Of course, for that theory to be applicable, the enemy had to be civilized enough to care about their own wounded.
Georgia had a feeling that that sort of thinking had gone the way of the dodo since the EMP.
And she doubted that these five men cared whether or not one of their own went down. She didn’t know why, but the way they moved, the way they acted, made her think that they were some type of mercenaries. Separate individuals connected only by the promise of some kind of payment.
Georgia took a shallow breath. Held it.
Her finger pulled on the trigger.
Her gun kicked.
The man fell.
“Spot me,” hissed Georgia, to John.
“Got you,” grunted John. The pain was evident in his voice.
She knew that John knew what she meant. She needed him to keep an eye out for anyone approaching. And for anything she would have missed with her eye glued to the scope.
This would save time. And time, in a fight like this, could mean their lives.
Georgia stayed as still as she could. She remembered seeing firefights in movies in which the characters would move around, twisting their bodies and doing all kinds of absurd movements as they dodged bullets.
Georgia knew that you couldn’t dodge bullets, no matter how badly you wanted to.
The way she was going to have the best chance of surviving was by shooting the enemy as fast as she could.
They were showing themselves now, emerging from out of sight.
She didn’t bother counting them. She needed to kill them, not count them.
She had another one in her sights.
She ignored the bullets burring themselves into the dirt around her. She ignored the bits of dirt and the small rocks that rained against her legs. She ignored the sounds of the guns cracking as they fired.
She ignored the shouts of the men that she couldn’t hear.
She only listened for John’s voice.
And she didn’t hear it.
She had to trust him. She had to trust that he’d alert her to someone approaching up close.
If she didn’t trust him, she’d lost time. Valuable time. Making her more likely to die.
Georgia pulled the trigger.
Her gun kicked.
The man didn’t fall. Blood appeared on his arm. His mouth opened in a scream.
She’d missed. Not completely. But she hadn’t made him fall.
But maybe she’d disabled him.
She doubted he’d be able to shoot her.
More cracks of guns.
Georgia ducked her head down.
The earth around her jumped up as bullets struck it.
So far, she wasn’t hit. She didn’t know how.
Apparently John wasn’t either. Unless he hadn’t made a sound.
Georgia was about to go up for another shot when she was hit.
It was her leg.
She felt the pain. A burst of intense pain that didn’t dissipate.
She knew the feeling well. After all, she’d been shot before.
She didn’t yelp in pain. She didn’t cry out. It was easier to do since she knew the whole routine from before. She’d been through it all before. She remembered the sensation of pain well.
Georgia didn’t want the enemy to know that she’d been shot. It would only embolden them. It would only make them fear her less.
She knew that she needed to be an impossible enemy. An all-powerful, skilled enemy. Even if these men didn’t admit it to themselves, they feared her. And that meant she was more likely to survive.
But really, how good were her chances?
By her count, there were three men left.
She didn’t see them out there. Where had they disappeared to?
What would happen? Would a single bullet suddenly strike her, piercing her skull, shutting her consciousness off instantly?
That wouldn’t be a bad way to go.
Statistically, though, it wasn’t likely.
What was more likely was that she’d keep receiving bullets. Her body would shut down system by system.
She’d get struck, for instance, in her arm. Then she’d lose its function. And she’d become more likely to get hit again.
Right now, though, no one was shooting.
No one seemed to be out there.
Had they retreated?
“John?” said Georgia. “You still with me?”
“I’m here,” said John.
“You see anyone?”
“Nope.”
“You holding up?”
“More or less. You?”
“I got shot. The leg.”
“Is it bad?”
“Not too bad. Not too good.”
They weren’t speaking loudly. They didn’t want to cover up any noises of an approaching enemy.
It was easy to hear the intense pain in John’s voice. And it was obvious that he was trying to not let it show.
Georgia could hear the pain in her own voice. And she knew that John could too.
It was a strange conversation.
There was that feeling that this might be their last conversation. But it didn’t feel like it did in the movies, when the slow-motion effects came on, and intense music gave the scene a timeless feeling.
No, there wasn’t any special feeling. Just regular old pain. Just regular old fear. Just slightly fumbling hands, shaking from the adrenaline. Just the thoughts of how to survive.
“What are they going to try?” said John.
“You don’t think they’ve retreated?”
“No,” said John. “They may be acting weird. As if their under orders. But they don’t seem like they’re going to retreat.”
“I think you’re right,” said Georgia, pausing to make sure she didn’t miss any sounds around them. Like the sounds of footsteps.
“So how will they come at us?”
“I think they’ll send one guy to get close to us,” said Georgia. “And keep two in the back, distracting us.”
“I’m keeping my eyes…”
A gunshot interrupted John’s thoughts.
The gunshot was loud. A loud crack.
Georgia felt the bullet. It felt like it scraped across her thigh. Or maybe it buried itself inside it. Hard to tell without looking.
Georgia had the scope to her face.
She had the man in her sights.
Same deal as before. She pulled the trigger.
It was a good shot. She hit him.
Right in the neck.
A spot of blood appeared there as he fell to the ground, his arms spasming, his weapon dropping away from him.
There was no time to celebrate. John let out a scream.
A loud scream.
The crack of a gunshot. Right beside her. Very close.
No time to worry about who’d shot who.
Georgia flipped herself around as quickly as she could. She didn’t think her leg would support her weight. But she needed to at least face the attackers.
She saw them.
Two of them. Standing there. Guns in hand.
John was there. Still breathing.
Whoever had shot had missed.
Georgia’s mind was racing. The moment seemed stuck in time, as if time was moving in slow motion.
But it still wasn’t like the movies.
Everything had an empty, hollow sort of quality to it. Her movements felt fast. Her body felt light.
Georgia had been right and wrong about the enemy’s plan. They’d tried to distract them, while also going in for an up-close attack. But they’d left one man behind in the distance.
They’d left that man there as a suicide sniper. A man who wasn’t going to make it.
The two who’d come in up close thought that they were the ones who were going to make it.
Not if Georgia could help it.
Time still seemed to be moving slowly.
John was bringing his rifle around. Lying on his back, he swung it down from over his head. He got it leveled at one of the men. Not bothering to really aim it, he shot it like he was a cop in the 1950s, shooting a revolver from the hip.
The man’s chest exploded. Inwards and outwards at the same time. A splatter of gore. Blood, bone, and heart tissue.