The Pilgrimage Chapter 2

     The truck rolled on, cutting through the desert landscape as the morning light grew stronger. They were miles from Carlsbad, with Greg in a steady silence, Julio leaning back with his eyes scanning the roadside, and Brad in the backseat, nodding off slightly. Shen switched the music to something calmer, a gentle guitar strumming that seemed to match the rhythm of their drive.

     Hours passed without much incident, the flat desert and occasional scrub giving them little in the way of distractions. But as noon approached, Julio noticed a flicker of movement ahead.

     “Greg,” Julio said, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “Up ahead. Something’s off.”

     Greg nodded, his grip tightening on the wheel. As they drew closer, they saw two vehicles parked haphazardly on the shoulder—a minivan and a beat-up SUV. Both doors were ajar, and boxes and bags were scattered across the ground. No one was visible nearby, but the scene didn’t look right.

     “Could be a trap,” Shen said, adjusting his seat, his voice tense.

     “We could drive around it,” Brad suggested from the back, leaning forward, eyeing the scene with suspicion.

     Julio shook his head. “Road’s narrow, and they’d see us slow down. We go off-road, they might have people hiding in the scrub.”

     “Then we go through it,” Greg said, his voice low. He pressed his foot down, accelerating slightly.

     As they approached, tension filled the cab. They each shifted, subtly preparing. Greg glanced back to ensure Shen and Brad had their rifles close by; both were ready, hands hovering near their weapons, tense but silent.

     Then it happened—a loud pop from the road, and the truck lurched hard to the left. Greg wrestled with the wheel as the truck skidded, tires screeching against the pavement.

     “Spike strip!” Shen yelled, reaching back to grab his rifle as the SUV doors slammed shut and men with rifles emerged from the roadside scrub, aiming for the truck.

     “Hold on!” Greg shouted, jerking the wheel right, grinding the truck onto the roadside gravel as it slowed. With the tires blown, they were sitting ducks.

     “Get out, get your gear!” Brad shouted, swinging open the back door. The group scrambled out, each grabbing their rifles and taking cover behind the sparse rocks and desert scrub. Julio, pistol already in hand, crouched low, gun at the ready, watching their backs.

     Gunfire erupted, the men behind the ambush firing toward the truck, bullets punching holes through the metal, shattering windows. Greg, Julio, and Shen took cover behind a low ridge of rock, while Brad stayed back, crouched low, rifle in hand.

     “This can’t be how it ends,” Shen muttered, reloading his weapon. “Not after all we’ve been through.”

     Julio peered over the ridge, spotting at least four men advancing, armed and moving quickly. He aimed and fired, his shot hitting one of the men, who crumpled to the ground. The others ducked, taking cover behind the vehicles.

     “Brad, cover us from the right!” Greg shouted. Brad nodded, repositioning himself and firing a few rounds to keep their attackers pinned down. But their situation was dire—they were outnumbered, outgunned, and isolated.

     Just then, Greg noticed movement in his periphery—a fifth man, sneaking up from behind, a knife glinting in his hand. Greg turned, but not fast enough. The attacker lunged, knife slashing across Greg’s arm, leaving a deep gash.

     “Greg!” Shen shouted, firing at the attacker, who fell back, clutching his chest. Greg gritted his teeth, pressing his hand against his wound, blood seeping through his fingers.

     "We need to make a run for it,” Greg said, voice strained. “We can’t take them all down.”

     “Where?” Brad called out, glancing around at the barren landscape. There wasn’t much cover, just a few low shrubs and distant hills.

     But before anyone could decide, a piercing scream cut through the air. They all turned—Julio had been hit. He was down, clutching his leg, blood soaking through his jeans. His face twisted in pain, but he still gripped his pistol.

     “Leave me!” he gasped. “Just go—find that hermit.”

     “Not a chance,” Shen muttered, dropping low, crawling toward Julio, firing off rounds to keep the attackers at bay. He reached Julio, gripping his shoulder. “Can you walk?”

     Julio nodded, grimacing, and with Shen’s help, he staggered to his feet. Greg and Brad provided cover, emptying their magazines toward the advancing men as they retreated.

     It felt like an eternity, but finally, they managed to put enough distance between them and the attackers, disappearing into a low valley. They kept moving, half-carrying Julio, who was limping heavily but determined to keep going.

     Finally, they reached a small outcrop of rocks, where they collapsed, catching their breath. Brad pulled up his shirt, grabbed a tourniquet off his belt, and applied it to Julio’s leg.

     “We…we need to keep moving,” Julio panted, his face pale.

     Greg shook his head. “We’re stopping here for a bit. We need a plan—and Julio, you need rest.”

     Greg and Shen looked at each other, knowing a tourniquet wasn’t a permanent solution and that leaving it on would have serious effects later.