Surviving Chaos

by Ryan Westfield

  Max kept moving from house to house. He moved quickly and quietly. He was aware that the crowd might disperse at any moment, that hundreds of people might be coming back to their houses. And he knew that they were all riled up, that they had become a mob, capable of doing anything. If he wasn’t careful, he might wind up hanged himself.

  The next house Max found had a car in the driveway. It was an old Japanese import, compact and economical.

  Max paused near the car. If he started it, the noise would surely attract the nearby crowd. But it was a risk he’d have to take.

  It took Max about ten tries to break the passenger-side window with the butt of his pocketknife. He chose the passenger side, so that if the car worked, he wouldn’t be sitting on broken glass in the driver’s seat.

  He reached in and hit the unlock button, but nothing happened. That was weird. Maybe the battery was dead. Max got the door open with the manual switch, and climbed over to the driver’s seat.

  Running his hand underneath the front seat, he found the car keys by sheer luck. But when he went to crank the engine, nothing happened. The engine didn’t turn over. The battery wasn’t working.

  It could very well just have been a regular dead battery. But Max’s mind went to another possibility. What if the EMP had affected different areas differently? They still didn’t know the source of the EMP. But whether it was natural or artificial, it was possible that its intensity was higher over some areas. Most of the cars Max had run into so far hadn’t been affected for some reason. Maybe farther west, the cars had all been shut off.

  Max didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to speculate. The noise from the crowd was different, and closer. It sounded like they were disappearing. Maybe the last man had been hanged, and people were drifting purposefully back to their homes.

  The gas gauge wasn’t registering, but it was possible there was gas still in the car.

  Max wouldn’t be able to tell whether there was gas unless he tried to siphon it. He hit the button to pop the door to the gas tank.

  In a neighbor’s shed, Max found what he was looking for. A big two gallon plastic container of pesticide. He unscrewed the cap, and found that it was half full. He poured it out into some bushes, and hurried back to the compact car.

  Some of the pesticide would remain as residue in the bottle, but it probably wouldn’t affect an engine. Even if it did, the longevity of the Bronco’s engine wasn’t exactly on Max’s mind.

  Max jammed the hose he’d carried with him down into the tank. He got his mouth onto the dirty hose and started sucking. Thankfully, the awful taste of gas didn’t hit his mouth.

  Max had the pesticide container at his feet, and got the hose into it.

  The sound of the crowd was closer now than it had been.

  Max almost didn’t dare look up.

  When he did, he saw them. A man and a woman. Late fifties. The woman wore a bathrobe and the man wore a jean jacket and faded corduroy pants.

  “What the hell are you doing to my car?”

  Max didn’t answer. He reached for his Glock. But he wasn’t going to shoot them. The situation was desperate, but he couldn’t justify it to himself. After all, in this situation, he was the thief. He was in the wrong, even if he was trying to do the right thing.

  The pesticide container was almost full.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” The man’s voice was full of anger. “Hey, Tom, Bobby! Someone’s stealing my gas!”

  More footsteps. More people were coming. If his luck was bad, soon the whole crowd would be after him.

  The container was full. Max had the cap on and he was off in a flash. He was running away from the man and woman, away from the crowd, towards the house that sat behind this one.

  He wasn’t as fast as he’d been before he’d been shot in the leg. And carrying the gas slowed him down.

  A chain link fence separated the two yards. Max heard the footsteps behind him.

  “Get him!” someone yelled.

  “Get the gun from the house!”

  “Another thief! We’ll hang him.”

  Someone cheered.

  Max didn’t look behind him. He dropped the pesticide container over the fence, and then threw himself over. He picked it up and ran as hard and as fast as he could.

  “He’s gone through the backyard!”

  Max barely had time to think. He knew that getting away wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to think of something. Some trick. Or surprise.

  If only that car had started. Max would have been out of town by now.

  Instead of running through the driveway, Max cut over to the next yard.

  He didn’t let himself panic. He didn’t let himself get lost. He kept his head as clear as he could, and didn’t let himself lose his orientation. He needed to get back to the main road, the way he’d come in, or he could easily wind up trapped in a corner somewhere, with no way out.

  Max moved swiftly backwards, throwing himself over fences, ducking down low to keep himself less visible.

  The shouts followed him, and the roar of the crowd increased.

  If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up on the gallows he’d seen earlier. There was no telling what a mob was capable of.

  And the thing was that he was guilty. He’d stolen gas.

  But there was no time for regret.

  He had to keep moving.

  “Freeze right there.”

  The words came from a cold, deep voice. Male and older, grizzled. Max couldn’t see the man, but he could smell his breath, rancid and disgusting and intense.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said Max.

  “Put the gun down.”

  “Do you have one?” said Max.

  “What? I’ve got to show it to you?”

  “If you want me to take you seriously.”

  Max heard a revolver cocking. Metal on metal. An unmistakable sound.

  “OK,” said Max, speaking quietly and slowly. “Let’s not get too excited here.” Max made no move to drop his gun. Instead, he turned his head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the guy, who stood somewhere beyond his peripheral vision.

