to realize that. People will do whatever they have to do.”

  “People stay the same,” said Derek. “They’re either good or bad.”

  John didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to waste his energy arguing, but he was becoming quickly concerned that Derek saw things in an unrealistic black and white way. Derek seemed to think that good people never did bad things. Hadn’t he seen what had happened in the suburbs? Or at least heard about it? He’d been the one to tell him the rumors about the militia leader, Kor.

  But for Derek, it seemed that Kor was bad because he was already a bad person. Derek wasn’t considering the good people who’d likely joined up in the militia and then gone on to do bad things, simply because it was easier. Sure, some of them may have been deluded into thinking they were recreating a new world, a new system of order.

  What would happen when they came across someone who was ready to do whatever it took to survive? John didn’t think he could count on Derek. In fact, he didn’t know if he could count on any of them.

  And that wasn’t a good feeling.

  10

  Miller

  Miller was breathing hard. His hand clutched his handgun.

  Should he fight or try to execute his plan?

  He still hadn’t worked out that plan that he’d been thinking about. There were a lot of complications. A lot of problems with it.

  He glanced in the mirror. They were getting close.

  Three of them. No, four. Maybe five. He wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell. Nothing was ever clear in a situation like that.

  Miller took a deep breath, focusing on his breathing. He let himself have one slow, controlled inhale and one slow, controlled exhale.

  Miller was smart enough to know that in a situation like this, the mind was the best weapon any man had at his disposal. The guns and the knives and the fists—these were just dumb implements. Sure, they were helpful. Necessary, even.

  But the mind. It was the most dangerous of them all.

  Miller got himself under control.

  He rolled down his window.

  He stuck out his arm and gave a casual wave.

  “How’s it going, boys?”

  One of them was right up at his window. He looked mean. He had a big red beard, bushy and untamed. Wild looking. There was the glint of violence in his eyes.

  “Identify yourself.”

  He pointed the muzzle of his assault rifle right at Miller.

  Miller wasn’t scared. Not for his own safety. They only thing he feared was not being able to carry out his plan.

  “Miller. Just Miller. That’s what they call me.” He tried to make his words sound as casual as he could.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Doing what anyone’s doing,” said Miller. “Just surviving. Just hanging on.”

  Miller kept a smile fixed to his face.

  The red-bearded man glared at him. His buddies stood behind him, their guns ready.

  “What are you boys doing out here?” said Miller, playing innocent. “I thought the military wasn’t… you know… wasn’t exactly operational since the EMP.”

  No answer.

  “I was having a problem, maybe you guys could help me out.”

  Still no answer.

  The orange-bearded man was peering past Miller into the SUV, eyeing the guns. He was looking for supplies, looking for gear.

  Maybe he was looking for a Faraday-shielded shortwave radio.

  But who carried one of those around?

  The trick was just to casually slip it into the conversation.

  “What have you got there? The firearms.”

  “Oh, those? Just some of my old hunting gear. You know, you’ve got to be prepared when you’re out here.”

  “Out of the car.” The words came out of him cold and calculated. No sympathy in them.

  “Hey,” said Miller. “That’s fine. But come on, don’t take my guns from me. How the hell am I going to survive out here? There are some nasty types around, you know.”

  “Not my problem. Out of the car.”

  “You got it, bud,” said Miller.

  Miller got out of the car, keeping his hands where the militia guys could see them.

  Inside, Miller was raging. He wanted to tear out all their throats. Maybe eat their hearts. Some of that crazy movie shit. Exacting his revenge and all that.

  But outside, he remained calm. He couldn’t give himself away.

  Fake it, he kept telling himself. Fake it until the revenge. It’ll be sweeter than all this bullshit.

  Mille
r stood off to the side. One of the others, a guy with a shotgun and a particularly grungy look, stood by him. He jammed the butt of his shotgun into Miller’s stomach for no good reason whatsoever.

  Miller bent over in pain.

  He wanted to elbow the idiot in the face, take the shotgun, and blast through the guts of them all.

  But he kept calm.

  “That hurt, buddy,” he said, keeping that idiotic smile on his face.

  Keep it there, no matter what, he told himself over and over.

  The other three militia men were all over the SUV, rooting through the guns and the gear. They were talking to themselves over their findings.

  And they had good reason to be. After all, Miller had some good stuff with him.

  He didn’t give a shit about his stuff.

  There was a time when Miller had polished his guns, kept them looking pretty. A time when he’d kept his knives razor sharp. A time when gear had meant so much to him.

  Now they were just objects. Cold and utilitarian.

  They were nothing compared to his wife and son, mutilated by bullets and buried by none other than Miller himself, right there on the property they’d lived their entire lives on.

  The three weren’t paying any attention to Miller.

  “What do we do with him?” said Miller’s guard, shoving the shotgun muzzle further against Miller’s flesh.

  “Kill him,” said the orange-bearded man. He said it casually, not even looking at Miller.

  “Sorry, buddy,” said the guy with the shotgun, looking Miller in the eyes for the first time.

  But there wasn’t any apology in his eyes. He wasn’t bothered by killing. He wasn’t some guy caught up in having to follow orders he didn’t agree with. He simply didn’t give a shit.

  “You know,” said Miller, loudly. “If you like all that gear, I’ve got something really good stuff you all might be interested in. But you won’t find it in that SUV.”

  “Oh yeah?” came the sarcastic reply. “And that wouldn’t have anything to do with your imminent death?”

  Miller shrugged. “Hey, I’m living on the edge. I’m going to die at some point. Might as well be now or later. Doesn’t matter so much to me.”