Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Max, speaking no more.

His leg hurt. His whole body hurt. He thought of Mandy and hoped she was OK.

Max’s hands were right on his gun. Gripped hard. Not too hard.

His palms were sweaty. His whole body was sweaty and uncomfortable. Somewhat itchy, too, strangely.

But what did he expect? For death to come on in a nice, pleasant way? Did he expect to die while feeling great, while on top of the world?

No. He never had. He’d imagined this moment countless times before. He’d known it would come. He hadn’t known when. But he’d known that it would be like this. He’d known that it’d be painful and unpleasant.

What were the chances he’d die immediately? Not good.

If Max understood anything about Grant, it was that he was power hungry. And probably a sadist. Willing to do anything to stay on top. A sick man.

Grant, if he could, would have Max tortured.

It would happen fast. Max would get hit. A bullet here or there. Lodged in a leg or abdomen. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to incapacitate him.

Then he’d be taken by Grant and his men. Maybe tied up. Maybe just beaten until he was further incapacitated.

Then the imaginative things would start happening. From what Max had heard from Wilson and from the people in the stockade, the knives would come out.

Max would get carved up like a Christmas turkey.

He wouldn’t enjoy it.

Maybe they’d be the worst moments of his life. Maybe not. He didn’t know.

Max wasn’t scared of torture.

He was scared of dying. That was normal. He couldn’t help it. No point in fighting it.

The dying would end the torture. It would last a few minutes. Maybe a few hours or days if he was really unlucky. And then it would be all over. And after that, what difference would it make to anyone? What difference would it make to Max that he’d spent his last moments in intense physical and mental pain? None. He’d be dead.

Max saw it happen in a flash.

The men came rushing up. Four of them.

Grant was in the rear. Massive. Bigger and more powerful looking than the other men.

Grant’s little unit wasn’t expecting to find Max and Wilson there. They were expecting to find empty ground. They were expecting to keep chasing Max and Wilson.

So they weren’t ready to fight. Not yet.

Max, though, was ready.

His trigger finger was moving. It seemed almost automatic. Almost as if he wasn’t even thinking about it.

His gun kicked. No one fell. Someone was hit, but they kept going. Maybe a result of the drugs. Who knew?

Max wasn’t expecting what happened next.

It all was happening so fast.

Someone was rushing towards the oncoming men, and for a moment, Max’s brain couldn’t comprehend who or what it was.

Then he realized that it was Wilson.

Wilson, rushing the oncoming men as if he were… well, there really was no comparison. Max didn’t know what it was like. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

Wilson held his gun at his hip, running as fast as he could, faster than Max had ever seen him run during their escape.

It was like Wilson was a crazed warrior, carrying a flaming spear.

“Aghhhh!” screamed Wilson, at the top of his lungs. More shouted words came out, but nothing was intelligible. The only thing he communicated was that he was in a rage, that he was attacking, that he was using everything he had.

This wasn’t just a last-ditch effort. It was something more.

Wilson had decided how he wanted to go out, how he’d wanted to be remembered.

Wilson went down in a flash.

Guns fired. Gunshots echoed.

Wilson was on his way down.

But not without firing shots of his own.

His gun went off like a cannon.

Pretty close range too.

Since, no matter how fast Grant’s men reacted, it wasn’t fast enough. Wilson had managed to get close to them. He’d managed to do the impossible, to give Max and him a tactical advantage when one hadn’t been there to begin with.

Wilson got two of them. Hit them in the stomach. Which was pretty good, considering he wasn’t really aiming at all. He was just firing from the hip, like he was in some old cowboy movie.

Then Wilson was down on the ground.

Max had fired three shots of his own.

It would have been miraculous, had Wilson not died in the process.

Max’s ears were ringing horribly. His heart was pounding.

When it was all over, mere seconds later, there was only one man still standing.

And it was Grant.

Tall and massive Grant.

Fury on his face. A mean face. A horrible face.

Max took aim. He tried to take his time, while moving swiftly. His hands were steady.

Max knew he could make the shot.

Grant wasn’t fast enough. In fact, Grant didn’t seem to be acting rationally. He had dropped his gun. A long gun. Dropped it to the ground.

Grant’s face was twisting, transforming. His mouth was open as he was screaming.

Max couldn’t hear Grant’s screaming over the intense ringing in his ears.

Max didn’t know what he was saying.

But he saw what was happening.

Grant’s desires had shaped his behavior. They had overtaken him. They had prevented him from thinking or acting rationally.

What Grant should have done is stood in place and shot Max to death.

But he didn’t.

Now the ball was in Max’s court. All he had to do was shoot.

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

No kickback.

No noise.

The gun was jammed. Just an empty trigger pull, accomplishing nothing.

Grant was coming at him fast. He looked like a linebacker. A linebacker who could do the 100 in 10 seconds flat. A linebacker who knew how to sprint, who knew how to pick up his knees, who knew how to move his arms. He knew how to propel himself forward.

He was mere feet from Max when he launched himself forward. Half-jump, half just thrusting himself froward

Max had no knife. No working gun.

Wilson’s gun was far away.

This was going to be hand-to-hand combat. This was going to be a fight to the death. Nothing but their hands.

Unless Grant pulled a knife.

Anything was possible.

Grant’s huge body smashed into Max.

It was hard to tell what was happening.

The impact seemed to make Max’s vision go blurry for a moment.

And it stayed blurry.

Grant’s hands were huge. Abnormally large. And strong.

His hands were around Max’s neck. Grant’s legs were splayed out as he crouched over Max’s body.

Max was on his belly. Grant’s breath was hot and close to his neck.

“You’re going to die,” hissed Grant, his voice deep and intense. “But don’t worry, it’s not going to happen fast… I’m just going to choke you out… when you wake up you’re going to be in more pain than you’ve ever imagined…”

So Max had been right. Grant wanted to prolong his suffering.

Not that it mattered much.

“You hate me more than Wilson?” Max managed to say, despite the hands around his neck.

“Wilson…” grunted Grant, not adding any more.

“He’s still alive,” said Max.

It was a classic trick. The classic trick. It was a variation on “look, what’s that over there?”

But it worked. Even if it was dumb, it still worked.

Grant looked, turning his big massive head on his big muscular neck.

Max brought both his legs up at the same time, as hard as he could. He had to pull them backwards, since he was on his belly.

It was his knees that connected with Grant’s groin.

Max kicked backward with everything he had.

And it made a difference.

Grant squealed in pain. A high-pitched squeal.

Max didn’t know how he did it but he managed to squirm his way out from under Grant, breaking free of the hands on his neck that were weakening.