Surviving Chaos

28

He’d almost gotten them both killed in the process, but John had gotten the radio.

Cynthia hadn’t even gotten off the dirt bike. She’d sat on it, gun in hand, screaming at him to hurry up.

It hadn’t been easy. Cynthia had left the radio buried in the pack. And he’d had to really dig through it to get the radio out.

He’d hopped back on the bike, and his leg had barely been over it, when Cynthia had gunned it and they’d sped off.

John’d had just enough time, as he’d run back to the dirt bike, to shove the radio into his own bag. He’d had to ditch a few things that’d been packed into the top. He hadn’t even registered what they were, and he hoped he wouldn’t need them later.

Maybe it’d been stupid. Maybe it’d been completely idiotic.

But he was hoping against hope that somehow the radio would be helpful in the long run. Risks and danger were worth it. So long as they survived. And so long as it paid off in the end.

At the very least, the radio would be valuable. Valuable for bartering.

So long as they eventually found someone they could barter with. Someone who wouldn’t just attack them outright. Not friends, necessarily, like Dale. Just neutral people. Surely they had to exist.

Somewhere.

The ride was bumpy. Rough and chaotic.

A couple near misses with trees. Cynthia was cutting it close, taking risks and making sharp turns.

He hoped she knew what she was doing. She was probably the last person in the world he’d expect to have known how to ride a dirt bike. Let alone handle one the way she was handling it. The guys behind them could barely keep up.

But they were keeping up.

And that was the problem.

John had to take action.

He turned his head. It was hard to see behind him, with his pack.

He couldn’t ditch it. It was all they had left.

Of course, if it came down to them dying, then he’d ditch the pack. But they weren’t there yet.

He hoped.

John had his gun out, one hand stretched out behind him.

He had one spare magazine within reach. The rest of the ammo was in the pack. It wouldn’t be possible to get it out.

“I’m going to try to shoot them,” shouted John. But his voice was drowned out by the whine of the motor and the rushing wind.

He didn’t know how fast they were going. But it was fast.

Too fast and too bumpy to get off a good shot. He had a realistic understanding of his abilities. Most likely, once he started firing, he’d just be wasting ammo.

But he had to try.

After all, they had one unusual advantage. There were two of them on the bike. Not just one.

But just as John was thinking he had the upper hand, he turned his head again and saw a dirt bike getting close. Really close. And the rider had a handgun out.

Only it wasn’t just any handgun. It was large. Too large for a normal handgun. A long clip hung out the bottom of it.

Shit. It was an automatic. Or semi-automatic? An Uzi? John didn’t know. He was learning about guns with only hands-on experience. He didn’t have any manuals. Or the internet.

But the bullets that began spraying out confirmed his suspicions. It may not have been an Uzi. But it was definitely automatic in the sense that it was firing more bullets than John’s own gun could. Much more dangerous.

“Go!” shouted John. “Turn!”

He didn’t know if Cynthia heard him or not. It was hard to tell.

But she turned anyway. Maybe she’d heard the gunfire. Hopefully.

Their knees almost scraped the dirt as Cynthia turned the bike sharply to the right.

John tried to keep his hand straight and steady. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself down. He needed a clear head. Anything else would just make him a worse shot.

The militia man wasn’t wearing a helmet.

But John didn’t go for the head. He aimed for the chest. It was a bigger target.

Back on a relatively straight course, John pulled the trigger. He thought he had the shot.

But it missed.

He pulled the trigger.

Once more.

Twice.

It was the third shot that hit him. Right in the chest.

The militia dirt bike went completely out of control, slamming right into a tree. The sound was tremendous.

There were two more.

John’d been hoping the second bike would crash into the first one. But no such luck. The first had gone so far off the “path” that the second one just zoomed on by, as if nothing had even happened.

John saw a sawed-off shotgun appear in the man’s hand. It seemed to happen in slow motion. It was close, too.

John acted instinctually. He pulled the trigger. Three times in quick succession.

He didn’t know which shots had hit and which hadn’t.

The only important thing was that the rider slumped over, dead, or almost dead. His bike ran off course lazily.

Cynthia took another sharp turn. John felt his knee scraping the ground.

When the bike was upright again, he turned back to look.

The third bike had stopped in its tracks. As Cynthia and John sped along, it disappeared into the distance.

They rode and rode, not stopping, not pausing.

Minutes passed. John kept checking over his shoulder.

He was expecting the third dirt bike to appear.

Actually, he was hoping it would appear.

It would mean more danger. More risk. But if he could take him out, then they’d be safer in the long run. As it stood now, there was someone dangerous out there who wanted them dead. Someone who worked for a dangerous militia, possibly in the process of expanding to more remote corners of the state. And beyond. States didn’t mean anything anymore, after all.

The minutes turned into hours.

Finally, they were out of gas. Night was starting to fall.

They’d made it out of the woods, across a paved road, and back into another forested area. Then across another road. And the same thing over and over again.

When there was no more gas, they coasted to a stop. John put his feet down, as did Cynthia, to keep the bike from toppling over.

John hadn’t let go of his gun. His back was sore from riding with the backpack.

He’d probably killed two men. And he felt nothing.

Nothing except the continuing will to survive.

“Not bad riding, eh?” said Cynthia, flashing John a grin as she got off the dirt bike.

“I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” said John.

“Seen it? You lived it.”

“You sure can ride that thing…”

Cynthia paused for a long while, suddenly seeming to get lost in her own thoughts. “So what now? Any idea where we are?”

John looked around. “Nope,” he said. “I don’t have the slightest clue.”

“I guess this is as good of a place as any to set up camp, then.”

“Well, we might want to leave the dirt bike behind. Someone could easily follow the tire tracks.”

“Good point. Hand me a water, will you?”

John opened the backpack, dug past Dale’s radio, and found a bottle of water. He handed it to Cynthia, who took a long drink and handed it back. He put the bottle to his mouth, and let the cool water flow past his lips. He’d never tasted anything better.

He looked around, and the forest seemed to appear more beautiful than it ever had to him. Maybe it was just the thrill of being alive.

“Come on,” said John. “We’re losing light.”

He shouldered his pack and set off. Cynthia followed him. They kept their guns out, and looked over their shoulders periodically as they walked.

But John didn’t feel nervous.

He didn’t know why, but he felt calm. The sort of calm he’d never known before the EMP. It was almost like he was now, for the first time in his life, really alive.