Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

The guy must have had a gun on him. All Max had to do was find it. His hands went searching, looking for a holster, patting and pawing at the enemy’s parka, trying to find where it ended. He couldn’t see what he was doing. All he could do was reach and search, his hand flailing blindly.

The hands gripped him even tighter. Max was moments away from losing consciousness. Moments away from death.

He had to act. Now. But he was weak. The strength was leaving his body.

“I could have shot you,” growled the man. “But this is much, much better.”

Max’s hand hit up against something. Something smooth. Leather. He fumbled for the gun that he knew must have been there inside the holster.

The enemy didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on strangling Max to death. His face was pressed up against Max’s, his neck craning, his pupils small and contracted, his expression beyond intense.

Max’s vision was going. But he still couldn’t find the gun.

Suddenly, sounds rang out through the woods. Max barely registered them. They sounded like shouts. Max wasn’t sure. He was concentrating on his hand, on finding that gun. If he could just get it, he could end this. He could put a bullet through the man’s torso. He just needed that gun.

But there was nothing in the holster. His hand felt nothing but smooth leather.

A shot rang out. Loud and close. Max’s ear’s rang with the sound.

The hands loosened, falling away from his throat. Blood dribbled out of the enemy’s mouth.

John couldn’t believe it. He’d made the shot. He’d had the man in his sights for long. Too long. The seconds had ticked by, seeming like an eternity. He hadn’t known whether he could do it, whether he could kill the enemy and not accidentally shoot his brother.

Finally, he’d simply had to act. Max was going to die anyway.

John rushed across the snow, his boots sinking, over to Max.

“You still with us, Max?” said John, bending down and grabbing Max by the shoulders.

“Not dead yet,” muttered Max.

John pulled Max to his feet. The color had drained from Max’s face.

“You don’t look too bad. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Max. There was blood on his face, and pain in his eyes.

The sound of footsteps. John turned, raising his gun.

“James… Mandy…” said Max.

John didn’t fire at the silhouettes running towards them. When they got into view, he could see them clearly. It was James and Mandy.

“Max!”

“He’s alive!”

Max looked up at them, nodding a greeting.

“Let’s get him back to camp,” said John. “Here, help me.”

“What happened?” said Max. “Georgia, Sadie?”

“Everyone’s fine,” said John. “The plan worked.”

Max glanced around, looking into the woods. “There might be more out there,” he said.

“Come on,” said John. “Don’t be ridiculous. We got them all.”

Max didn’t say anything.

James and Mandy still looked stunned.

“I can’t believe that worked,” said Mandy, speaking in hushed tones. She stared in disbelief at Max.

“I couldn’t have done it without you two,” said Max, nodding at them again.

Max looked unsteady on his feet, and John reached out to give him a supporting hand.

But Max shook him off.

“Just trying to help,” said John.

Max didn’t say anything. He was looking into the woods.

“Come on,” said John. “It’s only getting colder. Let’s get back to camp. It’s not doing you any good out here.”

“Help me get this gear,” said Max, gesturing to the dead man.

“We’ll come back for it,” said John.

But Max was already trying to take the blood-stained parka off the corpse. He fumbled with the zipper, his hands too cold to move delicately.

“Let me get that for you, Max” said James.

Max stood up, moving aside to let James work.

Mandy stood there, shivering, opening her mouth a few times, as if she wanted to speak. But nothing came out.

Finally, the words came tumbling out of her. “I tried, Max,” she said. “I wanted to shoot him… when he had his hands around your neck. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was too worried I’d shoot you instead. I told James not to shoot. I thought you’d get him any moment. I thought you had it…”

A single tear rolled down Mandy’s cheek. She seemed pretty shaken up by the experience, by her own inability to act.

“It’s fine,” said Max. “You already saved me once. One of you saved me when I thought I was dead. You weren’t under any obligation to do it again.”

“I guess I was the least concerned about shooting Max,” said John, laughing. “Sometimes it takes a brother to do something like that.”

James had gotten the coat off the dead man and was going through his pockets. “His handgun’s missing, but there’s some good stuff here,” said James, holding up a compass, a lighter, and an expensive-looking fixed blade survival knife. “He had the knife in his boot,” said James.

“I don’t know why he didn’t just shoot me, or knife me,” said Max.

John shrugged. “He was messed up. Who cares.”

“Motives are important,” said Max.

“Sometimes,” said John. “But not when the guy’s dead.”

“I wish this were over,” said Max. “But I don’t think it is. Come on, we’ve got to get the rest of the gear.” He gestured over in the direction of the other corpses.

“You’re crazy,” said John. “You’re in no condition to…”

But Max was already walking away, limping, blood trickling down his face.

John, James, and Mandy exchanged a look and went scrambling to catch up with Max.

They got what they could from the corpses. The parkas were thick and warm. They’d serve well, much better than what they had. Max was still wearing the coat he’d worn all along, one that couldn’t have been much protection against the frigid temperatures.

John himself could barely feel his hands. He needed to get back to the fire, back to camp. But Max insisted on retracing his steps, finding his rifle and the spare magazines that had fallen out of his jacket. Max’s hands were so cold that he could barely load the magazine. But there was nothing but determination on his face, and John at that point knew better than to suggest doing it later.

It didn’t take long to walk back. Max insisted on taking up the rear, refusing all help, despite his limp appearing worse than it had in a while.

“You’re alive!” cried out Cynthia, rushing towards him. She threw herself against him, almost knocking him down, hugging him.

“Easy there,” said John, laughing.

Georgia was there, along with her daughter, Sadie. They were both working on getting the fire restarted. Georgia was looking exhausted, which wasn’t surprising, considering her injury. She was sitting there on a patch of clear earth, where the fire that had burned earlier had melted away the snow. Sadie was on her knees, following her mother’s instructions, trying to get the fire back.

Bullets had ripped through the van and the tent. They hadn’t provided much warmth before, and they certainly wouldn’t now.

“All right,” said Max, raising his voice so everyone could hear him easily. “We’ve won the battle. But we’ve got to be vigilant. We don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“Come on, Max,” said John. “Why don’t you sit down? You deserve a break.”

Max ignored him, except to say, “John, you and Cynthia are on official watch. I want you there, and there.” He pointed to opposite ends of the camp. “Everyone else, keep your eyes peeled. Consider yourselves on unofficial watch.”