Pushing On

by Ryan Westfield

  It was pleasant and convivial, sitting there in good company, enjoying a chat that had nothing to do with surviving, nothing to do with what was needed to be done.

  John knew, though, that it was only the briefest of respites. Soon, they’d be back on the trail, heading to who knew where. Soon all the conversations would turn again to guns and watches and food rationing.

  30

  Mandy

  Mandy couldn’t believe that they were out of there. She couldn’t believe they were alive.

  They’d barreled down the back roads in the Bronco. Mandy had been terrified, behind the wheel, her foot not letting up on the gas pedal for a second. She hadn’t had any idea where she was taking them. The only thing she’d known was that she’d needed to get as far away from the compound as they could.

  Mandy had driven down dusty back roads on tree-lined streets, through the middle of the night. She’d driven until they’d run out of gas.

  The backseat had been full of frantic activity. They’d been trying to treat Georgia’s bullet wound.

  Georgia had woken up. She’d been in incredible pain, trying to grit her teeth. But she’d had to scream. It’d been inevitable. The pain would have been too much for anyone.

  Mandy had kept her eyes on the road as much as possible, but when she’d glanced in the rearview mirror, she’d seen nothing but bloodied hands and a sweating Georgia, her face contorted in pure pain.

  Somehow, Max had gotten the bullet out. James had been fishing through the gear constantly, finding things for Max, acting as the dutiful and silent doctor’s assistant.

  And there in the backseat, Max had performed the procedure, in silent concentration, with only a few words here and there to James.

  Sadie hadn’t been able to turn around and watch. She’d sat there with her eyes closed, her knees pulled up to her chest, shaking in fear of losing her mother.

  Eventually, the Bronco had simply run out of gas. There was nothing there except the trees. No nearby towns. Nothing. They had no idea where they were.

  They stayed in the Bronco through the night. A sleepless night. Mandy kept her hand on her gun the entire time. Unfortunately, most of their ammo had been stolen. They’d had it all with them in their packs—none of it had been left in the Bronco, for fear of it getting stolen. So all Mandy had was what she’d taken from the guard Georgia had shot.

  If it hadn’t been for Georgia, they’d all have been dead. They’d never have made it. Not even Max. Because he would have busted into the compound no matter what, and Max would have died there if Mandy and the others hadn’t been alive when he’d come in.

  As the sun rose, Max finally stepped down out of the Bronco and joined Mandy at the rear bumper, which she leaned on.

  “How’s she doing?” whispered Mandy.

  “Not good,” said Max. A grim look was on his battered face.

  “Is she going to make it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “That doesn’t mean much.”

  “No. It doesn’t. I got the bullet out, but she’s sick. She’s running a high fever.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing. Nothing I know of.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Wait.”

  Mandy nodded in the early morning light. There wasn’t anything else to say about Georgia. Either she’d live or she wouldn’t. It was out of their hands. They could bring her water and stay by her. They could give her antibiotics. They could hope for the best. But after that, it was out of their hands.

  Mandy hoped she’d live, but she didn’t dare say it out loud.

  Max and Mandy stood there, staring off into the sky together, side by side, not speaking. They’d been through so much that it seemed to have taken all the words right out of them. It’d taken more than words, but it was hard to say exactly what.

  Several minutes passed.

  “You think we’ll make it?” said Mandy, finally.

  Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his face towards her and looked her right in the eyes.

  His eyes were bloodshot as hers probably were, from too many nights without sleep, from too many days without food. Viciously dark circles hung under each eye. The injuries on his face, rather than looking better, were now looking worse than ever. He’d been drenched in sweat and blood, a thin film of grime building up over the bruises, never getting washed off.

  But in his eyes… there was something. Something powerful. It wasn’t hope. No, it wasn’t anything like that. But in his eyes Mandy saw Max’s drive. She saw his will to live. To continue.

  And that was all Mandy needed. That was her answer.

  Max hadn’t lost it.

  And, as Mandy now realized, neither had she.

  They’d make it, whether or not Georgia made it.

  “We’re going to have to make camp here,” said Max. “Did you figure out where we are yet?”

  Mandy shook her head. “We might have crossed into West Virginia. I don’t know. But we went west, as far as I can tell. Unless I took some crazy switchbacks and didn’t realize it.”

  “You did good with the driving.”

  Mandy nodded. She wasn’t so sure she’d done a good job, but at least she’d done it.

  “We need to get the Bronco off of the road, out of view, in case anyone comes by.”

  “We’re going to camp with the Bronco? Why don’t we just leave it and hike to a new spot, away from it?”

  “We need to keep Georgia in there, I think,” said Max. “I don’t think we should move her. It’s getting cold at night, and it’s going to be better shelter than anything we’ll be able to build.”

  “How are we going to get it into the woods, though?”

  Max surveyed the surrounding area briefly. “Push it, I guess. We can push it over some of the saplings. I’ll try to find a path without any big trees in the way, wide enough for the Bronco.”

