Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

“Max,” said John, approaching his brother. “Don’t you think you need to rest? You almost died back there, and you’re not looking good.”

Max shook his head. “Any sign of Rose or Jake?” he said, speaking loudly to everyone, and ignoring John again.

Everyone shook their heads. No one had seen Rose or Jake since they’d run from the camp. No sign of them.

John was starting to get annoyed with his brother. He was acting like they were still in a critical situation, even when everything was obviously over. The enemies had been defeated. Killed. If there’d been someone else out there, they would have fought. The enemies had acted like soldiers in an army. Why would some of them hold back while their comrades got killed? It didn’t make sense.

And John was getting annoyed at the way Max kept ignoring him, acting like what he was saying didn’t matter. Max was acting like he knew everything, like he knew exactly what to do.

But Max hadn’t done it all by himself. Maybe he was the unofficial leader, but they’d all worked together as a team just now. And if it hadn’t been for John’s shot, Max would be dead right now. He thought he deserved something, some recognition.

“I’m going,” said Max, suddenly.

“What?”

“I’m going to look for them,” said Max.

“Come on, that’s crazy. You can’t leave now.”

Max stared at John. There was something intense about his eyes. Something that made John feel a little uneasy.

“It’s dangerous,” said John.

“You said yourself there’s no one out there,” said Max, his voice deadpan.

“Yeah,” sputtered John, looking for a rationale to back up what he was saying. “But… I mean, it is possible…”

Mandy moved over to Max, putting a comforting hand on his arm. “We’re all worried about them, Max,” said Mandy. “But don’t you think it’d be better to wait until morning? You’re too cold to fight effectively. Wait an hour or so, warm up, and when the sun rises, we’ll go together.”

Max nodded. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m going alone.”

John shot an angry look at Max. Why was he willing to take Mandy’s advice, but not the advice of his own brother?

It was colder, but the cold didn’t bother Marshal the way it did other people. Sure, his body responded to it the same way as anyone else’s would. He wasn’t a superhero. He could get frostbite and hypothermia as easily as anyone.

But his mind was stronger than most.

Without the emotional toil, the baggage that common people carried, Marshal was free to do what he wished with his body. He could push himself harder and longer than he should have been able to. He’d learned this at an early age on the playground and in gym class at school. He’d been able to outrun anyone when it came to distance, even though he wasn’t the fastest, and hadn’t been the strongest.

But he was strong now. Prison life had given him the time he’d needed, as well as the resources, to sculpt his body. He’d done so unemotionally, as if he were designing a machine. He’d quickly gained a reputation as the prisoner who wouldn’t quit in the gym. He’d pushed through injuries like they were nothing. When others would have taken a step back, let themselves recover, Marshal had just kept going.

It hadn’t been devoid of drawbacks. Marshal’s shoulder still clicked when he raised his arm, and his knee flared up on him occasionally. But he simply didn’t care. He thought of his body only as a machine that he could use. He thought of his body the way he thought of everything, with no emotional attachment whatsoever.

Marshal’s only drive now was to find himself pleasure. He needed a victim. He needed to inflict pain. Lots of it.

And he wasn’t going to stop at just one.

No, he was going to pick them off one by one.

Marshal’s “comrades,” if you could call them that, were all dead. That was fine with him. They’d done their job. They’d weakened those at the camp, making them perfect prey for Marshal.

Marshal had been spying on the camp from a distance with his binoculars. Now he retreated, pushing his position farther away from the camp. He didn’t want to be discovered. He needed his time. He needed to let them think they were safe.

It was almost dawn, and Marshal was hungry. But he didn’t eat, even though he had food with him in his pack. Plenty of it. He did this often, not giving into hunger. He liked to have complete control over his body. Or at least feel like he did.

From behind him, Marshal heard something. It sounded like a woman’s voice.

Marshal turned.

There, in the semi-darkness of pre-dawn, a young woman was wandering through the snow. A dog walked in front of her, turning back. It was as if the dog was trying to guide her, trying to show her the way.

But the woman wasn’t acting normally. She didn’t seem to be in her right mind.

She walked in large zigzags, ambling slowly through the snow, talking to herself.

“Almost there, Jake,” she was saying, her voice now reaching Marshal clearly as she got closer. “Just a little ways to go.”

Her words were muffled, as if her lips were too cold to speak properly.

She was probably suffering from hypothermia. The bitter cold had gotten to her.

Had those at the camp abandoned one of their own, left her to wander and freeze to death in the woods?

Although she didn’t know it, the young woman was almost back at camp. If she continued in the direction she was aimlessly headed, guided by the dog, she’d soon be recovering from her hypothermia.

But Marshal had different plans for her.

She was perfect.

She’d be the first.

Marshal felt the excitement rising inside him. It was rare to feel this. To feel anything. These were special feelings, rare and hard to find. He craved these moments. He’d remember this.

When they’d locked him up, the prosecutors had called him a serial killer. But that wasn’t how Marshal thought of himself. To him, he was just a killer. It was what he did, and what he would always do. The numbers didn’t matter. Not to him, anyway.

Marshal kept his gun slung over his back as he walked towards the woman.

“Who… are… you?” she said, speaking slowly, her voice slurred.

“I’m going to help you,” said Marshal, looking her right in the eye. Her eyes were a brilliant blue.

The dog, which was up ahead, turned back. It was a German Shepherd. A big one. In another time, it would have been good material for Marshal. But those times were over. He had better victims now.

“Who….” The woman started to speak again.

The dog started barking, and she stopped, letting her words trail off into the cold air.

Marshal ignored the dog’s bark, continuing to stare into her eyes. She looked delirious.

The woman had stopped in her tracks, standing still, looking back and forth between the barking dog and the Marshal, swaying slightly from side to side.

“It’s going to be OK,” said Marshal, his voice soothing.

The dog kept barking.

“Come with me,” said Marshal, offering his arm out to the woman.

But she didn’t take it. She looked again at the dog.

That stupid dog. Why wouldn’t it stop barking?

“Shut up!” shouted Marshal.

The dog just barked louder.

Marshal had his handgun out in a flash. He squeezed the trigger. Three times in rapid succession.

His aim was good. The dog fell to the ground, blood oozing around the wounds.

Good. That was taken care of. And he’d felt briefly good while doing it. Not enough to satisfy him. Just enough to further whet his appetite.

The woman, now behind him, seeing the dog die, let out a scream.