Pushing On

2

“How long do you think it’s been since the EMP?” said John.

“I don’t know,” said Cynthia. “I lost track so long ago. Sometime during the trip here.”

“It was long,” said John. “A few weeks, maybe?”

Cynthia shrugged. “No idea, really. It probably doesn’t matter much.”

“I guess not,” said John. “It’s not like we have to make sure we keep our dentist appointments or anything like that. But, still…”

He paused, looking for the words that didn’t seem to come to him.

“What is it?” said Cynthia, prompting him to say more.

“It’s just that… I guess I was still holding out a little bit of hope that the longer we got from the EMP, the greater the chance that someone would step in… You know? Like it was hard to believe that the whole country was affected, or the whole world. But if it wasn’t, if things were running normally in other parts, then surely they’d step in and lend a helping hand.”

“You mean like the military or the Red Cross would have dispatched or something?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, we don’t have any way to know what’s going on anywhere else, without any communication. But I think the fact that no one else has come must mean that it’s like this everywhere.”

“I know I shouldn’t have been holding onto even the smallest piece of hope,” said John. “But I guess a part of me wanted it to be true.”

“The thing we don’t know,” said Cynthia. “Is how other areas reacted to the EMP. It’s possible that some places didn’t become violently chaotic. Maybe they worked together to help each other.”

“I doubt it,” said John. “People are the same everywhere. And there’s always that shadow of violence lurking beneath the surface. Modern society hasn’t tamed us humans. It’s just hidden what we really are.”

“Do you think this one’s any good?” said Cynthia, holding up a can of beef. It had a large bulge on the bottom.

They were in the basement of the farmhouse, going through the canned food that had been stored down there. Unfortunately, almost none of it was still good.

John shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

“Save it for later, though?”

“Yeah,” said John. “I mean, if things get really bad, I wouldn’t mind eating that.”

“It’ll make you sick.”

“Better than starving to death, I guess,” said John.

But he wasn’t so sure.

He’d had his fair share of sickness so far since the EMP, eating things that probably weren’t good. But his stomach seemed to have gotten used to the bacteria somewhat.

The basement was dark, even during the day. They were using just one candle to illuminate the area, not wanting to waste their precious supplies.

They’d spent the last few days clearing out the dead bodies. There’d been at least a dozen of them, all shot dead. At first, they hadn’t been able to figure out how they had all died from gunshot wounds. They’d thought maybe one of them had bled out from his wounds, after having killed the others. Then they’d realized that it was possible that there was a survivor, and that he or she had fled into the woods. And of course, that meant that this someone might return at some point, possibly to collect the gear left behind.

There was a lot of gear to sort through. There were more guns than they knew what to do with. There were backpacks and water bottles and protein bars and bags of food. Whoever these people had been, they’d been extremely prepared, not to mention armed to the teeth.

“Come on,” said John, standing up. “I don’t think any of this food is good. We’ve got plenty upstairs anyway.”

“Good,” said Cynthia, sighing. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“It’s just a basement. We’ve been through worse.”

Cynthia shrugged. John could just barely see her gesture in the flickering candlelight. Since he’d met her, her appearance had changed. She’d lost some of the extra weight she’d been carrying. Her body had become lean and more muscular. She looked attractive, wearing a t-shirt that fit her tightly. They’d found it, along with other clothes, in the farmhouse.

At first, it had been difficult to figure out what had happened at the farmhouse. John’s brother, Max, had definitely been there, along with Chad. John still couldn’t figure out what Chad was doing there. The only thing he could guess was that somehow Chad had wound up there accidentally. John couldn’t see Max and Chad hanging out. They were too different. But Max probably felt some protective instincts towards Chad, even though he was, as they all were, completely fed up with him.

Once John and Cynthia had finished sorting through all the things in the house, they’d started to see patterns. Not everything could have belonged to the dozen men they’d found dead in the farmhouse. For instance, there were women’s clothes, at least three sets. But there were no women’s bodies to be found. The only logical thing to think was that Max lived there with other people, three of them women and one of them Chad. Who they were, John had no idea.

But it seemed as if Max and the others had left. Possibly they’d fled the dozen dead men. Or possibly they’d left earlier, and then the farmhouse had been overtaken by these gun-slinging mercenary types.

Many of the dead men seemed to have been convicts, judging by the crude tattoos that covered their bodies when John and Cynthia undressed them before dragging their corpses into the woods.

“We can’t let anything go to waste,” John had said. “We might need all this stuff.”

“I know,” said Cynthia, as they were trying to tug the pants off of a completely stiff corpse. “But this is just too… intense.”

“We’re going to have to get used to it,” John had said. “There are going to be plenty more corpses.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Cynthia had said, making John think of her husband’s dead body lying in the yard. That had been when they’d met, and he knew that the memory wouldn’t soon leave Cynthia.

John and Cynthia had taken everything they could find that was useful and put it in the large living room of the farmhouse. Finally, the farmhouse was starting to get organized. But it didn’t look like it. At the very least it was free of dead bodies, so far as they knew. The gear they’d found formed huge piles in the living room. They’d done their best to sort through it, separating things into piles of weapons, food, clothing, backpacks, first aid.

They had so much gear that they didn’t know what to do with it. Literally. Neither of them knew how to start a fire or shoot a gun. Cynthia knew a little bit about first aid, and John had enough common sense to know how to use a compass. But that was about it.

They’d been so hungry when they’d gotten to the farmhouse that they’d gorged themselves on the food they’d found. They’d eaten huge amounts of beef jerky. Their bodies had been craving animal protein. Finally, they’d had their fill of protein, and moved onto whatever sugary snacks they could find in the backpacks of the dead men.

“What do you think we should do?” said Cynthia, sitting down on the steps of the porch.

