Defending Camp

16

Art woke up feeling the worst he’d ever felt. It took him a full minute to just register on the pain. And in the end, he could barely parse it all out. Everything hurt. Simply everything.

“He’s awake.”

The night before came instantly flooding back into his mind.

Was he still in that crazy rebel house?

Inwardly, he groaned. He wasn’t just at his physical limit of pain. He was at his mental limit, too. He couldn’t go through it all again. It was too much. Simply too much.

“Pull him up.”

“Get your mask on. Come on.”

“It’s not a mask. It’s just a bag.”

“Does the same thing.”

Rough hands pulled Art to his feet. His eyes were still half-closed.

“Open your eyes. We don’t have all day.”

The light was bright. It must have been late morning.

Art instinctively shielded his eyes from the light with his hand.

In front of him were the same plastic bag masks from the night before. They looked more ridiculous now in proper lighting. The bags weren’t completely opaque, and he could partially see the men’s faces. The holes for their eyes and mouths seemed bigger now. Maybe the bags had stretched. The men had deep dark bags under their eyes.

“He’s not in good shape.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s going to do it for us. Aren’t you?”

Art mumbled something. He couldn’t quite get the words out.

“Get him something to drink. Some water.”

“Screw him. He doesn’t get any of our water.”

“You want him to die on our hands?”

Something outside. Some sound. Art barely registered on it.

Tires screeched. Engines rumbled, the noise drifting into the house. Door slammed.

The masked men glanced at each other.

“Shit,” one muttered.

“They’re here.”

Art was too dazed to do anything. He just watched as they grabbed shotguns from where they’d been leaning against the wall.

A third man appeared, not wearing a mask. He reached for a high-caliber revolver that was stuck into the waistband of his pants.

The masked men tore the plastic bags off their faces, revealing them fully for the first time.

One didn’t look familiar.

The other did. Even in his heavily fatigued brain, Art was pretty sure that the guy had been the cashier at a small health food grocery store that Art had shopped at frequently.

For some reason, the recognition didn’t surprise Art. It seemed fitting, somehow, that his old, normal life had become this twisted. People from his past were popping up, almost like characters in a movie, but the script had been all rearranged, and no one was the way they’d been before.

Art heard the front door burst open.

Heavy footsteps. Fast.

Shouting. Yelling. Deep voices.

It all seemed familiar. And yet Art felt like he was on the wrong end of it.

Was it the militia that’d come? It sure sounded like them.

A gunshot rang out through the house.

Another. And another.

Someone screamed. They’d been shot. It was all happening in another room.

Two of Art’s captors rushed out of the room, guns ready.

Two quick gunshots followed.

One of Art’s captors was left alone in the room with him.

Art hadn’t moved a muscle. He was going to take what was going to come, whatever it was. He was defeated, mentally and physically. He had no fight left in him yet again. How many times had this happened to him, where the will to live had left him?

His captor pressed a handgun against Art’s temple. Hard.

“You’re going to be my ticket out of here,” he growled.

The door burst open, a booted foot appearing. The door slammed into the wall.

Figures rushed in.

Art recognized them. They were his crew. His troop, or regiment. Whatever you wanted to call it. They’d never had an official name. The faces were the same faces he’d woken up to every morning since the EMP, since he’d been “recruited” into the militia.

“Hold your fire,” shouted Art’s captor. His arm was around Art’s neck, holding him close to himself, keeping the muzzle of his gun pressed hard into Art’s temple.

Art saw the recognition in the faces. They knew it was Art. Their eyes flickered over the situation.

“Your buddy here dies, unless you guarantee my safe departure. You wouldn’t want your friend here to die, would you?”

Art saw no emotion in their faces.

They didn’t care if he lived or died.

And he felt the same way about them.

Most of them, anyway.

They were all just in it to survive as long as they could. These men held no personal grudges against these rebels. Many of them didn’t even care what happened to the militia, so long as it didn’t affect their personal survival. They were here on orders. Just as Art was.

If they were to shoot Art’s captor, it’d be a tricky shot.

Art would probably get shot, at best, in the process.

And they were definitely going to shoot.

This was the end.

Art closed his eyes.

He felt nothing.

No relief.

No longing.

No pain.

The shot rang out.

Art opened his eyes. He was still alive.

His captor was on the floor, blood all over him.

Blood covered Art’s side.

Art stood up, unsteady on his feet. His hands and feet were still bound. He looked at his fellow soldiers and they looked back at him.

One of them laughed, breaking the strange moment. It was Bobby.

“I was sure I was going to hit you too, Art,” he said, laughing.

“Good shot,” muttered Art.

Heavy footsteps came from the hallway.

Art looked up to see Sarge’s imposing figure in the doorway.

Sarge never came along on raids. Not once.

He paused only for a moment in the doorway, then made a straight line towards Art, arms swinging viciously at his sides.

“You bastard,” he said, through gritted teeth. “How many times are you going to fail?”

Sarge moved fast. His arm swung up and around. His fist, rock hard, collided with Art’s jaw.

Art fell to the floor, his bound hands in front of him, unable to brace himself against the fall.

His shoulder hit the wood floor first, his head lashing around and smashing into the floor.

He blacked out. Darkness overcame him. But it wasn’t death. Not yet.