Pushing On

by Ryan Westfield

  John handed Cynthia one of the pocket knives that he’d taken from the gear at the farmhouse. Cynthia took it, and had to study it to figure out how to open it. She wasn’t used to modern folding knives.

  “Like this,” said John, taking it back from her, and opening it for her. “I’ll do it. There’s a branch over there that could work.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Cynthia. “Do me a favor and try not to exhaust yourself to the point where you’re no longer any use to yourself or to me.”

  John got the point, and let her take the knife.

  “Cut diagonally. Rock the blade back and forth to get it deep. One single cut,” said John, instructing her based on something he had seen once, long ago, on the Discovery Channel. “Then you should be able to bend the branch and it’ll snap cleanly off.”

  Cynthia did it and it worked. “Not bad,” she said.

  John stood up with Cynthia’s help. She handed him the stick and he tested out different positions to hold it in.

  “It’s not like my leg’s injured. Maybe I’ll just use it as a walking stick. I just need a little more support.”

  “It’ll help keep you from getting so fatigued,” said Cynthia. “Let’s keep an even pace. Slow and even.”

  “But we’ve got to get those packs. As quick as possible.”

  “I get that. But listen to me. We’re not going to get anywhere if you fall down again, or get too tired. You’ve been shot, and you’ve got to take that into account. Pushing yourself is good, I get that. But sometimes, you’ve got to work with what you have. And what you have now is a gunshot wound and a weakened body.”

  “You’re right,” said John. “Sorry. I could get us both killed like this with my stubbornness.”

  “Have you always been like this?”

  “Sort of. I think I’m getting a bit of a hard head from all of this.”

  “We’re adapting,” said Cynthia. “These experiences are changing us in indefinable ways. Our brains and our bodies are adapting as best they can to the new circumstances.”

  They began walking again, and they went slower this time. John made it.

  The packs were where they’d left them, no worse for wear, except for some extra dirt on the outside.

  Cynthia dug into her pack and drew out a full water bottle, handing it to John. He drank it down with delight. Plain old water had never tasted so good. Cynthia handed him some packets of dried fruit, telling him that he’d feel better once he got his blood sugar up.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Same goes for you.”

  “Well, let’s keep it that way. We’ve got to keep our eyes open and our guns ready. Those others could be out here.”

  “Not to mention anyone else that’s here,” said Cynthia.

  “Too true.”

  “You’re going to have to rest,” said Cynthia, who was busy breaking out the emergency kit. She was examining the different ointments and bandages and trying to figure out what was appropriate for a chunk of flesh that had been ripped away by a bullet.

  John shook his head. “You’re right about taking our time,” he said. “But we’ve got to get out of this area.”

  “It’s almost night.”

  “Even more reason to get a move on it.”

  “You really think they’ll be able to find us in the dark, if we don’t make a fire? We can get in the sleeping bags and cover ourselves with leaves. We’ll be practically impossible to see. Plus, we have no more batteries and it’s going to be hard to move effectively at night.”

  John thought about it for a moment. “Once again, you’re the voice of reason. You’re right, we’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Damn right we’ll stay here tonight. You’re crazy if you think you’re going to make it far with that pack, not able to see a couple feet in front of you.”

  She was leaning down over John’s injury again.

  “Has it stopped bleeding?”

  “Let me take the cloth off of it.”

  John felt the tension releasing around the wound as Cynthia got the stick out of there. She unwrapped the piece of shirt slowly.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “It’s still bleeding.”

  John glanced down. It was bleeding all right. The sight wasn’t exactly stomach-churning, but it wasn’t pleasant either.

  The blood flowed freely now, without the bandage stopping it at all.

  “It should have coagulated by now.”

  “There’s too much missing. Too much surface area, compared to a cut into the flesh, where the two sides can sandwich together.”

  Cynthia looked nervous. She was tossing aside items from the medical kit, muttering to herself.

  “Nothing in there?”

  “No, and we’ve got to get this to stop bleeding. How are you feeling?”

  “Uh, tired. And a little…”

  “Woozy?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You’re losing too much blood.”

  “I think so…”

  John was feeling strange. Pretty odd. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but things were starting to flip past him. He still knew where he was, and who he was. And he didn’t think he was in any danger of dying soon.

  That was what he thought, at least. But Cynthia’s increasingly concerned attitude was starting to make him think differently. She wouldn’t, of course, come out and say that she thought he’d die soon. But it was all in the way she moved, and the way she was rummaging through the packs, looking for something to stop the bleeding.

  She pulled out a little laminated book, an emergency guide to dealing with injuries. “I’d forgotten that Derek lent me this.”

  She started flipping through the pages.

  “We may have to do a tourniquet. But that’s a short-term solution. And it can result in the loss of limb. I don’t think I can amputate your arm…”

  “Amputate the arm?” said John vaguely. He was feeling stranger by the minute.