It was an all-too-common question. They must have asked each other the same question a dozen or so times each day.

And neither of them had an answer.

That was why they kept asking.

John, seated next to her, shrugged. He didn’t even bother saying “I don’t know.”

There were too many questions that hung over their heads.

The sun was shining. The “yard” of the farmhouse, if you could call it that, looked beautiful.

They didn’t know what month it was, but they knew fall was approaching. A couple of the trees had started to change their shade of green. The air had a bite to it at night, and the slightest chill crept into it during the day.

They remained silent for a long while.

Finally, John spoke. “I think we should see if there’s anybody else in the area.”

“Are you crazy? You mean more people like the ones we found in the house? Mercenary types? People with guns?”

John shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean friendly people. People who can help us. And maybe we can help them. We’re going to need to team up with others if we’re going to defend the farmhouse.”

“So you think we should stay there, then?”

“What choice do we have? We have nowhere else to go and no way to get there.”

“Maybe we could find a car. You know, find a car and some gas.”

John shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “That’ll be our backup plan. This place just seems too perfect in a lot of ways. And we’ve got all this gear. All these guns.”

“We need to figure out how to use those, by the way.”

“I know,” said John, nodding. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

Cynthia shook her head. “Have you?”

“Nope. I mean, I’ve never had a problem with them or anything. I just never got around to it, I guess. I probably should have, though.”

“Same for me,” said Cynthia. “My brother used to go shooting with my dad as a kid. They invited me along, but I never wanted to go. It didn’t exactly fit in with my interests at the time.”

“Let’s start now,” said John. “We can learn. How hard could it be?”

“Right now?”

“We’ve waited too long, anyway,” said John. “And if we’re going to go exploring the area around here, we’d better be armed and we’d better know how to use the guns.”

Cynthia nodded. “OK,” she said.

They had an enormous stockpile of weapons left over from the dead men. There were a couple hunting rifles, some assault rifles, a shotgun, and about a dozen handguns, of all different types.

As far as identifying the guns, John and Cynthia were at a loss. They knew the basic types and not much else.

“I think this one is a revolver,” said Cynthia, picking up one of the pistols.

“Careful with that,” said John. “Make sure to keep it pointed away from anything you don’t want to shoot.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK. But we’ve got to be careful. We can’t deal with a gunshot wound.”

“Yeah, that’s the last thing we need.”

John regarded the gun Cynthia was holding. “I don’t think that’s a revolver,” he said. “Look, it loads from the bottom, not the side, like in those cowboy movies.”

“I want a revolver,” said Cynthia.

“What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know. It seems more ‘classic’ I guess.”

John laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in a long time. “Still thinking about being stylish.”

Cynthia smiled at him. “Come on, let’s go shoot some cans in the yard or something.”

They took the guns and the ammo out into the field and spent some considerable time becoming familiar with them. They had to work off their instincts, common sense, and what they’d seen in the movies. They started off slow, just getting familiar with the handguns. They decided they’d leave what seemed like the more complicated guns for later.

“This isn’t that hard,” said Cynthia, as she pointed her revolver at an old empty can of beans they’d set up on a rock.

“Don’t get cocky yet,” said John. “You still haven’t shot anything.”

Cynthia winked at him before turning back to the can. She stood with her legs apart and the gun in front of her. She was smart enough not to try anything fancy or unrealistic, like the heroes in action movies sometimes did, holding the gun sideways.

She squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Safety,” said John.

Cynthia cursed. She flipped the safety, and she was ready.

She aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger.

She missed.

John’s ears rang. The shot was much louder than he’d expected.

“Shit,” said Cynthia, speaking very loudly. Even so, he could barely hear her. “This thing kicks like crazy.”

“I didn’t realize it’d be so loud,” said John.

“What’s that?” shouted Cynthia.

“Loud,” shouted John.

They’d need something to protect their ears if they were going to practice more.

John had a vague idea that some guns were louder than others, but he didn’t know which ones were which.

Later, the ringing in his ears had died down enough to not have to shout.

“I’m going to head out today,” said John. “Start off small. Just explore what’s immediately around here.”

“Don’t think you’re going alone,” said Cynthia.

“It might be dangerous.”

Cynthia shrugged. “It’s dangerous staying here alone. So far, we’ve just gotten by on the good luck that no one else has showed up. If someone comes when you’re gone, well…”

“Not sure how much help I’d be if I were here,” said John.

He didn’t feel confident in his abilities to defend himself. But he knew that he’d try. He’d done it before, using only a knife. So long as he learned a little more about how to use a firearm, he’d be even better prepared than before.

At least he had the willpower. And the desire. He’d already proven that.

“Fine,” said John. “You’re coming with me then. We’ll take a small backpack each, with food and water. Extra ammo. The first aid kit.”

“Why bother with all that stuff?” said Cynthia.

“Who knows,” said John. “We might find ourselves in a situation where we can’t get back to the farmhouse.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Cynthia. “It’s already starting to feel like home.”

John knew what she meant, but he didn’t think about it quite like that. If anything, the house should have had more sentimental value to him than Cynthia. After all, it was his family’s, and he’d been there as a kid. But John had never been a sentimental person. Maybe it ran in his family. They were practical people, usually. It was just that John’s practicality had, for most of his adult life, run him in the direction of earning a lot of money. And that money wasn’t going to do him any good now. It was gone, nothing more than the memory of numbers on a computer screen.

To John, the farmhouse meant a practical structure, away from the city and the suburbs. It was a place where they might be able to forge new lives. But he knew they’d need some help. More people were bound to show up, and John and Cynthia didn’t even know how to shoot yet.

“What are we going to do if we come across someone?” said Cynthia. “Someone who wants to hurt us?”

“Point and pull the trigger,” said John. “And hope for the best.”