“You’re crazy, man,” said Chad.
“Maybe,” said Max.
Georgia knew Max well enough to know that diplomacy in a situation like this was the last place his mind would go to. Max was always willing to step up to fight when necessary. He never looked for fights, but he didn’t shy away from them either, not when lives were on the line.
Georgia was turning Max’s words over and over in her head. The more she thought about it, the more she actually agreed with Max. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but the thought of engaging in another firefight made her feel sick to her stomach. She had images in her mind of James and Sadie getting shot and bleeding out on the ground. The last time they’d stopped to siphon gas, they’d gotten lucky. It easily could have ended horribly, with James lying dead on the ground.
“I think we should do it,” said Georgia. “It’s worth a shot. If they get close, you can hop back in and we can speed off again.”
“Good,” said Max. “Do it up here, down this straightaway.”
“You sure you want to do it now?” Georgia was thinking Max might want to think it over before acting.
“The sooner the better,” said Max.
“This is nuts,” said Chad. “You can’t do this. They’re just going to shoot you. What if they’ve got rifles with scopes or something?”
“For once I agree with Chad,” said Mandy.
“Don’t do it, Max,” said Sadie. She sounded worried for Max’s safety. Georgia knew that while Sadie wouldn’t ever admit it, she admired Max. James did too. He’d do anything Max said.
“I’m doing it,” said Max. “Unless anyone has a better plan.”
No one said anything.
They were at the straightaway. There was nothing but trees on either side of the road. There wasn’t a house in sight.
Georgia didn’t even ask if the Bronco was still following them. She knew it would be.
Georgia slowed the minivan down. She didn’t pull over to the side of the road at all, so that it’d be easier to make a getaway if they needed to. Not that the loaded-down minivan would be able to outrun the Bronco anyway. But at least if they needed to, they could get driving again. Although…
Her thoughts were going round and round with the possibilities. There were too many of them.
“I’ll leave the door open,” said Max, opening the sliding door, getting ready to step outside.
“Max,” said Mandy, her voice barely above a whisper. “Be careful.”
Georgia was watching Max. There was determination on his face. He stepped out, turned around, and nodded to everyone.
He stood there in the open air, binoculars to his eyes, watching.
“It’s coming,” said Max. “It looks like they’re slowing down. I’m going to flag them down. Let them know I want to talk.”
There was no way Georgia could think about it that ended well. It was just a question of how badly it would go.
30
“You sure you’re going to come?”
The woman nodded again.
“What’s your name?”
“Cynthia.”
“I’m John.” There was no point with last names. At least not the way John figured it.
“We’d better get going,” said John. “Unless we want to stay the day here. I only travel by night. Less of a chance of getting seen or caught or killed.”
The woman just nodded. She was still crying, staring at her dead husband.
There were cars in the driveways of the neighboring houses. There must have been people still in their homes. And they must have heard the gunshots and the trucks. But they didn’t leave their houses. No one came to help. They were too scared. It made John mad, even though he didn’t blame them. They were protecting themselves, as best they could, looking out for themselves. He couldn’t fault them for that. But his blood was boiling, and his chest felt hot with anger.
“Do you have anything in the house we could use?” said John. “I know you said they took all the food.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, let’s go look. Time’s passing.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“With John?”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on her husband.
John knew she’d want to bury him. But there wasn’t time.
“We’ve got to get going,” said John. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t time to bury him.”
John walked over to a large bush, broke off a couple branches, and laid them down over the woman’s husband. His face remained uncovered. John closed the eyelids one by one. The gaze of death was concealed.
The woman was muttering something to herself, probably saying a prayer.
John had to take her hand and tug her until she budged, heading back into her darkened house.
Being physically removed from her husband’s body had an awakening effect on her. It was slight, but it was there. She was able to take some action now. She took a candle from a table in the pitch-black house and lit it with a match.
Together, they searched the house quickly for anything they might take. The woman had a backpack that John carried for her, leaving his own pack by the door. He filled it with things he could see by the candlelight.
The militia soldiers had torn through the house, leaving hardly anything unturned. Tables had been toppled over and doors had been broken, and for no reason at all.
There wasn’t a scrap of food in the kitchen. All the kitchen knives were gone.
“Do you have a shed, a garage?”
“No.”
“Any tools, anything like that? Camping gear?”
“No, we’ve never been into anything like that.”
John sighed. There wasn’t much that would be of value for them.
The best he could do was to gather all the candles that remained, the ones that the soldiers had overlooked in their hasty raid. Along with the candles, John took blankets from the beds.
Cynthia took a picture of herself and her husband. She wasn’t foolish, and didn’t go for jewelry or anything like that. Interestingly, the soldiers hadn’t either.
John could understand taking the picture, but when she took a book from her bedside table, John had to say something in protest.
“Do you really need that?”
“I guess not.”
“What is it?”
“The Savage Detectives.”
“A crime novel?”
“Not really. It’s fiction, I guess. It means a lot to me… My husband gave it to me.”
“We’ve got to go,” said John. “Take it. Come on. We can’t spend any more time here. Daylight’s coming.”
They left through the backyard. John wore his backpack and she wore hers. He carried his hoe, and he handed her his kitchen knife, telling her to keep it in hand at all times.
John led the way at first, and she followed. But they soon realized that she knew the area far better than he did. She’d lived there for ten years, after all, and she knew which backyards they could cut easily through and when it’d make more sense to cross the street. Or if it was better to risk walking along the sidewalk for a short distance.
A couple times they lost precious time by having to hide, frozen, in a backyard when a truck had rumbled by. A couple times they’d heard shouting. No gunfire, though.
It was getting close to dawn when they arrived at the top of the huge hill. They were both sweating and exhausted. John was ravenous and his throat was parched.
“I don’t know whether to go through King of Prussia, or Valley Forge,” he said.