  “Don’t push me,” said the man. His voice cracked and groaned. He sounded like a life-long smoker.

  The noise of the crowd was getting louder. They were shouting. They were calling for blood.

  Max had to act. It was either make a move now, risking getting shot. Or not make a move and certainly die.

  But there was no chance of shooting the guy. Max would have to use another tactic. He couldn’t rely on his Glock.

  “OK,” said Max. “I’m putting the gun down.”

  He did as he’d said, leaning down and setting the Glock down on the ground.

  “Now can you get that gun out of my face?”

  “No chance.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “That’s not the question you should be asking.”

  “The crowds are coming,” said Max. “And something tells me you’re not a part of them.”

  “They’re savages,” said the man, spitting his words out with disgust. “They’re hanging everyone they can get their hands on. You don’t want to know what they do with the bodies afterwards.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. There’s no food. No food except other humans. But you can’t eat live people. They’ve got to be good and dead. So they hang anyone they can. Pretty soon there won’t be anyone left at all.”

  “Where do you fit into this?”

  “Me? I’m just a concerned citizen like anyone else.”

  “What’s your problem with me? If you don’t like the mob and what they do, then let me go.”

  “The thing is… if I deliver you to them alive and well, that’s one less person they’ve got to hang. That’s one more body they’ve got before they come for me and my family.”

  Max planted his left foot firmly into the ground. His hand gripped the pesticide container tightly. He move
d fast, swinging the container around in a big arc.

  The guy didn’t get off a shot. It was too much of a surprise for him.

  The heavy plastic container collided with the man’s pistol, knocking it out of his hand, before it smashed into his head, coming at him in an arc that aimed upwards.

  The man yelled, then fell.

  The crowd was close.

  Max grabbed his Glock from the ground, holstering it. He grabbed the man’s revolver. Max didn’t recognize the brand, but he checked it and it was loaded.

  He didn’t have much time. He had to either find a place to hide or a way to get out. The last option was to make a stand and take out as many of them as he could before they got to him. He wouldn’t go out without a fight. But if he had to make a stand, he wouldn’t get the gas back to the Bronco, no matter how well he fought.

  6

  John

  John woke up disoriented. It was pitch black in the woods. He couldn’t see his hand in front of him. His heart was already pounding. Something wasn’t right.

  Deep growling was coming from an animal nearby. It took him a few moments to realize it was Kiki.

  “Kiki,” whispered John.

  She just kept growling, the tone getting deeper and deeper. John didn’t know where she was, but she sounded nearby.

  Cynthia’s body was pressed up against him, and from her breathing she was sound asleep.

  Dale was still snoring heavily.

  “Dale,” hissed John. “Dale, wake up.”

  Dale kept snoring. So much for his idea of a guard dog instead of having someone on watch.

  There was no point in asking Kiki if anyone was there, but John did anyway, whispering his question across the darkness to a dog who couldn’t respond. Kiki just kept growling.

  A beam of light cut across the dark woods, illuminating every branch and leaf and rock in a chilling white glow. It was about 100 feet away.

  John froze. There was someone there all right. And they were close.

  John glanced at the fire, which thankfully had been put completely out by dumping dirt on it. Not that it was that visible anyway.

  Fishing for his handgun, John wormed his way out of his sleeping bag as best he could.

  Dale was a few paces away, so he set about waking Cynthia up first. John felt for her mouth in the darkness, pressing his hand against it so she wouldn’t make any noise when he shook her awake. But his hand alone was enough to wake her up.

  She pulled his hand away.

  “Don’t make any noise,” whispered John, as quietly as he possibly could. “Someone’s here. Get your gun.”

  He heard Cynthia fumbling for her gun.

  “Got it,” she whispered.

  They had no flashlights. No way to see through the darkness for whoever it was.

  The only thing they could do was watch for where the flashlight went. It would give whoever it was away.

  So long as they kept using the flashlight.

  All it took was turning off the flashlight, and they’d be just as invisible as John and Cynthia in the darkness.

  Kiki was growling louder.

  “Kiki, quiet. Keep quiet, Kiki.”

  John was worried her growl would be perfectly audible in the deadly silent woods.

  There were heavy footsteps on the ground. Close by. The flashlight beam was getting closer. About fifty feet away. Just one flashlight. But it sounded like there were two men.

  But she just growled louder.

  Dale woke suddenly with a start.

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Dale’s rough just-woken-up voice. He made a hell of a racket as he tried to stand up, tripping over his sleeping bag, from the sound of it.

  “Get flat on the ground,” hissed John. “There are people here.”

  John was on his stomach, pressing himself into the dirt.

  “You hear me, Dale? Someone’s here.”

  “I heard you, and I’m already on the ground.” Dale spoke loudly, in full volume.

  Whoever was out there, they knew now precisely where Dale, John, and Cynthia were.

  John looked for the flashlight beam, but it had shut off. Either that was a good sign or a really bad one. John was gong to go with it being really bad.

  Kiki growled and John heard her rushing off somewhere.

  “Get ‘em, Kiki,” shouted Dale, laughing deeply.

