Sound of Survival (Book 2): Fight or Flight

by Patten, Sean

  More silence from Ramirez.

  “Wait a minute,” said Amy. “We didn’t even figure out what we’re going to do with you, Ramirez.”

  “Not like we had time to,” I said. “Barely got a moment to think with all that shit going down.”

  “Well,” said Ramirez. “Tell me what your guys’ plan is.”

  “Sandy Vista,” said Amy. “That’s where my mom lives. We were planning on going there and…”

  She trailed off, realizing—just as I did in that moment—that we really didn’t have a plan beyond that.

  “Taking a day or two to catch our breath,” I said, stepping in. “Sandy Vista’s a little out of the way, not too many people there. A little time to rest and recharge is the exact thing all three of us need.”

  “And you’re welcome to come,” said Amy. “My Mom’s got a big place, and I’m sure she’ll be fine with you staying for as long as you need.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Ramirez. “But look around us.” He gestured to the hundreds of people packed along the road. “They’re not going as fast as we are, but I bet you anything they’re going to end up at the same place.”

  “Shit,” I said, realizing that he was right. “Sandy Vista’s about to become the mother of all refugee camps.”

  I could already picture it. Sure, more than a few of these people wouldn’t make it the whole way, but a lot of them would. They’d pack into Sandy Vista, desperate for food and water and a place to stay. It’d be Dead Air all over again.

  And that was without Dante and his men. I had no doubt in my mind that the boss wasn’t about to take this defeat sitting down. There was every chance that he’d pack up what product he could before hopping in his truck and following the Dead Air refugees wherever they went, ready for revenge, only happy when every last one of them was dead.

  We were delaying the inevitable. To think there was any place right now that was anything like a safe haven was wishful thinking.

  “Then…we’ll move again,” said Amy. “Stay for a couple of days, make sure my Mom’s safe, and go. She probably won’t be too thrilled about leaving Sandy Vista, but I’ll make it clear to her that she doesn’t have a choice.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Amy that we’d just be kicking the can down the road. Not right then. We had to take things one step at a time.

  “If you can let me stay with you for a little while,” said Ramirez. “I’d appreciate that. But as soon as I have a chance to breathe I’m going back to LA. I need to find my people and tell them what happened.”

  “LAPD’s going to be holding on for dear fucking life,” I said. “Not sure if things going on miles away are going to be too high on their priority list.”

  “Maybe so,” said Ramirez. “But at least back with them I can do some good. Make sure that me being spared in all this shit didn’t go to waste.”

  I had to hand it to the kid—he sure had a strong sense of duty.

  “Ed,” said Amy. “You think…you think the lights are all off everywhere?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” I said. “Maybe we’re lucky, maybe this shit just hit the southwest. But I’m not betting on it. If the power just went off in one part of the country the government would be in here like ants on honey trying to restore order.”

  “He’s right,” said Ramirez. “But so far, nothing. Not even a plane flying overhead trying to scope things out.”

  Amy said nothing, giving me a clear idea of how she was taking the news.

  “But,” I said, “you never know. The troops could be getting ready right now, ready to move in to all the cities and restore order. I mean, civilization’s been around for thousands of years, right? We did it without power before, we can sure as shit do it again.”

  I knew my words were hollow as soon as I spoke them. Sure, civilization had been around before power. But it was on a much smaller scale. Without electricity we could eventually make it work again, but before then there’d be a sizing-down of things that would be like nothing in human history. A pre-electricity civilization would mean a pre-electricity population. And getting down to that number would likely look like hell on earth, and make Dead Air seem like a relaxing weekend.

  But there was no sense in telling Amy any of that—it’d just scare the shit out of the poor girl.

  All we had to do was focus, get to Sandy Vista, maybe even get a hot meal in our bellies.

  Sure, there was the little matter of me being a dead man walking without my pills, but that was another issue to handle in the future. Besides, there had to be a pharmacy around here someplace that had what I needed.

  We drove in silence for a time, the long stream of people along the sides of the road not dying down even a little bit.

  “Uh, guys,” said Ramirez, a tinge of worry to his voice.

  “What is it?” I asked quickly.

  “We got some people moving in behind us,” he said. “And they’re coming fast.”

  Right after he finished speaking the low, familiar growl of motorcycle engines began to steadily increase in volume.

  I turned to look, deep down already knowing what I was going to see.

  It was a small pack of motorcycles, and in the middle of them were two trucks.

  One of the trucks was blood red—Dante’s.

  He was coming for us.

  22 Ed

  “That can’t be him,” said Amy, panic in her voice. “No way. No way.”

  She was trying to convince herself more than anything. But despite what she was saying, I couldn’t ignore the reality that was gaining on us by the second.

  “Ed,” said Ramirez. “This is about to get bad.”

  “No shit,” I said, my mind racing.

  “Oh-my-God, oh-my-God,” said Amy, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel.

  First thing’s first. I needed to calm her down.

  “Amy,” I said, making my voice as calm and even as I could. “Just keep driving forward. Don’t do anything rash, okay? We’re going to get through this just fine.”

  She nodded, her eyes fixed forward.

  “Okay,” she said. “Got it.”

