“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.”