Surviving Chaos

25

The noise of the dirt bikes was only getting louder.

“They’re coming right towards us,” said John.

“It could just be a coincidence,” said Cynthia.

John shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

He had a pair of Dale’s binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“Are they from the compound?” said Cynthia. “Can you see them?”

“I can now. They’re… shit…”

“What? What is it?”

Cynthia heart was already beating rapidly.

“They’re wearing military uniforms,” said John.

“Maybe they’re actually from the military.”

“There’s no way,” said John. “I bet they’re from the militia. From the suburbs.”

“From near Philly? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would they be out here? You know how far away we are.”

“They must be expanding,” said John.

“But how can you tell? Lots of people have military uniforms.”

“They’re kind of hodge-podge,” said John. “They’re definitely not official issue. There’s only one thing to do, and that’s take them out.”

There was a look on John’s face that Cynthia hadn’t seen before. And it scared her. It was an intense look, absolutely terrifying to behold. It was something beyond anger, beyond normal emotions.

“We can just hide,” said Cynthia. “They’ll never see us if we get out of the way. They’ll drive right by.”

“They might be looking for us.”

“What? You’re paranoid. If they’re not from the compound, why would they be looking for us? How would they know we’re here?”

“Either way,” said John. “We’ve got to do something. You want to just sit back and let them take over this whole area?”

“You’re making too many guesses here, John,” said Cynthia. “Come on, take some deep breaths, and try to calm down. We’ve got to keep clear heads about this. That’s the only way we’re going to remain alive. Come on, come with me. We’ll get out of the way.”

John jerked his arm away from her when she went to grab it.

“You do what you want,” said John. “But frankly, I don’t understand it. These are the same men who killed your husband. Remember?”

The memory was painful. Tears started to well in her eyes. She’d never get the image of her dead husband out of her mind. The way his body had lain on the lawn like that, completely limp, the life from his body completely and so cruelly extinguished.

“I’m going to get them,” muttered John, lowering his binoculars. “You can help me or not.”

The vicious look on his face was still there.

Cynthia had never seen him like this, so intent on initiating violence when they weren’t personally threatened. Sure, they’d both hardened up over the last weeks. But nothing like this. After all, they knew nothing of these two men on the dirt bikes. They might be innocent. Or as innocent as someone could be after the EMP.

John was rummaging through his pack. He found a length of rope that had come from Dale. He tossed the pack behind a tree, and started tying the rope to a tree branch.

It was a thin rope.

“I saw this in a movie once,” said John, flashing a strange, distorted sort of grin at her. “If they follow this path,” he gestured to the ground, “they’ll have to curve around this tree here. They’ll never see the rope until it’s too late.”

“John,” said Cynthia. “Come on. Come with me. We can still get out of here. We can escape them.”

John ignored her completely, and went about tying the rope so that it stretched taut across the path the dirt bikes were likely to take.

The whine from the dirt bike motors was getting louder.

John had his handgun out, and he dashed behind a tree, pulling Cynthia with him.

“They’re traveling with a good amount of distance between them,” said John. “The first one will hit the rope, and then you can shoot the second one with your rifle at a distance. He’ll stop and try to figure out what’s happening. Most likely.”

“This is an unnecessary risk, John,” said Cynthia.

“Just shut up and do what I tell you,” said John, speaking viciously.

“What the hell’s happened to you?”

John didn’t respond.

The situation alone was terrifying. And apparently something had snapped all of a sudden inside John. Sure, he’d been changing all along. But this was a sudden change. And it was more terrifying than the threat of the dirt bikes speeding towards them.

The noise from the dirt bike’s engine was louder than ever.

Cynthia glanced at John’s face. There was expectant delight. He was enjoying this, rather than being scared.

Cynthia watched from behind the tree.

The dirt bike came speeding around the bend.

Sure enough, the guy was wearing a hodge-podge military uniform. It did look similar to what the militia men had worn in the suburbs around Philadelphia.

He seemed to see the rope. But it was too late.

He hit the brakes, sending the rear wheel sliding forward. His body collided with the rope, which was at just the right height.

The rope caught him at the shoulder, knocking him off the bike. The dirt bike went sliding forward on the dirt, before hitting a tree.

“Rifle!” shouted John.

John went dashing off, his handgun at the ready.

Cynthia lowered her rifle.

The other dirt bike driver slid to a stop. About a hundred feet back.

Cynthia had her finger on the trigger.

But she couldn’t squeeze it.

These men hadn’t presented any threat to them. They hadn’t threatened violence. They hadn’t even spoken to them.

She just couldn’t do it. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe it was the wrong decision.

But she couldn’t pull the trigger.

“Shoot him!” shouted John.

It was too late. The other dirt bike had already turned around, and was speeding away.

