Max had lost weight, but it was still incredibly snug underneath the car. The exhaust manifold was pressed into his shoulder.
Max waited. It sounded like everyone was in the house.
He had his head turned to the side, but he couldn’t see much at all.
If he waited too long, to make sure the coast was clear, he risked having the mob catch him as they left the house.
He’d try to make a break for it.
The pesticide container was lying on its side next to Max. He wouldn’t leave without it, even if it slowed him down. He gripped it tightly.
Max slid himself out from underneath the car. The pavement tore at his jacket. It was hard with his injured leg to move himself sideways.
But he was out.
The noise from the house was deafening.
“He’s not here!” someone shouted from inside.
Max only had moments.
He spun his head, looking around.
No one.
Max dashed off, heading straight down the middle of the road. He’d be in plain sight if anyone was there.
And there certainly would be someone. There were too many people to avoid all of them.
But all he had to do was avoid the majority of them.
He’d fight. He’d have to.
He hoped he was going in the right direction.
Max only heard his breathing, ragged and intense, and his boots against the pavement. His vision had become a tunnel.
His gait was lopsided from his limp and the gas container in his left hand.
His right hand clutched the pistol.
His body was exhausted. He was almost totally spent. He pushed himself, harder than he’d ever thought possible. Every muscle ached. Every injury roared with pain.
Max didn’t turn his head to look to see if they were following him. It didn’t matter. He was running as hard as he could. Nothing could make him run faster. He’d already reached his physical limits.
He barely knew where he was. The stress, the extreme exertion… it was all so much. The body and mind only had so much energy.
In front of him, there was a big white house, with busted shutters and ivy growing all over it.
Max was rapidly approaching the house.
Nothing made sense… His mind was having trouble putting the pieces together.
Then he realized it. He’d reached a dead end. A cul-de-sac street.
He’d definitely gone the right way.
There was only one way to go. Max’s boots hit the yard and he kept running, right around the side of the house, not knowing where it might lead to.
The backyard was large, stretching far on all sides.
“He’s in the backyard!” A young, loud voice came dancing down from where Max had just come.
Max stopped, completely physically spent, in the middle of the huge, empty back yard. He turned to see three young men walking towards him.
A fence ran around the entire periphery of the yard, tall and smooth. Max took one look at it and realized he couldn’t climb it. It was smooth metal, painted black. Many heads higher than Max was. Even if he used the pesticide container as a foot stool, there was no chance he could get over it.
Max ran his eyes across the men.
One had a baseball bat that he swung casually at his side. Another had a kitchen knife. The third was unarmed.
None of them had guns.
Max stood there, drenched in sweat, completely filthy, his clothes torn in places.
His entire body ached, but he stood straight and tall.
Max raised the pistol, pointing it at them.
“Don’t take another step.”
“What? You’re going to shoot us?”
“That’s right.”
“You can’t shoot us all.”
They kept walking towards Max.
Max didn’t want to kill them. They were young men. Before the EMP, they’d have had futures ahead of them, possibilities of forging their own families, of traveling the world, of the thousand possibilities that life used to offer.
But they’d changed along with everyone else. There was hunger and deadness in their eyes. They’d succumbed to the mob mentality. They’d lost everything and they were angry, an anger that boiled deep in their muscles and bones.
They wanted to strike out. They wanted to hurt someone. They wanted to cause pain. Society had let them down, deceived them. They needed a target.
Max was that target.
“You really want to sacrifice yourselves, so that one of you might kill me?” said Max.
They didn’t respond.
There wasn’t much time. They were blocking Max’s only exit. The other side of the house was blocked by the fence.
If he waited any longer, others would come.
Max might be able to take out the three of them. But if more arrived, that’d be it for him.
Max regretted it even before he did it. But he did what he had to do.
He took good aim, right in the stomach of the one with the knife, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked.
A scream.
The man fell.
The two others broke into a sprint, rushing Max.
Max got off one more shot. The second one fell, screaming. Max’s shot hadn’t been perfect. It hadn’t been a killing shot, but he didn’t know where he’d gotten him.
There wasn’t time for a third.
This was the unarmed young man. He’d lost weight since the EMP, but he had an athletic frame. Strong and powerful, and fresher than Max was. He hadn’t been hunted like a dog through streets and backyards.
He collided with Max, tackling him to the ground.
The back of Max’s head hit the earth hard. His vision swam.
The guy was on top of Max, his weight pressing down onto him. He raised his arm, his hand in a tight fist. It came down hard, hitting Max on the side of his head.
The pistol was no longer in Max’s hand. Maybe it had fallen when he’d knocked his head.
Max tried reaching for his Glock in its holster, but the guy suddenly pinned Max’s arm in place, thrusting his whole weight onto both of his arms, his hands wrapped tightly around Max’s wrist. His face was a snarl as he stared down at Max.
Max’s left hand was free. He shoved it into his pocket, where his knife was clipped. His fingers closed around the knife.
The guy pulled up his right hand, ready to swing again.
Max struggled with his right, to distract the guy, but the guy’s weight was too much.
Max’s thumb found the hole in the blade, and he flicked the knife open. This wouldn’t be the first time his knife had saved him.
Max jammed the knife hard into the guy’s side, just as the second punch hit him in the face.
The guy screamed. Max pulled out the knife and jammed it in again, stabbing hard and without mercy.
Max’s vision was blurred, and he hurt. But he thrust again with the knife, driving it deep into the man’s flesh.
Max shoved the body off him. He needed a moment to recover, but he didn’t have a moment. For all he knew, more people were coming. There’d been screams, loud enough to attract plenty of attention.
Max stood up, his hand going for his Glock. It felt good to have it back in his hand. He picked up the pistol, too, flipped the safety, and stuck it into his waistband.
The pesticide container with the gas was lying nearby. It’d been knocked over. Max picked it up, his vision going strange as he bent down.
Max’s head hurt like hell.
He pushed the toe of his boot against the body he’d pushed off himself. The guy was dead all right.
But one of three wasn’t yet dead. He’d been the victim of Max’s second shot, the one Max barely had time to get off. He lay there, bleeding from the side of his chest. His breathing was ragged and heavy. When he opened his mouth to moan in pain, there was blood around his teeth.