  The pain seemed to have gone away. Or at least he wasn’t registering it anymore. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he wasn’t sure where the sun was. It wasn’t as bright as it had been before, but it wasn’t night yet… His mind was full of vague impressions…

  “OK, here’s something,” said Cynthia. It sounded like she was trying to keep her panic in check. She was trying to keep her voice calm. “It says sugar can stop bleeding. Do we have any sugar?”

  “Sugar?”

  “Yeah. John, come on, stay with me. Do we have any sugar?”

  “The regular white kind?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know…”

  John didn’t think they’d brought any sugar… He didn’t remember anything like that. But it didn’t seem to matter. After all, sugar wasn’t going to stop the bleeding. That was crazy. Maybe it would be better if he just laid down and went to sleep for a while. Maybe that would fix everything.

  John felt his eyes closing as he lowered his body to the ground.

  “John! What the hell are you doing? Keep your eyes open.”

  John opened his eyes. Cynthia was in front of him, rooting through the packs again. “I was carrying some of Sara’s stuff, since she was getting tired easily. Here it is, maybe she had sugar in this bag…”

  Later on, John remembered vaguely thinking that there wasn’t any point in looking for sugar, and that there was no way a formerly health-conscious person like Sara would use sugar for anything, even though the four of them had enjoyed some organic instant coffee that Derek and Sara had been fond of from their trail days.

  “Look! Sugar! I can’t believe it. Maybe Derek used it. Who cares?”

  Cynthia took the book in her hands again, to reread the instructions.

  “I don’t think eating it…” said John. “…Going to do any good.”

  “You’re not going to eat it, idiot. Now shut up and let me concentrate.”

  Her fear of losing him was turning into mild hostil
ity. John was OK with that.

  “OK,” said Cynthia, trying to get the idea straight in her head. “I’m going to pour this on your wound, and it’s going to form a syrupy mixture and help the blood coagulate.”

  John was feeling detached from the whole thing. Probably not a good sign. He watched with mild interest as Cynthia poured the sugar carefully onto his wound.

  “I don’t know if it’s getting on there,” she said. She used her fingers to try to push the sugar into the wound.

  It stung, but John had lost too much blood to care.

  “It says you need a lot of sugar on there,” said Cynthia, examining the wound before carefully adding more sugar. “Let’s hope this works.”

  Suddenly, John realized how serious the situation was. The loss of blood had been affecting his rational thought process. But he knew now that he was close to death. If the sugar didn’t stop the bleeding, it might be the end for him.

  23

  James

  James and Chad were alone in one of the men’s quarters. James felt pretty good. He was full for the first time in a long, long time. He’d eaten and eaten and eaten, countless portions. They’d told him he could have as much as he wanted, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Max had been brutal with the rationing, allowing them all only certain quantities of food and water.

  James was relaxing on his bunk. His gear was partially unpacked from his pack, spread out around him. He was wearing a change of clothes. They were the clothes that he’d kept clean in the bottom of his pack, never putting them on. It was something psychological, in some weird way comforting to know that he had a change of clean clothes.

  And now he got to wear them.

  There was a weird little rattling noise from Chad’s bunk.

  “What’re you doing, Chad?” said James, looking over.

  “Nothing,” said Chad vaguely.

  “What’s the orange bottle?”

  James had only seen a flash of it. Chad had put it away quickly when James had looked over.

  “What bottle?”

  James knew that he was just a kid in comparison to Chad. But Chad had been acting really weird ever since Albion. James felt that he had some sort of responsibility to take care of Chad, especially since none of the other adults were around.

  Where was Max? He’d been gone for a long time. The thought occurred to James suddenly.

  Maybe Mandy was right. Maybe Chad was taking something. James was well aware of Chad’s addict past.

  James got up and moved swiftly over to Chad. Chad was concealing something in his right hand. His large fingers were hiding whatever it was. Probably the pill bottle.

  “Hey!” said Chad, trying to pull his arm away from James.

  But James was too fast and strong for him. He seized Chad’s hand and pried his fingers open.

  “Give me that!”

  James dodged Chad’s slow moving hands, got out of his reach, and moved out to the middle of the room.

  “Vicodin,” muttered James. “Isn’t this the stuff you were taking before? This is why you’ve been out of it, putting us all in danger.”

  “Whatever,” said Chad. “You don’t know how hard I’ve got it.”

  “I know you’re full of shit, that’s what,” said James. He was angry. Chad’s decision could very well have put his own family’s life at risk.

  “You’re just a kid. You don’t know shit. Now shut up and let me enjoy this.”

  “You’re an asshole, Chad.”

  “That’s what they’ve been telling me all my life. It hasn’t stopped me yet.”

  “Just wait until Max hears about this.”

  “Screw Max.”

  “How can you say that? He’s done so much for us. Mandy told me how he risked his own life to save you from that mob.”

  “I would have been fine. Max thinks he knows everything. We would have been better off if we’d just stayed at the farmhouse.”

  “We’d be dead if we stayed there. You know that.”

  “Pffft. It’d be fine. Max thinks everything is like a life or death situation. But it’s not that… You’ve all got to take a lesson from me and try to relax more. There’s no point in worrying about what you can’t change.”