Cynthia ran over to John and the downed dirt bike rider.

John was pressing his handgun into the mouth of the man.

“Tell me who you are,” said John savagely. “Or I won’t hesitate to kill you. In fact, I’m going to enjoy it.”

What had happened to John? Had something snapped in him? Was it what had happened to Tom? Had it pushed John over the edge?

“John,” said Cynthia, speaking as calmly as she could. “He can’t even talk. Take the gun out of his mouth.”

John glanced at her. Anger burned in his eyes.

But he did it. He took the gun out of the man’s mouth, and pressed it instead against his temple, hard enough to certainly leave a mark.

The man looked terrified. He was shaking.

“Tell me about the militia,” said John. “Are you a scout, or what?”

“Militia?” said the man, his pupils wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” said John. “I know you’re with them. Tell me your role.”

“I’m serious,” said the man. “I have no idea…”

“John,” said Cynthia. “You’re losing it. This guy isn’t part of any militia. What are the chances they’d be this far away? You’ve become completely paranoid, and you’re about to murder an innocent man.”

“Would an innocent man have this with him?” sneered John, gesturing to the man’s large, strange-looking handgun.

“We carry guns, John. We’re not criminals. Or part of a militia.”

“Check his pack,” said John, gesturing to a large backpack he’d taken off the man.

“I will,” said Cynthia. “So long as you hold off killing him.”

“Deal,” said John.

Cynthia was worried. It seemed like she didn’t know John anymore. And it had happened so fast.

Without John, she’d be lost. Completely lost in the world.

If he’d gone crazy and paranoid, she’d have to abandon him. And forge ahead alone. She didn’t think she had the strength to do that.

With fumbling fingers, Cynthia opened the pack and started taking things out.

John glanced back and forth between the man in fatigues and the contents of the pack. Cynthia placed each thing on the ground among the dead leaves.

“Looks normal so far,” said Cynthia.

On the outside, she tried to appear calm. Maybe it would calm John down.

On the inside, she was in complete turmoil, a writhing mix of anxiety and fear.

“There’s water,” said Cynthia. “Maps. Some canned food. Something that looks like dried meat. A bottle of prescription amphetamines. A bottle of caffeine pills.”

Cynthia continued, listing the entire contents of the bag.

The man in the fatigues didn’t move. His eyes darted back and forth between John and Cynthia.

“Listen,” said the man, his voice trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I can assure you I’ve never been part of any militia.” Next, he seemed to address Cynthia directly, without daring to move his head for fear that John would shoot him. “I think there’s something strange going on with your friend. I can see it in his eyes… I’ve seen it before. Something’s happening to him.”

“Watch your mouth,” said John, shoving the pistol harder against the man’s temple.

“Maybe he’s right, John,” said Cynthia in soothing tones, the way one would speak to a wounded and panicked animal. “Maybe seeing what was done to Tom was too much for you. You’re acting different. I notice it too.”

To her surprise, John laughed.

“Don’t you see?” said John, not taking his eyes off the man. “He’s trying to turn you against me. He knows it’s the only way to save himself.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He heard us talking. He heard the way you were trying to calm me down. He’s smart. He sees our weakness and he’s doing his best to exploit it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the man. “I’m just worried… well, about myself, but also about how you’ll live with yourself if you kill an innocent man.”

“I’m about to kill someone,” said John. “But I’m sure he’s not an innocent man.”

“John!” said Cynthia, finally losing her cool. “Don’t shoot. I’m still checking his bag.”

“He knows we’ll find something in there,” said John. “Isn’t that right? You wanted to distract us. Keep looking, Cynthia.”

In an effort to go faster, Cynthia finally just turned the bag upside down, dumping all the remaining contents out.

“It’s just normal stuff,” said Cynthia. “Normal stuff for survival. The same stuff we have. Nothing about a militia.”

“Anything left in there?” said John. “Because if not, I know one way to find out for sure.”

With his free hand, John pulled out his knife. He flicked it open, and slowly brought it close to the man’s face.

“You can’t do the same thing to him! Just because it happened to Tom. Think about it, John. You’ve got PTSD or something. You’re going to do what they did to Tom.”

“I don’t have anything,” said John. “I’m fine. Now look in the bag again. Check every seam, every secret pocket. I know there’s something in there.”

“What do you think I have? An ID card that says I’m part of a secret militia?” said the man. “Lady, I don’t know your name, but you’ve got to help me. Your friend is seconds away from slicing my face open.”

“Or shooting you dead,” said John, quietly.

Cynthia ran her hands along the inside of the pack.

“There aren’t any secret pockets,” said Cynthia. “No interior pockets at all.”

“Check the frame.”

“The frame?”

“There’s an internal frame. There’s usually a way to access it.”