  “If you say so.”

  Mandy knew now that Max’s instincts were… well, they weren’t always right. But they were worth following. No one, after all, could be right all the time. Not since the EMP. There were too many unknowns.

  “Check on Georgia, will you?” said Max, starting to walk off in search of a path for the Bronco.

  “Max,” said Mandy.

  She reached out and grabbed his torn coat sleeve.

  “What is it?”

  Mandy held on to Max. She didn’t want to let him go, even though he’d be back momentarily.

  But she didn’t know what to say. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, but she couldn’t get the words out.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “You OK?”

  “I guess.”

  Max nodded, turned, and headed off. In their current situation, “I guess” was about as good as it was going to get.

  Mandy stood there for a moment watching Max’s back. He walked with a slight limp now. Obviously the leg was still painful. But it was amazing he was walking at all.

  The air had a bite to it, and Mandy put her hands into the pockets of her coat, only to find that they’d torn, just like the rest of the coat. A strange memory came flooding back to her. It was just a fragment, really. A fragment of a poem she’d had to memorize back in high school for French class. She couldn’t remember the French, but the English translation she remembered went something like, “I put my hands in my torn pockets. My overcoat, too, was becoming ideal.”

  The author was Rimbaud, some French poet who she couldn’t remember anything about.

  For Mandy, the poet had been trying to say that he’d like the adventure of life, the turmoil and the insults, the hardships and the lean times.

  It was pure romanticism.

  Mandy had liked the poem. She’d even had a brief phase as a teenager of wearing torn jeans, mostly because of that poem, and partly because it looked cool and was stylish at the time.

  But now that times really were lean, the romanticism meant nothing to her.


  No, she didn’t long for the times before the EMP. But that wasn’t because she wouldn’t have preferred them. It was simply because that world was gone. Probably never to return. There wasn’t any point in thinking about it.

  Mandy, along with the others, had been transformed. Transformed into a person she never would have recognized before the EMP.

  Mandy didn’t have time to stay lost in daydreams. There were things to be done.

  “How’s she doing?” said Mandy, opening the back door to the Bronco.

  Georgia lay there, on her stomach. Max had stopped the bleeding by suturing the wound. He’d done it somewhat crudely. After all, he wasn’t a doctor. But it had worked.

  “Better,” said James. He sounded tired and worried. But he was keeping it together. “But she’s still got a fever.”

  Mandy nodded.

  Georgia wasn’t unconscious, but she wasn’t speaking either.

  “The antibiotics will work,” said Mandy. “You need some rest, James. Let me take care of your mom for now.”

  James shook his head.

  She could see in his eyes that there wasn’t any way to convince him otherwise.

  Through the rear windshield, which had at least one bullet hole, Mandy saw Max reappearing.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “The same, I think.”

  “Let’s hope those antibiotics work.”

  They spoke in hushed tones, so that James couldn’t hear them from inside the Bronco.

  “I found a place we can push it.”

  “It’s going to be hard, pushing it over that terrain. You think we can do it?”

  “We have to.”

  “We better do it now, before we lose any more energy.”

  “We need to clear some saplings first. Some are too big for the car.”

  “But we don’t have an ax.”

  “I think we can take them with the knives. Come on, I need your help. You have your Mora?”

  “Always do.” Mandy patted the plastic-sheathed knife on her belt. It had been a literal life-saver at least once. And probably would be again.

  Mandy ducked her head back into the Bronco to tell James and Sadie what was going on. “Keep on the lookout,” said Mandy. “I know you want to keep your eyes on your mom, but you also need to be ready for someone coming. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, though.”

  James gave a stiff nod. Sadie was still mostly unresponsive in the front seat, overcome with stress and worry.

  Mandy set off to follow Max, who was already walking back to where he’d found the place to forge a trail. It was about 200 feet from the Bronco.

  When Mandy caught up with him, he was already at work, using his pocket knife to splice into the saplings. Mandy watched how he moved the knife up and down, rocking it, and then bent the sapling until it snapped.

  Mandy tried to do the same with her own knife, but it was hard at first.

  “There’s a trick to it,” said Max, observing her. “Only make one cut. You just want to rock it. Don’t try to saw it.”

  “OK, I think I got it.”

  Max nodded, as she snapped her first sapling.

  “Max,” said Mandy. “We haven’t talked about Chad.”

  Max was silent for a moment. “What’s there to talk about?”

  “I don’t know… He was your friend, from way back.”

  Max nodded.

  “And, I don’t know. If you wanted to talk to me about it, that’d be fine. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, but words aren’t going to bring him back. He’s dead, and that’s it.”

  Mandy didn’t say anything. Max was already back at work.

  Max had found the perfect spot. Along most of the road, there were thick trees that they couldn’t cut down, but right here, where they stood, there was just enough space for the Bronco to fit. Why there were saplings, Mandy didn’t know. She didn’t have time to think about it, since it was hard work. There wasn’t much in the way of bushes, but there were plenty of rocks, which, along with the uneven ground, made the work harder than it would have been. And it would make pushing the Bronco even harder.