  I hadn’t the slightest damned idea if what I said was true. But it was clearly what she needed to hear.

  A quick look back revealed that the bikers were gaining on us.

  “Amy,” I said gently. “I need you to see how much power this car’s got, if you know what I mean. But do it nice and easy. Got it?”

  “Okay,” she said again. “Let me just—”

  Amy pressed down hard on the gas, the engine roaring like a raging beast and the car rocketing ahead.

  “Holy shit!” I shouted out as we blasted down the highway.

  “We’re losing them!” said Ramirez.

  A quick glance back confirmed that he was right. But the speed was causing Amy to lose control of the car, the vehicle weaving in and out of lanes as we careened down the highway.

  And what little relief took hold faded as I realized that the bikers had adjusted to Amy’s driving by simply speeding up. Sports cars could haul ass, but bikes had them beat in the speed department any day.

  “They’re coming!” shouted Ramirez.

  I shot my glance back again, watching as the bikers gained on us by the second. The five bikes formed an arrowhead. To my horror, the man in the front slowly raised a pistol he had in his hand and took aim.

  Oh, fuck.

  “Everyone get your heads down, now!”

  I spoke just in time. The pop of three gunshots in rapid succession cut over the sounds of the engines, followed by the crisp shatter of glass as three holes appeared in the back windshield.

  The firing stopped for a moment, and I looked around.

  “Anyone hit?”

  “No!” shouted Ramirez.

  “No!” said Amy.

  So far so good. But we weren’t going to keep getting lucky—we had to do something about those bikes or it was only a matter of time before they too
k us out, one by one. I gave myself a quick patdown to make sure I didn’t have any new holes.

  “Ramirez!” I shouted. “You ready to put that good aim of yours to work?”

  “You bet!”

  “Get the guy in front! Amy, just keep the pedal to the metal!”

  Amy nodded, her head low as she peered over the dashboard. In the back, Ramirez gave the gun a quick look-over before rolling his shoulders and positioning himself to fire.

  But the man in the front of the arrowhead had the same idea. He raised his gun again, this time ready to take a clear shot at Ramirez.

  Pop.

  I whipped my head around just in time to watch the bike at the lead of the pack wobble for a moment before toppling over, sparks flying into the air and the whine of metal on concrete killing my ears. The biker fell from his ride and spun down the road, disappearing under the tires of the two trucks behind him.

  “Nice shot!” I said.

  “Better hope they’re all like that!” said Ramirez. “Because I’ve only got a few more bullets.”

  “Then make them count!” I shouted back.

  The biker pack reacted by pressing on, forming into a line perpendicular to the road. One of the bikers waved his hand in the air, the two riders on the sides responding by breaking away and gaining on us.

  “Shit!” said Ramirez. “They’re coming in close and personal!”

  It was bad news all around. The two bikes split as they drew close, taking out their guns as they tried to flank us.

  “What do I do, Ed?” asked Amy, her eyes on the rearview mirror.

  “Just keep driving!” I said.

  The bikers came closer and closer, and soon they were close enough that I could see the detail in their wild hair and beards. No helmets for these assholes.

  The man on the right, on my side, moved closer and closer. His gun in hand, he raised it up and began to take aim.

  But Ramirez was faster. He pointed the gun out the window, the end of the barrel only a few inches from the biker’s face when he pulled the trigger.

  A brief, pink mist appeared behind the biker’s head as his neck snapped back. Then the bike, with him on it, went end over end, crashing on the side of the road.

  But there was no time for celebrating. The biker on Amy’s side slowed down for a brief moment as he watched his buddy wipe out, but he was soon back on it, ready to finish the job.

  Before either Ramirez or I had a chance to react, he pulled his bike up to Amy’s side, gun in hand.

  “Shit!” she yelled.

  What happened next was in total slow motion. With one hand on the wheel, Amy pulled the handle to the door on her side, opening it slightly. Then, she raised her left foot and kicked the door hard, sending it flying into the motorcycle and connecting with a metallic whack. The biker wobbled for a moment before losing control, spinning off the road and straight into the concrete wall that ran along this portion of the highway.

  Amy didn’t shut the door. Instead, her hands went back to the wheel, her eyes forward.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe…”

  I reached over her, grabbed the handle, and pulled against the wind, shutting the door.

  “You did good,” I said. “Just keep going forward. Keep driving.”

  We weren’t out of the woods yet. There were still two more bikes, and two more trucks. We’d been lucky so far, but I had a sick feeling it was all about to run out.

  “How many shots you got left in that thing, Ramirez?”

  “Not enough,” he said, checking the magazine.

  The two bikers pulled up faster and faster, gaining on us by the second. And as they drove I tracked where they were on the road, noticing that they were right in front of the second truck. They were gaining, but if Ramirez could take them out at that second, the truck wouldn’t have enough time to react. It’d be a hell of a risk to take with limited ammo, but we had to try.

  “Ramirez!” I shouted out. “You see what I’m seeing!”

  He glanced back, quickly sizing up the scene and affirming, with a nod, that he’d realized the same thing that I had. He closed his eyes for a long moment, as if focusing, before turning around and kicking the shattered glass out of the back windshield, the panel coming loose and flying backward onto the road. Then he settled in, raising his gun and taking aim.

