Cynthia continued, listing the entire contents of the bag.
The man in the fatigues didn’t move. His eyes darted back and forth between John and Cynthia.
“Listen,” said the man, his voice trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I can assure you I’ve never been part of any militia.” Next, he seemed to address Cynthia directly, without daring to move his head for fear that John would shoot him. “I think there’s something strange going on with your friend. I can see it in his eyes… I’ve seen it before. Something’s happening to him.”
“Watch your mouth,” said John, shoving the pistol harder against the man’s temple.
“Maybe he’s right, John,” said Cynthia in soothing tones, the way one would speak to a wounded and panicked animal. “Maybe seeing what was done to Tom was too much for you. You’re acting different. I notice it too.”
To her surprise, John laughed.
“Don’t you see?” said John, not taking his eyes off the man. “He’s trying to turn you against me. He knows it’s the only way to save himself.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He heard us talking. He heard the way you were trying to calm me down. He’s smart. He sees our weakness and he’s doing his best to exploit it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the man. “I’m just worried… well, about myself, but also about how you’ll live with yourself if you kill an innocent man.”
“I’m about to kill someone,” said John. “But I’m sure he’s not an innocent man.”
“John!” said Cynthia, finally losing her cool. “Don’t shoot. I’m still checking his bag.”
“He knows we’ll find something in there,” said John. “Isn’t that right? You wanted to distract us. Keep looking, Cynthia.”
In an effort to go faster, Cynthia finally just turned the bag upside down, dumping all the remaining contents out.
“It’s just normal stuff,” said Cynthia. “Normal stuff for survival. The same stuff we have. Nothing about a militia.”
“Anything left in there?” said John. “Because if not, I know one way to find out for sure.”
With his free hand, John pulled out his knife. He flicked it open, and slowly brought it close to the man’s face.
“You can’t do the same thing to him! Just because it happened to Tom. Think about it, John. You’ve got PTSD or something. You’re going to do what they did to Tom.”
“I don’t have anything,” said John. “I’m fine. Now look in the bag again. Check every seam, every secret pocket. I know there’s something in there.”
“What do you think I have? An ID card that says I’m part of a secret militia?” said the man. “Lady, I don’t know your name, but you’ve got to help me. Your friend is seconds away from slicing my face open.”
“Or shooting you dead,” said John, quietly.
Cynthia ran her hands along the inside of the pack.
“There aren’t any secret pockets,” said Cynthia. “No interior pockets at all.”
“Check the frame.”
“The frame?”
“There’s an internal frame. There’s usually a way to access it.”
“John, this is going too far,” said Cynthia.
“Do it,” said John. “Or I start cutting up his face. That’ll get him to tell us what’s going on.”
Cynthia found it. There was a Velcro-attached flap inside the back, along the backside of it. She undid the flap, and reached down inside. Her hand felt the metal of the internal frame. But there wasn’t anything else.
What was she going to do?
Just when she was pulling her hand up and out of the frame-compartment, she felt something. It felt like paper. She grasped onto it, and pulled it out.
It was an ordinary piece of paper, folded up many times. She unfolded it.
“What is it?” said John, glancing over.
Cynthia started to read.
Her jaw dropped.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the page, trying to take it all in.
The letter was from the leader of the Philadelphia suburban militia, Kor. It was an introduction to another group based around Pittsburgh. The letter described four men who’d been sent on what basically amounted to a diplomatic mission, looking to establish ties between the two militias.
It would have sounded too far-fetched, if it hadn’t been right there in black and white, neatly handwritten.
“It’s a…”
Just then, the sound of motorbikes came whining through the woods. It sounded like more than just one.
“He’s with the militia,” said Cynthia. She didn’t have time to explain further.
“You sure?” said John.
Suddenly, John didn’t seem too crazy anymore.
He’d been right all along.
“Positive,” said Cynthia. “I’ll explain later.”
That was when the man chose to strike. He lashed out at John, shoving him, trying to throw him off balance.
John was just fast enough. He shot him in the temple.
The body slumped over, falling sideways to the ground.
The whine of the motorbikes was louder.
“There are probably three more,” said Cynthia. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’ll have to go on foot,” said John.
They spoke rapidly. They both knew that they had less than a minute before the dirt bikes arrived.
“Why? We’ve got the dirt bike. They’ll catch us if we go on foot. They’ll hunt us down, once they see him.” She gestured to the dead man.
“I don’t know how to even start it, let alone ride it.”
“Then you’re in luck,” said Cynthia, “because I do. Grab your pack. We won’t be able to take mine as well. But there’s room for two of us.”
There wasn’t time for John to register his surprise that she knew how to ride a dirt bike. His jaw dropped for only a single moment before he got it together and dashed off to get his pack.
Cynthia had what she needed. She didn’t need that pack. She had her rifle slung over her shoulder, and her handgun.
She grabbed the dirt bike by the handles and set it upright. She threw her leg over it, and got into position.
When Cynthia had been in high school, a neighborhood boy had been a dirt bike enthusiast. He’d had a serious crush on her, and invited her over more than once. He’d taught her how to ride.
Cynthia found the hot start switch and pulled it in.
“Got it,” said John, appearing before her. He started to get on the bike, loaded down with his heavy pack.
“Give me a second,” said Cynthia.
“They’re almost here.”
“Trust me.”
It’d be hard to start the bike with him on it.
The whine of the other dirt bikes was loud. Very loud. They were close.
“I can see them,” said John. “I’ll try to hold them off.”
Cynthia engaged the clutch and the brake. She got the kick starter into the right position. She didn’t want to flood the engine by using the throttle.
She kicked it.
It didn’t start.
Stay calm, she told herself.
Going too quickly could flood the engine.
John’s rifle fired. She didn’t turn around to see what had happened.
“Get it started!”
She wanted to scream, “Don’t rush me!” But that wasn’t going to help anything.
She waited a few seconds, counting as slowly as she could in her head.
Finally, she gave it another kick.
This time it started.
John already had his leg halfway over the bike before she could tell him to get on.
“Hold on to me tight.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Cynthia released the brake and twisted the throttle. They were off, speeding through the trees.
It was exhilarating, the trees rushing past on either side, the wind on her face. They’d been walking so long, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be in a car again, let alone riding a dirt bike.