  It took them a good twenty minutes to get the path clear enough that the Bronco would be able to travel over the ground.

  “Come on,” said Max. “We might as well get this over with. It’s going to be a hell of a job pushing it down here.”

  “You think it’s far enough?”

  Max nodded. “Yeah, we’ll be mostly out of view. We can set up camp there.”

  “And then what? We’re not going to be able to travel without gas.” It was obvious, but Mandy felt she needed to say it anyway. She wanted to get Max’s take on what would happen.

  “We can’t all hike out. Not with Georgia like this.”

  That was obvious, too.

  “So we’re going to just stay here?”

  “For a while. Until Georgia’s better. If she makes it, that is. Come on, time to push the Bronco.”

  Mandy’s muscles were already weak and tired. She didn’t feel like she had the strength to walk back to the Bronco, let alone push it, with Georgia and the gear inside it, across uneven terrain.

  31

  John

  John woke up early in the morning. Sunlight came through the small windows of Dale’s cabin.

  He was a little stiff, but not too bad. He felt stronger than he had yesterday. A lot stronger. He was regaining his strength.

  It had been a long time since John had felt so rested. He’d spent the night in the chair, something that months ago he would have thought sounded far too uncomfortable. But it was better than the uneven ground out in the woods. It was better than sleeping on rocks, or not sleeping at all.

  He’d only woken up twice that night. Normally, when he and Cynthia had slept outside, he’d never go a full night without waking up a dozen times, his heart pounding, fearing that some attack was looming immediately, close and deadly.

  But it had only been Kiki, barking loudly and deeply, that had woken him up. Each time, she’d settled down soon enough, lying back down on the wooden floorboards of the cabin.

  They hadn’t kept a watch, which had felt strange and dangerous to John and Cynthia. But Dale had assured them there was nothing to worry about, that Kiki was a better watchman than any human under the sun. They’d been so tired, and John so weak, that they didn’t have it in them to protest.

  John looked around. Dale and Kiki were gone, probably on a walk around the property.

  Cynthia snored lightly nearby, curled up in her wooden chair. She looked cute like that, almost beautiful. Her hair had come undone from her braid, and it hung messily around her, the sunlight hitting it just right.

  John got up silently, so as not to wake Cynthia. He had to urinate, and, looking around, there didn’t seem to be any kind of bathroom facilities. Not that he would have expected any in a cabin like this. But he hadn’t seen an outhouse either.

  That was fine with John. He’d do what he’d done since the EMP, and go in the great outdoors.

  John patted his gun on his hip before opening the door as quietly as he could. He took one last look at Cynthia to make sure he hadn’t woken her up before stepping outside.

  The air had a chilly bite to it. The sun was still low in the sky and hadn’t yet started to warm everything up.

  John cast his eyes around. Everything looked peaceful and calm. The trees swayed slightly in an early morning breeze.

  John found his way along a narrow path that wound its way through the trees. He stepped off the path, so as not to leave urine on the path itself, unzipped his pants, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  He’d had a lot of tea last night, and the stream continued and continued, seemingly relentlessly.

  There was a sound off to his right. A twig cracking, or something similar.

  John turned his head sharply, but he saw nothing.

  Must have just been an animal. A squirrel or rabbit.

  Nothing but quiet,
now.

  John must have imagined it. He was still jumpy, though, and on guard, considering that he knew for a fact there were two criminals out there with firearms. Sure, they may have headed off in some other direction. That was what he was hoping for.

  John finally finished, and his early morning cold fingers found the zipper with some difficulty.

  As he was zipping up, a tremendous bang rang out in the forest.

  It was a gunshot. It came from over where he’d heard the twig snapping.

  The bullet smashed into a tree a mere foot from his head. Wood splinters exploded outward from the tree. John felt some of them hit his shirt.

  John threw himself to the ground. Quickly and instinctively. His hand reached for his gun.

  It felt good in his hand. Cold and firm.

  On his belly, he thrust the gun in front of him, holding it with both hands. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to find the attacker.

  A flash of movement up ahead. An orange jumpsuit. Unmistakable. So it was the criminals. Or one of them, at least.

  John knew that if there was one there, there’d be another one nearby. Shit. He might get attacked from behind. He’d never know it until it was too late.

  It was good John and Cynthia had been practicing so much with the firearms. He certainly was still no expert, but he was a lot better. Everything about the gun felt natural to John now, and he felt confident he could hit the guy, provided he could just get a clear shot.

  The orange jumpsuit was hidden behind a tree. But the guy would have to move. He couldn’t stay there forever.

  John kept his eyes on the tree the jumpsuit had disappeared behind. If he took his eyes off to check for another attacker, he’d risk losing his chance of getting a shot off.

  So he kept his ears peeled, listening as close as he could for sounds coming from any direction.

  A flash of the orange jumpsuit up ahead.