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  Maybe that was Max now.

  “Max?” called James.

  “Shit,” muttered Chad. For all his big talk, James knew that Chad was still worried about Max finding out about his little secret.

  The door swung open. And with some force.

  A man appeared. It wasn’t Max.

  It was a tall stranger. He had a big build and towered over James, who was standing there with the bottle of Vicodin.

  “What’s that?” said the man. His voice was stern and deep.

  “Uh…”

  “Hand it over.”

  James did.

  “Vicodin,” said the man, examining it. “I don’t know what you’re doing with this, but drug use is not permitted here.”

  “I was just trying to…”

  “I don’t want to hear explanations. This is going to the pharmacy stash.”

  The man pocketed the pill bottle. James had a funny feeling about the way the man did it. He had a feeling that maybe the pills weren’t going to a medical stash after all.

  “Sorry,” said James. “I didn’t get your name.”

  The man just stared at him, still not introducing himself.

  “Here’s the deal. You’re all going to join up with us.”

  “What?” said James. “Did you talk to Max already? He only wanted to stay for a little while to see how we liked it.”

  “Don’t worry about Max.”

  “What? What happened?”

  The man ignored James’s question.

  “As you may have noticed, we’re mostly men here. And we need more women if we want to grow and continue.”

  “More women?”

  “No one told you about the birds and the bees yet?”

  James blushed. He was plenty old enough to understand.

  “So obviously we’re more interested in your female companions, but we’ll let the two of you stay here too. We need men too. There’s plenty of hard physical work to be done. So you can stay if you’re willing to do it. And you’re newcomers, so you’ll be working twice as hard as those of us who set this place up. You’ve got to repay your debt somehow.”

  James didn’t like the way this was sounding. Where was Max? Had something happened to him? Had they done something to him? And what was he saying about the women? They weren’t merely James’s “female companions.” They were his mother and sister, and he was quite fond of Mandy too.

  James felt anger rising in his chest as the tall man stared him down with a stern gaze, just daring him to say something.

  Chad, who hadn’t said anything, suddenly stirred from his bed. He stood up, and walked towards the man silently.

  James stepped back to make way for Chad.

  Chad had lost some weight since the EMP, but he was still a big guy. Sure, a lot of it was fat. But there was some muscle there too.

  “You’re trying to kidnap Georgia, Mandy, and Sadie? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  James was surprised. He would have thought that Chad was too out of it to speak up.

  Chad had slurred his words badly, but the meaning was still clear.

  “It’s none of your business,” said the man. “You can make it easy or you can make it hard. It’s up to you.”

  “I’m going to make it hard.”

  Chad rushed the guy, not even bothering to swing his fists. He simply jammed his body forward, trying to body slam him.

  But the big guy was agile, and he wasn’t screwed up on drugs like Chad. He had the reflexes Chad didn’t have, and he stepped to the side.

  Chad’s head collided with the concrete wall and he fell down.

  The guy was on top of him in an instant, straddling his chest. H
e pressed his thick forearm down into Chad’s neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

  Chad moved his mouth, trying to talk, but no words came out.

  “You don’t get a say in this,” growled the man, pushing his arm harder down. “Don’t you get that?”

  Chad puckered his lips and spit in the guy’s face.

  James was paralyzed with fear. He was just standing there. But anger got to him. It overtook the fear, and he sprang into action.

  James’s bed was all the way over on the other side of the room. His rifle lay there. It was too far. The guy looked like he might kill Chad at any moment.

  Chad’s face was turning a funny color. The life seemed to be draining out of him. He was kicking his legs.

  James had to move fast. And he had to make the right move. The man was much bigger and stronger than James. James couldn’t afford to attack him and then receive a counterattack. He simply wouldn’t make it.

  James reached under his shirt. His fist grabbed the metal handle of a skeleton knife Max had given him. “This might come in handy sometime,” Max had said, as he’d shown James how to wear it around his neck under his shirt.

  The sheath was form-fitting plastic. The knife was securely inside it.

  James tugged on it and the knife came out.

  The big guy saw the flash of metal out of the corner of his eye.

  But before he could turn, James was on him, going right for the guy’s neck.

  James had to get it done in one shot. Stabbing him in the back was risky.

  James had the edge of the knife almost against the man’s throat, his own arms wrapped around the guy. James’s body was pressed against the man’s back.

  Chad was making gurgling noises. The weight of both James and the big guy was pressing down on him.

  The guy’s hands were on James’s wrists, trying to keep the knife from his throat.

  James pulled back with all his strength. But the guy was strong. He couldn’t get the knife there.

  Not yet.

  James leaned back with all his weight. It was too much for the strong guy.

  James felt it as the knife cut into the skin.

  Max had shown James how to sharpen it. He’d given him a little lesson, saying that it was a hard skill that needed plenty of time to master. Georgia, too, had given James some tips here and there. She’d shown him long ago when he was a kid, but he hadn’t retained it. The blade was still razor sharp with the fine shallow edge Max had put on it, running it along his leather belt for a final stropping.