Getting Out Page 2

  “Good,” said Cynthia, sighing. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “It’s just a basement. We’ve been through worse.”

  Cynthia shrugged. John could just barely see her gesture in the flickering candlelight. Since he’d met her, her appearance had changed. She’d lost some of the extra weight she’d been carrying. Her body had become lean and more muscular. She looked attractive, wearing a t-shirt that fit her tightly. They’d found it, along with other clothes, in the farmhouse.

  At first, it had been difficult to figure out what had happened at the farmhouse. John’s brother, Max, had definitely been there, along with Chad. John still couldn’t figure out what Chad was doing there. The only thing he could guess was that somehow Chad had wound up there accidentally. John couldn’t see Max and Chad hanging out. They were too different. But Max probably felt some protective instincts towards Chad, even though he was, as they all were, completely fed up with him.

  Once John and Cynthia had finished sorting through all the things in the house, they’d started to see patterns. Not everything could have belonged to the dozen men they’d found dead in the farmhouse. For instance, there were women’s clothes, at least three sets. But there were no women’s bodies to be found. The only logical thing to think was that Max lived there with other people, three of them women and one of them Chad. Who they were, John had no idea.

  But it seemed as if Max and the others had left. Possibly they’d fled the dozen dead men. Or possibly they’d left earlier, and then the farmhouse had been overtaken by these gun-slinging mercenary types.

  Many of the dead men seemed to have been convicts, judging by the crude tattoos that covered their bodies when John and Cynthia undressed them before dragging their corpses into the woods.

  “We can’t let anything go to waste,” John had said. “We might need all this stuff.”

  “I know,” said Cynthia, as they were trying to tug the pants off of a completely stiff corpse. “But this is just too… intense.”

  “We’re going to have to get used to it,” John had said. “There are going to be plenty more corpses.”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Cynthia had said, making John think of her husband’s dead body lying in the yard. That had been when they’d met, and he knew that the memory wouldn’t soon leave Cynthia.

  John and Cynthia had taken everything they could find that was useful and put it in the large living room of the farmhouse. Finally, the farmhouse was starting to get organized. But it didn’t look like it. At the very least it was free of dead bodies, so far as they knew. The gear they’d found formed huge piles in the living room. They’d done their best to sort through it, separating things into piles of weapons, food, clothing, backpacks, first aid.

  They had so much gear that they didn’t know what to do with it. Literally. Neither of them knew how to start a fire or shoot a gun. Cynthia knew a little bit about first aid, and John had enough common sense to know how to use a compass. But that was about it.

  They’d been so hungry when they’d gotten to the farmhouse that they’d gorged themselves on the food they’d found. They’d eaten huge amounts of beef jerky. Their bodies had been craving animal protein. Finally, they’d had their fill of protein, and moved onto whatever sugary snacks they could find in the backpacks of the dead men.

  “What do you think we should do?” said Cynthia, sitting down on the steps of the porch.

  It was an all-too-common question. They must have asked each other the same question a dozen or so times each day.

  And neither of them had an answer.

  That was why they kept asking.

  John, seated next to her, shrugged. He didn’t even bother saying “I don’t know.”

  There were too many questions that hung over their heads.

  The sun was shining. The “yard” of the farmhouse, if you could call it that, looked beautiful.

  They didn’t know what month it was, but they knew fall was approaching. A couple of the trees had started to change their shade of green. The air had a bite to it at night, and the slightest chill crept into it during the day.

  They remained silent for a long while.

  Finally, John spoke. “I think we should see if there’s anybody else in the area.”

  “Are you crazy? You mean more people like the ones we found in the house? Mercenary types? People with guns?”

  John shook his head. “No,” he said. “I mean friendly people. People who can help us. And maybe we can help them. We’re going to need to team up with others if we’re going to defend the farmhouse.”

  “So you think we should stay there, then?”

  “What choice do we have? We have nowhere else to go and no way to get there.”

  “Maybe we could find a car. You know, find a car and some gas.”

  John shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “That’ll be our backup plan. This place just seems too perfect in a lot of ways. And we’ve got all this gear. All these guns.”

  “We need to figure out how to use those, by the way.”

  “I know,” said John, nodding. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “Have you?”

  “Nope. I mean, I’ve never had a problem with them or anything. I just never got around to it, I guess. I probably should have, though.”

  “Same for me,” said Cynthia. “My brother used to go shooting with my dad as a kid. They invited me along, but I never wanted to go. It didn’t exactly fit in with my interests at the time.”

  “Let’s start now,” said John. “We can learn. How hard could it be?”

  “Right now?”

  “We’ve waited too long, anyway,” said John. “And if we’re going to go exploring the area around here, we’d better be armed and we’d better know how to use the guns.”

  Cynthia nodded. “OK,” she said.

  They had an enormous stockpile of weapons left over from the dead men. There were a couple hunting rifles, some assault rifles, a shotgun, and about a dozen handguns, of all different types.