“John, this is going too far,” said Cynthia.

“Do it,” said John. “Or I start cutting up his face. That’ll get him to tell us what’s going on.”

Cynthia found it. There was a Velcro-attached flap inside the back, along the backside of it. She undid the flap, and reached down inside. Her hand felt the metal of the internal frame. But there wasn’t anything else.

What was she going to do?

Just when she was pulling her hand up and out of the frame-compartment, she felt something. It felt like paper. She grasped onto it, and pulled it out.

It was an ordinary piece of paper, folded up many times. She unfolded it.

“What is it?” said John, glancing over.

Cynthia started to read.

Her jaw dropped.

Her eyes moved rapidly across the page, trying to take it all in.

The letter was from the leader of the Philadelphia suburban militia, Kor. It was an introduction to another group based around Pittsburgh. The letter described four men who’d been sent on what basically amounted to a diplomatic mission, looking to establish ties between the two militias.

It would have sounded too far-fetched, if it hadn’t been right there in black and white, neatly handwritten.

“It’s a…”

Just then, the sound of motorbikes came whining through the woods. It sounded like more than just one.

“He’s with the militia,” said Cynthia. She didn’t have time to explain further.

“You sure?” said John.

Suddenly, John didn’t seem too crazy anymore.

He’d been right all along.

“Positive,” said Cynthia. “I’ll explain later.”

That was when the man chose to strike. He lashed out at John, shoving him, trying to throw him off balance.

John was just fast enough. He shot him in the temple.

The body slumped over, falling sideways to the ground.

The whine of the motorbikes was louder.

“There are probably three more,” said Cynthia. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“We’ll have to go on foot,” said John.

They spoke rapidly. They both knew that they had less than a minute before the dirt bikes arrived.

“Why? We’ve got the dirt bike. They’ll catch us if we go on foot. They’ll hunt us down, once they see him.” She gestured to the dead man.

“I don’t know how to even start it, let alone ride it.”

“Then you’re in luck,” said Cynthia, “because I do. Grab your pack. We won’t be able to take mine as well. But there’s room for two of us.”

There wasn’t time for John to register his surprise that she knew how to ride a dirt bike. His jaw dropped for only a single moment before he got it together and dashed off to get his pack.

Cynthia had what she needed. She didn’t need that pack. She had her rifle slung over her shoulder, and her handgun.

She grabbed the dirt bike by the handles and set it upright. She threw her leg over it, and got into position.

When Cynthia had been in high school, a neighborhood boy had been a dirt bike enthusiast. He’d had a serious crush on her, and invited her over more than once. He’d taught her how to ride.

Cynthia found the hot start switch and pulled it in.

“Got it,” said John, appearing before her. He started to get on the bike, loaded down with his heavy pack.

“Give me a second,” said Cynthia.

“They’re almost here.”

“Trust me.”

It’d be hard to start the bike with him on it.

The whine of the other dirt bikes was loud. Very loud. They were close.

“I can see them,” said John. “I’ll try to hold them off.”

Cynthia engaged the clutch and the brake. She got the kick starter into the right position. She didn’t want to flood the engine by using the throttle.

She kicked it.

It didn’t start.

Stay calm, she told herself.

Going too quickly could flood the engine.

John’s rifle fired. She didn’t turn around to see what had happened.

“Get it started!”

She wanted to scream, “Don’t rush me!” But that wasn’t going to help anything.

She waited a few seconds, counting as slowly as she could in her head.

Finally, she gave it another kick.

This time it started.

John already had his leg halfway over the bike before she could tell him to get on.

“Hold on to me tight.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Cynthia released the brake and twisted the throttle. They were off, speeding through the trees.

It was exhilarating, the trees rushing past on either side, the wind on her face. They’d been walking so long, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be in a car again, let alone riding a dirt bike.

There was enough space between most of the trees for the dirt bike. But it wasn’t easy. It would require a lot of slowing down around bends and curves.

And there wasn’t much space between them and the pursuers.

On a bend, slowing down, she shouted to John, “How close are they?”

“Close,” he shouted back. “Maybe 50 feet.”

That wasn’t much.

She’d gotten pretty good, back in the day, at riding. But that had been around a track, not zigzagging through trees, pursued by three armed men. And she was rusty. It’d been years since she’d even seen a dirt bike.

Concentrate, she told herself. Just concentrate and stay calm.

“We need to get that radio!” shouted John.

“The radio?”

Was he crazy? They’d have to stop at Tom’s hiding spot, where she’d left the radio. It would mean putting themselves in more danger than they needed.

Then again, she’d thought he was crazy before. Just minutes ago.

And he’d been right.

Cynthia turned, aiming them on a path that would lead them right to the radio. She pulled the throttle and the engine whined.