  “Take this seriously, Dale,” hissed John.

  “Kiki will take care of us.”

  Kiki had her sense of smell, not to mention better night vision. But she didn’t have a gun. She was just a dog.

  A gun went off nearby. Someone shouted. Kiki growled furiously. It sounded like she’d attacked someone.

  The flashlight beam appeared again. It was close by. Maybe twenty feet. The beam illuminated a tall, muscular man. Kiki had seized his upper thigh with her teeth. And she wasn’t letting go. Pain contorted the man’s face. He was trying to push Kiki off without any luck.

  The flashlight’s white light made the scene look impossibly eerie, like something from a horror movie. Not that anyone was watching horror movies anymore.

  John took aim. But not at the man that Kiki had seized. Instead, he aimed his gun at what seemed to be the source of the flashlight’s beam.

  But he didn’t shoot yet. He didn’t want to risk killing someone innocent. They hadn’t actually been attacked yet.

  A gunshot rang out. Someone had fired at them. John actually felt the dirt spraying up at him from where the bullet had struck the ground.

  Another shot rang out.

  A bullet struck the man Kiki had seized. Right in the skull. Blood, illuminated by the pale white light, rushed out. He fell to the ground.

  John squeezed his trigger, trying to hit whoever had the flashlight, whoever had fired at them. He felt the recoil, and looked on expectantly. But nothing happened. The flashlight didn’t fall. He’d missed.

  The flashlight switched off. But it’d been a conscious decision. Whoever was out there was still alive.

  “What do we do?” whispered Cynthia. There was fear in her voice.

  “Keep quiet,” whispered John. “They can’t shoot us if they don’t know where we are.”

  It was a tough game to play. Neither party could see the other. Unless the flashlight was switched on. They couldn’t just fire wildly into the darkness, not unless they wanted to waste all their precious ammo.

  Surely, their attacker would switch the flashlight on to try to find them and shoot them. But once they did, they became a target themselves.

  John kept his eyes scanning the darkness, ready for the moment the flashlight switched back on.

  There were no footsteps. There was no noise. Just his own heavy breathing.

  Kiki wasn’t making any noise.

  Where had Kiki gone?

  If only they’d had a flashlight. Their own had died a few days earlier.

  The way things were now, they were completely stuck, unable to make the moves that could save their lives. They couldn’t flee into the darkness, not without getting their stuff.

  “Enough waiting,” muttered Dale. “I’m going in.”

  “Dale, you’re crazy, stay where you are,” hissed John.

  “Dale!” hissed Cynthia. “Don’t do something stupid.”

  “They’ll be sorry they messed with The Bastard!” said Dale, his voice full volume. He laughed as he spoke, his classic deep chuckle rumbling around and through each syllable.

  Dale rose up, making a hell of a racket. John heard him rushing forward, his boots heavy on the ground.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Dale didn’t answer. Apparently he was determined to simply rush into the darkness and charge their attacker.

  John and Cynthia had been impressed with Dale’s know-how since they’d met him. But they’d also noticed a certain streak in him, a strain of intense compulsiveness. He laughed at everything and seemed to fear nothing, thinking he was almost invincible.


  The flashlight beam reappeared. The beam was short. Dale was close to the source.

  It shone directly on Dale. He was running full tilt towards the source of the flashlight. His arms were swinging fast at his sides. His face was bent down. His legs were pumping. His thick, heavy body was moving fast.

  There wasn’t enough time for anyone to do anything. Dale ran straight into the flashlight holder. With a tremendous thud, the two of them collided with the ground.

  The flashlight had fallen to the ground. “Stay there,” said John to Cynthia, running towards the flashlight.

  John tripped on a root as he ran. He fell forward, hitting the ground hard.

  But the flashlight was right there, within arm’s reach. He grabbed it and shone it right on Dale, who was wrestling with a big, muscular man.

  John aimed his gun, but it was impossible to get a clean shot. The two of them were rolling around on the ground, struggling for control of a single handgun that they both held onto.

  “Shoot him!” cried out Cynthia.

  But he couldn’t. For a second, John thought he had a clean shot. The next, Dale and the man had moved again. The gun was on the side away from John. He couldn’t see who had the upper hand.

  The gun they were struggling for suddenly went off. The gunshot had been loud. John’s ears rang.

  The struggle had ended. But both bodies were still. Who’d been shot? Both of them?

  “Dale?”

  Suddenly, the two of them moved. Dale’s face rolled into view. A hole had been blasted into his forehead, a horrifying bloody cavity illuminated in the cold artificial light of the flashlight’s beam.

  Dale’s killer moved quickly, aiming the gun right at John.

  John was too fast for him. He squeezed the trigger of his own gun, pumping two rounds into the guy, who fell still.

  There was no point in checking Dale’s pulse. He was gone.

  Cynthia was suddenly at John’s side, holding him tight, pressing her body into his. She was sobbing.

  A sound of something rushing towards them… different from heavy boots.

  John spun around and threw light on it. It was Kiki, running right towards Dale. She got down near Dale, bending her front legs to do so, whining and licking Dale’s face.