Getting Home

4

Janet turned around only once as she ran. She didn’t see Art get shot, but she saw his body on the ground.

She just turned back around and kept sprinting down the suburban road. Her muscles burned. They felt like they were filled with lead. But she kept going, her sneakers pounding against the pavement. Her arms pumped at her sides, her handgun clutched in one hand.

She heard the shouts behind her. And the gunshots.

But she just kept running. As fast as she could.

She knew they’d have no mercy with her. And why should they? She’d betrayed the only people alive who knew her name. The militia was her family, and she was leaving it.

She knew their tricks. She knew how they operated. After all, until moments ago, she’d been one of them.

When searching someone, the militia followed a protocol that Sarge had taught them. They were trained to pair up and spread out. If Janet got far enough away, she was likely to encounter two militia members rather than a larger group.

If she was worth searching for, that is. A lot of the times the militia preferred to save their time and manpower and just let people who didn’t matter go free.

But that was only for those who weren’t threats.

And Janet was certainly a threat.

She knew many of the safe houses, many of the hideouts. She even knew where Sarge was.

If a militia member disobeyed an order, he was rewarded with a severe beating. Or a bullet in the head, depending on Sarge’s mood.

If a militia member obviously defected, like deserting the safe house, they got a bullet in the head. No discussion. No questions.

What Janet had done was worse. She’d freed a prisoner.

She was going to get more than a bullet in the head if they caught her.

They’d revel in torturing her, causing as much pain as possible.

But she wasn’t going to let that happen.

Her mind was so set on killing Sarge that she knew she wouldn’t and couldn’t let anything come between herself and her goal.

Janet couldn’t run anymore. Not at the pace she’d been going.

She ducked between two houses, sprinting down the shared driveway.

The homes were large and had been, before the EMP, coveted and expensive places to live.

No one lived there anymore. Janet knew because she’d been part of the raiding party on these particular homes not that long ago. She and ten others had entered every house on this block and shot the people who’d been in the houses. They’d murdered them in cold blood.

It’d been hard for Janet at first to kill. In her former life, before the EMP, she’d been a hairstylist. But that was all so far in the past now. When she occasionally thought back to her old life, something she normally avoided doing, her memories didn’t even feel like her own. They felt more like some movie of a stranger.

Janet was hardened now. Countless kills had done that to her. She had to survive. She did what she had to do. No matter what. No matter who she had to kill. She’d killed women and children. She’d tortured men until they’d cried and screamed and begged to be killed. She’d pulled out eyeballs and disemboweled living men.

That was just life. Life in the militia.

If she was being honest with herself, the transition to a hardened killer hadn’t even been that hard for her.

It had been for some of the men in the militia. Many of them hadn’t been able to hack it. They’d tried to sneak away in the middle of the night. And they’d gotten shot for it.

A lot of the time, it’d been Janet who’d shot them.

But somehow, slowly, the hardened personality that she wore like armor had started to unravel. She began having dreams of what had been done to her family, what the militia was really responsible for.

So in a split second she’d decided to leave. To stop it all.

Her mind had gone right to Sarge.

She had to kill him.

But she had to get to him first.

Janet knew that she didn’t have much time. Two militia members would show up soon. It wouldn’t take them long.

She needed to get into a position that would give her a slight strategic advantage. After all, she had a realistic understanding of her own abilities. She knew that she wasn’t any better than the rest of the militia guys. In fact, she was probably a lot worse at many things than some of them.

She’d never handled a gun before the EMP. Never even seen one.

She had plenty of experience now, though.

The yards here were large. A large shed sat in the back corner of one.

It was common knowledge among the militia that people on the run tried to hide in sheds. They were convenient and often unlocked.

But they were death traps. A quick burst of gunfire through the flimsy wooden sides and everyone inside would get hit.

Janet ran over to the shed. She grabbed the handle and turned it, pulling the door open just a hair. Hopefully that’d be enough to convince them that she’d gone into the shed. She didn’t want to make it too obvious.

It was night, but the moon was out and the sky was cloudless. They’d be able to notice the small detail, and she’d have enough light to shoot them by.

There was a gazebo made of ornately-carved wood in the center of the yard. Janet briefly considered trying to duck down in there. It’d be a good vantage point to the shed. Very close. But not enough cover.

Her eyes continued scanning the yard.

There wasn’t much time.

There were some bushes that grew right up against the house. Before the EMP, they’d been kept neatly trimmed, and they hadn’t grown much over the winter months. But they’d have to work.

Janet ran over to them and managed to squeeze herself between the bushes and the stucco-like siding that covered the lower portion of the house. The thin branches broke as she pushed her body farther into the space. The branches scratched her face and poked her.

But she could deal with minor discomfort. Especially if it meant surviving.

They should be here any moment now.

