Райан Уэстфилд - Finding Shelter

It was all a blur.

Hard to say what happened in what order.

But now they were locked together, like wrestlers. Both of them on their knees. Both of their heads pressed against each other. Max’s forehead hurt from the pressure.

Max’s neck hurt from the strain of pressing as hard as he could against Grant’s.

Grant’s face was red. His cheeks were puffed out. His teeth were gritted. He wore an intense grimace.

“You’re going to wish you were dead,” hissed Grant.

Max didn’t waste his breath talking. He didn’t waste his energy.

But he knew what to do. He had to trick him. Distract him.

Max smiled. A big, creepy smile. Showed all his teeth. Really got the corners of his mouth up high.

It unnerved Grant. Max could tell that much.

It gave Grant just that moment of hesitation that Max needed.

Max had spotted the knife on Grant’s belt earlier.

He reached for it now, completely blind, his eyes staying locked on Grant’s, his forehead staying pressed hard against Grant’s.

Grant’s hands were once again at Max’s throat, but it didn’t matter. Max ignored it and just kept on flashing his absurd smile, as if everything was fine with the world or it just really didn’t matter, as if he’d just completely lost his mind.

Max moved fast. Trying to get the knife.

It was hard doing it blind.

Max’s first attempt missed. Instead, he just grabbed a bit of Grant’s thigh.

It was as if he were making an awkward pass at him or something.

Max’s hand fumbled around.

Found the knife.

It was a fancy fixed blade in a fancy holster.

The sheath was leather. Fortunately, there was no small piece of leather that snapped in place, securing the knife.

The knife stayed in just by friction. The sheath was tight.

Max wrapped his fingers around the cool handle. It was a strange-feeling material. Without seeing it, he knew it was something fancy. Something strange. Maybe some kind of rare stone. Pearl? Was that possible?

It didn’t matter.

Max had been ignoring the hands around his neck. But now he couldn’t ignore the light-headed feeling, the sensation that he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen.

He had mere seconds.

Max pulled the knife from its sheath. He moved fast.

He moved his hand to the right, swinging the knife out far. Then he brought it back, moving as swiftly and as forcefully as he could.

The blade of the knife plunged into Grant’s side.

Grant let out a grunt of pain, but managed to keep his eyes focused on Max’s, and his fingers around Max’s throat.

Max had never felt this lightheaded. Never felt so close to passing out.

It was almost like he was drowning. There was some distant memory from somewhere that was trying to surface, but it stayed put.

Max brought the knife back out. Then in again, plunging it into Grant’s body.

Grant was a hardened, muscular man. But it didn’t matter. The knife was sharp. It was double-edged. It was a real weapon, with a sharp point. And it plunged through Grant’s muscles easily, slicing them apart as if it were surgeon’s scalpel

The hands around Max’s neck were loosening a little.

“You’ll never…” growled Grant, bits of his spittle flying and hitting Max’s face.

Grant’s eyes had fury in them. They were locked onto Max’s.

Max stabbed him again. And again.

And again.

By the time he’d stabbed him for the tenth time, Grant was done.

His eyes were blank. Pupils rolled back in his head. A strange frothy substance on the corners of his lips. His hands had gone limp.

Max kept the knife in, driving it in even harder.

It took a huge effort to push Grant’s inert body off of him.

But he did it. Grunting in pain and exhaustion.

There was blood soaking the hand that he’d stabbed with. Blood up to nearly his elbow. His hand felt cold and weak from the intense effort.

Max’s neck hurt.

It seemed like he couldn’t quite get enough air to breathe.

He staggered away from the scene, his eyes casting around on the ground.

He didn’t know if everyone was dead yet. He needed a weapon. There was no time to celebrate.

He found it. A handgun someone had dropped. Not his own Glock, but it would have to do.

Grant was dead. His body was still. Max walked back over, checked the pulse.

No pulse.

Good.

Max made the rounds.

Wilson was obviously dead. Shot to pieces. His body was torn up from the bullets. A gruesome sight. No point in even checking the pulse.

The three others were on the ground. Max went to them each in turn.

The first two were dead. No pulse. Stone-cold dead. Good. Easier that way.

The third was still alive.

Max didn’t have to take his pulse to find that out. When he got close, he could hear the man’s ragged breathing even over the roaring in his ears.

The man was spread out, stretched out. Lying face-up on his back. His arms were out to his side, spread all the way out.

The man had a short haircut. Reminiscent of the military.

He had a well-developed musculature. Impressive in these lean times when food was scarce.

Max didn’t give his action a second thought. He pressed the muzzle of his gun against the forehead. Squeezed the trigger.

Point blank. Messy. But he didn’t have time to try to play nice and clean.

Another life lost. Another human dead. Out of how many?

Max didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to be another statistic.

Now that he’d somehow defeated the undefeatable crack team, he knew he could get back to the camp alive. He knew he could outpace the other teams that were farther off course, father behind. Maybe they wouldn’t even pursue him.

It was all because of Wilson. Wilson’s sacrifice.

Max glanced down at Wilson’s destroyed body. He owed his life to this man.

But Max didn’t let his gaze linger long. He didn’t let himself get too sentimental. Instead, he started digging through the pockets of every man there. And that included Wilson.

Max took would be useful to him. It didn’t take long.

He’d lost his own gun. His Glock. But he’d gained others.

It wasn’t the actual gun so much that mattered, but what you did with it. And things like knowledge and circumstance. And luck. Luck had a lot to do with it.

Less than ten minutes later, Max was leaving the bodies behind.

He had a pack full of the gear he’d harvested. He had guns and he had ammunition. He had food and he had water.

Most importantly, he knew where he was going.

His neck hurt and his body was tired. His leg hurt, as it almost always did.

Max set off at a good pace, not wanting to waste any time.

He didn’t glance back. Not once. He didn’t need to the see the bodies again. They were just dead people. Nothing useful left there.

Someone would find them at some point. Maybe other members of the cult-like militia camp that Grant had run.

Max would make it back to his own camp, an entirely different sort of camp.

He’d travel mostly at night. He’d take his time, doing everything safely. He’d make sure he got back. He’d make sure that he was there for Mandy when their kid was born.

Max was tired. Exhausted. But it didn’t matter. He’d been through this sort of thing before. He knew that his body wouldn’t give out on him for several hours more. He knew that although he’d already pushed himself, he could keep pushing himself.

Max understood the limits of his body. He understood what it could take.

He knew he’d live.

It was a little strange, heading back from the camp.

He’d left his own wife to try to make a difference. He’d thought, on setting out, that he was too hardened and jaded to be caught in the idealism trap.