  As far as identifying the guns, John and Cynthia were at a loss. They knew the basic types and not much else.

  “I think this one is a revolver,” said Cynthia, picking up one of the pistols.

  “Careful with that,” said John. “Make sure to keep it pointed away from anything you don’t want to shoot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s OK. But we’ve got to be careful. We can’t deal with a gunshot wound.”

  “Yeah, that’s the last thing we need.”

  John regarded the gun Cynthia was holding. “I don’t think that’s a revolver,” he said. “Look, it loads from the bottom, not the side, like in those cowboy movies.”

  “I want a revolver,” said Cynthia.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t know. It seems more ‘classic’ I guess.”

  John laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in a long time. “Still thinking about being stylish.”

  Cynthia smiled at him. “Come on, let’s go shoot some cans in the yard or something.”

  They took the guns and the ammo out into the field and spent some considerable time becoming familiar with them. They had to work off their instincts, common sense, and what they’d seen in the movies. They started off slow, just getting familiar with the handguns. They decided they’d leave what seemed like the more complicated guns for later.

  “This isn’t that hard,” said Cynthia, as she pointed her revolver at an old empty can of beans they’d set up on a rock.

  “Don’t get cocky yet,” said John. “You still haven’t shot anything.”

  Cynthia winked at him before turning back to the can. She stood with her legs apart and the gun in front of her. She was smart enough not to try anything fancy or unrealistic, like the heroes in action movies sometimes did, holding the gun sideways.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  “S
afety,” said John.

  Cynthia cursed. She flipped the safety, and she was ready.

  She aimed the gun, and pulled the trigger.

  She missed.

  John’s ears rang. The shot was much louder than he’d expected.

  “Shit,” said Cynthia, speaking very loudly. Even so, he could barely hear her. “This thing kicks like crazy.”

  “I didn’t realize it’d be so loud,” said John.

  “What’s that?” shouted Cynthia.

  “Loud,” shouted John.

  They’d need something to protect their ears if they were going to practice more.

  John had a vague idea that some guns were louder than others, but he didn’t know which ones were which.

  Later, the ringing in his ears had died down enough to not have to shout.

  “I’m going to head out today,” said John. “Start off small. Just explore what’s immediately around here.”

  “Don’t think you’re going alone,” said Cynthia.

  “It might be dangerous.”

  Cynthia shrugged. “It’s dangerous staying here alone. So far, we’ve just gotten by on the good luck that no one else has showed up. If someone comes when you’re gone, well…”

  “Not sure how much help I’d be if I were here,” said John.

  He didn’t feel confident in his abilities to defend himself. But he knew that he’d try. He’d done it before, using only a knife. So long as he learned a little more about how to use a firearm, he’d be even better prepared than before.

  At least he had the willpower. And the desire. He’d already proven that.

  “Fine,” said John. “You’re coming with me then. We’ll take a small backpack each, with food and water. Extra ammo. The first aid kit.”

  “Why bother with all that stuff?” said Cynthia.

  “Who knows,” said John. “We might find ourselves in a situation where we can’t get back to the farmhouse.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Cynthia. “It’s already starting to feel like home.”

  John knew what she meant, but he didn’t think about it quite like that. If anything, the house should have had more sentimental value to him than Cynthia. After all, it was his family’s, and he’d been there as a kid. But John had never been a sentimental person. Maybe it ran in his family. They were practical people, usually. It was just that John’s practicality had, for most of his adult life, run him in the direction of earning a lot of money. And that money wasn’t going to do him any good now. It was gone, nothing more than the memory of numbers on a computer screen.

  To John, the farmhouse meant a practical structure, away from the city and the suburbs. It was a place where they might be able to forge new lives. But he knew they’d need some help. More people were bound to show up, and John and Cynthia didn’t even know how to shoot yet.

  “What are we going to do if we come across someone?” said Cynthia. “Someone who wants to hurt us?”

  “Point and pull the trigger,” said John. “And hope for the best.”

  3

  Max

  Max used the butt of his pocketknife to shatter a glass window of the basement. It was one of those houses built on a hill, so that the basement was above ground and exposed on the rear end of the house.

  “What’s the plan?” said Georgia. “What if someone’s inside?”

  “It’s a risk,” said Max. He left it at that.

  Max used his elbow to knock out the glass that remained in the pane. He shined his flashlight—which he tried to rarely use because of the battery—into the dark basement.

  “I don’t see anyone,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean much. They’d have heard the glass shattering, obviously. I’ll go first.”

  Georgia seemed to know better than to argue with Max.

  Max was badly bruised from the fight. Everything hurt. The best way for him to keep his mind off the pain was to keep active. Both his body and his mind. That’d always been the way he was. He’d felt so frustrated at his job, before the EMP, partly because all the work was directionless. Pointless. Now he had a purpose. A real one.

