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.
29
Nearby, there was a field of what looked like marijuana plants. They were tall, green, and almost wild looking, with their distinctive leaves poking out in all directions.
They were dealing with dangerous people. These were professional pot farmers, likely hardened criminals even before the EMP. And now, with no semblance of law, they’d be even more dangerous, even more free to create their own perverted justice.
Max had read the stories of hikers disappearing in state parks. They’d stumbled upon fields of pot, and been simply executed on the spot for their ignorance.
“Uh, Max,” whispered James urgently.
“Yeah?”
“I think I stepped on something.”
Max knew James wouldn’t have bothered to say something unless it was urgent. After all, they could be spotted at any moment. They were only getting closer to the tent.
“What’d you step on?”
“Some kind of wire. Take a look.”
Max glanced briefly down at James’s foot. Sure enough, there was a wire there.
Max knew instantly what it was. James had been right to tell him, rather than ignore it. It was some kind of trip wire that would alert someone to their presence. It was too much to hope that it’d been deactivated by the EMP. There were a hundred other ways to design a trip wire that didn’t rely on electronics.
So Max didn’t hope. He acted.
“Down!” whispered Max.
They both threw themselves down on the ground at exactly the right moment.
A loud crack rang out. A rifle shot.
There were a couple tree stumps nearby. Max gestured to James, and they both crawled on their bellies over to the stumps, keeping their bodies as close to the ground as they could.