Plan C

Chapter 2 Part 1

It came again. A sharp, echoing crack echoed through the air, followed closely by another. Panic surged through me like a tidal wave, and I sprang from my restless thoughts to my feet. My breath came in quick, heavy bursts as I sprinted toward the front of the rig, adrenaline surging through my veins. My father knew that sound too; it was unmistakable—it was gunfire.

Through the windshield of our RV, we had a front-row seat to a terrifying scene unfolding just outside. Two rugged-looking men stood about thirty feet away from a family huddled behind an old truck in the ditch. Their appearances were jarring—leather jackets flapping in the wind, untied shoes flapping as they laughed like they were in some twisted game rather than engaging in violence. What kind of grown men don't tie their shoes during something so serious? I rolled my eyes at their absurdity even amidst the chaos.

The family behind the truck was clearly terrified; they ducked low to avoid incoming fire while rifles lay helplessly beside them—an irony that twisted my gut. Among them were two men kneeling behind the vehicle, while another person lay on the ground, only dirty blonde hair visible from our angle. A chill ran down my spine.

I glanced at my father and instinctively touched his shoulder, seeking reassurance. His reaction was immediate and forceful—"Get down everyone, NOW!" The urgency in his voice propelled me into action. I dashed toward the back of the RV and quickly tucked my younger daughters down on the floor of our cramped bedroom space, shielding them as best I could from what might come next.

The rig shuddered beneath us as it powered forward, racing toward danger to offer cover for those in need. My father maneuvered it between those rugged men and the vulnerable family—a bold act reflecting his unwavering determination to protect others despite our own perilous situation.

I wasn't a trained nurse or paramedic by any means—but life had made me accident-prone while teaching me how to deal with emergencies alongside my equally clumsy girls. We were stocked with supplies for any mishap we could think of; it was time to put that preparation into action. Grabbing gauze and alcohol wipes from our stash, I met my father at the door of the RV.

With a shared glance signaling our resolve but also uncertainty about who we would help today, we threw open the door and raced out into chaos once more. My mother kept her grip on the wheel steady—ready to keep us moving if our daring stunt didn't scare off those men lurking near their prey.

When I reached those crouched around the truck's bumper, dread gripped my heart—the blonde woman had been shot in her abdomen. My hands trembled slightly as I applied pressure with gauze against her wound; even though I had been an avid fan of "Grey's Anatomy," this was reality—a stark contrast far removed from scripted heroics.

One young man nearby broke down in tears while desperately cradling her face with trembling hands; another tried valiantly to keep watch over them both while tending to a girl who seemed frozen by fear nearby—a heartbreaking scene that stirred deep empathy within me.

Meanwhile, my father sprinted up beside us and snatched up one of their rifles lying abandoned on the ground—a potential weapon against whatever threat lurked nearby if things escalated further still. The RV shielded us well enough for now—but it positioned us dangerously close to danger at this vantage point.

As I returned my focus back to that blonde woman—the one fighting for her life—I noticed details piercing through shock: her diamond princess-cut wedding band twinkled faintly amidst dirt-smeared skin; frail yet rugged hands bore testament against adversity etched onto every line around her eyes—I recognized her!

Not as a friend or a classmate from high school—she was much too young for that. But I had met her before; I was certain of it. The familiarity was unsettling, tinged with an urgency that drew me closer to the unfolding chaos.

I thought of asking what had happened, but deep down, I already knew too well the horrors lurking beneath the surface. My gaze darted around, taking stock of the scene before me—the ammunition scattered across the ground in disarray like fallen leaves after a tempest. The rifles were spilling out of an open duffle bag, which dangled precariously half-out of the truck as if trying to escape its grim fate.

That's what those rugged men were after. They wanted their guns? How could this have led to such desperation? My heart raced as I glanced back at the young woman sprawled on the ground; she was awake but in obvious pain and shock, her eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Only seconds had passed since everything went awry, yet it felt like an eternity—a stretch of time filled with unspoken fears and aching uncertainty.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder—firm yet insistent—shaking me gently away from where I had unconsciously pressed down on her injury. Reluctantly, I turned my attention away from her pained expression to see who needed me now. "ASH!?" The voice rang out again, laced with concern and urgency.