  Gun in hand, Max squeezed his way through the narrow window.

  “Looks clear,” said Max.

  He kept his eyes glued to the staircase as Georgia worked her way through the window.

  “Musty,” she said, curling up her nose and sneezing. “It has that feel of a house that no one’s lived in.”

  “Well, we can’t go by that,” said Max.

  Georgia gave a stiff nod.

  The basement was sparsely furnished. A set of free weights and a bench sat in one corner, looking like it’d been collecting dust for a long time. A door led to the garage, which was built into the basement.

  Max motioned for Georgia to cover him, threw open the door, and moved into the garage swiftly, leading with his Glock.

  His flashlight illuminated the pitch-black garage. There was a car. That was good. But before celebrating, Max checked the other side of the car, as well as underneath it.

  It was clear.

  “Good news,” said Max. “But stay out there, in case someone comes down the stairs.”

  Max knew that the house was most likely completely abandoned. But there wasn’t any sense in taking chances when they didn’t have to.

  “Does it run?”

  “I’ll check.”

  This was a car that had spent the majority of its life in the garage. There didn’t seem to be a scratch on it. It wasn’t exactly Max’s style, not that that was important in the least.

  It was a Honda Civic, souped up. The muffler was huge, and when Max, finding the keys on a hook, cranked the engine, the sound was almost deafening. The owner had likely removed the catalytic converter for better airflow. The sound of unfiltered exhaust began to fill the garage.

  Max checked the gas gauge before quickly killing the engine. After all, the garage door was still closed.

  There was gas.

  “Looks like we have our second car,” Max said.

  “Should we check the rest of the house for provisions?” said Georgia.

  Max agreed, and together they moved swiftly through the rest of the house, clearing each room. It wasn’t a large house, and it didn’t take long.

  Only after assuring themselves that there was no one hiding under a bed or in a closet somewhere, waiting to attack them, did they start looking through the house for things that could be useful to them.

  “Aside from the car,” said Georgia. “This is a bust.”

  “Yeah,” said Max, looking through the kitchen cupboards. “Looks like whoever lived here took just about everything useful you could think of.”

  “Let’s head out. Think they’ll be excited to see the new ride?”

  “James will. He loves those types of cars.”

  Max laughed, and it made his face hurt. The huge guy he’d fought had hurt him bad. But Max had hurt him worse. And that was what was important.

  Whoever was still alive was the winner.

  Back in the garage, Max threw open the door. Light poured in, shocking their darkness-adjusted eyes.

  Max put the Honda into reverse. It had a short, stubby aftermarket shifter, as well as all sorts of extra dials on the dashboard.

  “You think this thing’ll be reliable?” said Georgia. “Sometimes these are great for going fast, and not so good at not breaking down.”

  Max shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got. Unless we find another car.”

  The Honda moved faster than Max had expected. Even in reverse, just tapping the accelerator lightly sent the car zooming out of the garage. Max had to slam on the brakes just to keep from going too far off the driveway.

  Max brought the car up to the Ford Bronco, where everyone was waiting.

  “Holy shit,” said James, getting out of the Bronco. “Nice ride.”

  Mandy laughed nervously when she saw it.

  “I just hope it works,” said Georgia.

  Something seemed of
f to Max. Something was wrong.

  It hit him suddenly. “Where’s Chad?”

  Chad was nowhere to be seen.

  Everyone spun their heads around.

  “Shit,” muttered Mandy. “That asshole’s left us.”

  “No one was watching him?” said Max.

  “I was watching the street,” said Mandy.

  “Me too,” said James and Sadie together, looking guilty.

  Max couldn’t chastise them. You couldn’t expect people to watch the guy who was watch.

  “Chad’s been so much better since stopping the pills,” said Max. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe someone took him,” said Sadie.

  “Like kidnapped him?” scoffed James. “Why would they do that? Plus, we would have heard something.”

  “We’ve got to find him,” said Max.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” said Mandy.

  “We can’t leave him,” said Georgia.

  “Remember, Mandy,” said Max. “He saved our lives back at the farmhouse. We’re all going or no one’s going.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Max didn’t say anything.

  The truth was that he didn’t have the slightest idea, short of going around the neighborhood looking for Chad like he was a lost dog.

  4

  John

  John and Cynthia had been walking alongside the rural road for the last twenty minutes. They kept mostly within the tree line, in case a car passed by.

  So far, they hadn’t seen anyone. John hoped it would stay that way.

  “I wish I knew how to use this thing,” said Cynthia, holding up her handgun.

  “Put that down,” said John. “You’re going to shoot one of us by mistake.”

  “I’ve got the safety on… I think.”

  “Wow,” muttered John. “Here, look, don’t put your finger inside this guard around the trigger. Not unless you’re going to shoot someone.”

  “Makes sense,” said Cynthia, nodding, returning the gun to its holster. “How’d you figure that out?”