  Come on, kid, I thought. Let’s see that crack shot.

  I watched as Ramirez let all the air out of his lungs before pulling the trigger once, then twice, the report of the gun sounding out again and again in quick succession.

  The millisecond between the shots and the results passed like an eternity.

  But he did it.

  The two bikes rode unsteadily for a moment before both falling over at the same time and skidding in front of the truck.

  Just as I’d hoped, the truck didn’t have nearly enough time to react. The bikes, bikers and all, fell under the tires, the car lurching up a few feet before totally losing control. It listed as the driver desperately tried to get it under control. But he couldn’t do it—the car spun in a wild half circle, tipping over and nearly hitting Dante’s truck before falling over onto its side and crashing.

  “Fuck yeah!” I shouted out, reaching back and gabbing Ramirez’s shoulder. “You did it, kid!”

  He flashed me a boyish smile that suggesting he was more than a little proud of his work.

  Another quick series of shots rang out, the three of us taking cover once again. When I had a chance, I looked up to see that Dante’s truck was bearing down on us, that blood-red beast cutting the distance between our ride and his with shocking speed.

  And as it drew closer, I could see the man himself, Dante Arco, his long dark hair and braided beard blowing in the wind as he trained his rifle on us.

  “Fuck!” I shouted. “We’re not out of this yet!”

  “The tires,” said Ramirez, his voice strangely weak. “Need to hit the tires.”

  “You think you can handle that, bud?” I asked.

  Ramirez quickly regarded me, his face an expression of total determination.

  “I have to,” he said.

  I nodded, and he turned.

  Dante’s truck came closer and closer, more gunshots ringing out over the roar of his engine.

  Come on, come on, I thought as Ramirez took aim.

  He fired. Once, then twice. Then an empty click.

  Then another bang. This one not from any guns, but of a tire being punctured and quickly losing air.

  I watched as Dante whipped wildly where he leaned out of the truck, barely able to get himself back into the truck before it spun and spun, the truck veering off the road and into a ditch, a massive plume of dust rising into the air as it crashed.

  And that was it. We’d done it.

  “Hell yeah!” I shouted out, pumping my arm hard.

  “We did it?” asked Amy.

  “We did it,” Ramirez said, his voice still sounding weak.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Amy. “We made it.”

  “Thanks to you!” I said, reaching back and grabbing Ramirez’s leg, giving it a hard squeeze. “You’re the man, buddy!”

  But Ramirez was surprisingly still.

  “You guys mind if we pull over for a second?” he asked.

  “What?” I asked. “Are you serious? Why?”

  I looked back, my jaw dropping at what I saw. A red splotch was on Ramirez’s stomach, the red spreading by the second.

  “Because…” he said, the color draining from his face. “They got me.”

  23 Amy

  I didn’t want to believe it.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “Amy,” said Ed, seemingly able to sense my panic. “I need you to pull over—slowly. Drive away from the highway and into the desert.”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice sounding strange, like belonged to someone other than me. “Okay.”

  I fixed my eyes ahead, driving steadily until I spotted a
break in the long stream of people fleeing Dead Air. Slowly, carefully, as if I were in the middle of a driver’s test, I pulled off the road and drove into the desert.

  “You’re gonna be okay, bud,” said Ed. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “Got me right in the gut…” Ramirez said, his words sounding like they were taking all the effort he had.

  He laughed weakly. “Always…always heard that gut shots were the worst…but I can barely feel it.”

  “That’s because you’re not hurt bad,” Ed said. “We’ll get you patched up soon.”

  Another weak laugh. “Sure,” Ramirez said.

  I kept on into the desert until the people had vanished into the distance. Once again, we were totally alone.

  “Here,” said Ed. “Pull over here.”

  I did as he asked, decreasing the speed of the car until we’d come to a complete stop.

  Ed didn’t waste any time in getting out of the car and popping the seat forward. He leaned into the car and scooped up Ramirez’s smaller frame into his arms. A quick look back revealed that, to my horror, the lower half of his shirt was nearly soaked through with blood.

  I watched in horror as Ed carried Ramirez over to the ground and set him down, then took the keys out of the ignition and jammed them into my pocket before hurrying out, dropping to my knees at Ramirez’s side. The sun was getting low in the sky above, late evening settling over us, a dry chill in the air.

  More color drained out of Ramirez’s face by the second as we sat over him.

  “Pressure on the wound,” said Ed. “That’s right. Pressure on the wound.”

  He put his hands on the hole in Ramirez’s shirt, but the only result was a cry of pain from Ramirez and a fresh gush of blood.

  “Ah, fuck!” shouted Ramirez. “Okay, now it hurts!”

  Ed brought his hands, now covered in blood, back to his sides. At that moment I wished that I knew anything, that there was something I could do. But something in my gut told me that even an entire hospital staff wouldn’t have been able to help Ramirez. Tears stung my eyes and blurred my vision as I watched him breath slowly and unsteadily.

  “Road’s clear,” he said. “Straight…straight shot to Sandy Vista. Nothing stopping you now.”