She waited, staying as still as she could. Her breathing was heavy and she tried to control it. She didn’t want them to hear her.

Heavy footsteps running down the driveway, the soles of boots slapping against the pavement.

They were here.

Janet held her breath. She wouldn’t let any sounds give her away.

Hopefully the bushes and the cover of night would be enough. Hopefully her trick with the shed door hadn’t been too subtle. Hopefully whoever showed up wouldn’t be smart enough to realize that Janet was a militia member herself, that she knew where they normally looked.

Looking out through the tangle of the dense leaves and branches, Janet saw two figures moving through the dark yard. One had a shotgun and one had a handgun. That was standard practice when there weren’t enough guns of the ideal type to go around. Pair a guy with a handgun with a guy with something bigger.

Janet had her own handgun pointed out through the bushes. Thorns dug into her flesh but she ignored it. She knew she was bleeding and she didn’t care.

Neither of the figures spoke. They were approaching the shed cautiously, walking slowly now.

Janet knew she had to wait just long enough. They needed to be past her, with their backs to her.

Janet couldn’t hold her breath any longer. It happened all of a sudden. Her body suddenly cried out for air. She breathed in sharply and involuntarily. She’d been so caught up in the moment she hadn’t allowed herself to feel the lack of oxygen.

“What was that?”

Janet recognized the voice. It was Sloane, a man with a woman’s name for some reason that no one had ever figured out.

Janet didn’t hesitate. She squeezed the trigger.

Sloane was a bastard. He’d stolen her food more than once. And he’d rubbed it in her face too, enjoying the fact that he was bigger than she was and could do what he wanted.

The recoil must have knocked a branch loose, because the next thing Janet knew, she couldn’t see anything.

A shotgun blast rang out.

Janet wasn’t hit. They must have aimed blindly in her direction. Whoever the partner was.

Pushing aside the branches, Janet saw Sloane’s body lying on the ground. He didn’t seem to be dead. His body was convulsing on the ground violently. His partner crouched next to him, holding the shotgun. He seemed unsure if he should fight or help Sloane, his injured partner.

Helping fellow militia members wasn’t the norm. In fact, the rule that Sarge had drilled into their heads was that they were supposed to leave a fallen comrade no matter what. Under no circumstances were they to compromise their victory by trying to help one of their own.

It was a vicious, heartless policy, but it worked.

Punishment for disobeying was severe.

It’d been hammered so hard into Janet’s head that she hadn’t batted an eyelash at leaving the traitor Art there on the ground. And she also couldn’t understand this soldier’s actions. He was hesitating. It was strange. Weird. Unusual.

Janet felt a surge of anger, as if she hadn’t fled the militia. As if she hadn’t deserted her unit. What was this soldier playing at? Didn’t he understand the rules?

She snapped out of it, suddenly remembering which side she was actually on.

Janet’s finger was on the trigger, pulling. Almost at the catch point.

But then she recognized, in a split second, the other soldier.

It was Bobby McAdams. Maybe the only kind person in the entire regiment. Somehow he’d managed to straddle the line between vicious killer and caring person. He was always helping out his fellow soldiers, often incurring the wrath of Sarge because of it. He was notorious for being genuinely kind and helpful.

She couldn’t kill McAdams, could she?

Not only that, but she shouldn’t do it.

It was wrong.

Then again, the whole militia was wrong.

McAdams turned, the moonlight on his face. She saw his features clearly, the boyish charm that he carried, the baby fat that he never seemed to lose no matter how little he’d eaten. It was the first time she’d seen him without that lopsided grin he always seemed to carry with him as if it was his lucky charm.

He wasn’t trying to kill her. He wasn’t shooting at her.

But he wouldn’t let her go. He had his orders. And he’d never let anyone go before. Sure, he’d help his fellow soldiers. But now Janet was no longer a soldier.

If she revealed herself, he’d shoot her.

So she had no choice.

She could spin it any way she wanted to herself.

Actions were more important than thoughts.

Janet squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled.

It was a good shot. Right in the forehead. His body remained upright for a few moments before he fell face-forward onto the yard, making a dull thud.

Janet’s ears rang from the gunshots.

She got up quickly and out from behind the bush. Her clothes and skin were torn up from the branches.

Sloane was still alive, lying on his back. Blood gurgled out of his mouth. His eyes moved, following Janet. His expression was strange. He looked emotionally hurt, as if she’d done something to hurt his feelings.

“Sorry, Bobby,” muttered Janet, looking down at Bobby’s body.

The gunshots would be heard by the next pair of soldiers. They’d be coming for her soon.

Sloane tried to speak, but nothing but unintelligible gurgling noises came out.

Janet had no words for Sloane. She grabbed his shotgun. The handle was slick with blood.

Janet took off running, checking over her shoulder for the next pair of soldiers that she knew would come. Because they always came.