Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

Marshal spun around, letting his gun arm swing with him. He hit her in the shoulder with the butt of the gun. He’d decided against her head as a target. He didn’t want to her to lose consciousness. It wouldn’t give him the same feeling.

The woman screamed again. She was moving, but too slowly, reaching for a gun. Or trying to. She barely knew what she was doing. It was just pure instinct on her part.

Marshal was too fast for her. He took the gun from her hands easily. She was weak, like a child. Marshal tossed the gun aside, and punched her in the head. Not as hard as he could, but good enough to give her some pain, enough to knock some more of the fight out of her.

Marshal had been planning on dragging her away, to some safe spot, farther away from the camp.

She’d seemed so disoriented, Marshal hadn’t thought she’d fight back.

But she was.

She was screaming, trying to claw at his face. One of her nails caught him, drawing a long line of blood along his cheek.

Marshal was beyond annoyed. She was supposed to go easily. Sure, some struggle sometimes made it more fun. But not this time. He was too eager for it. Too eager for the kill. He’d wanted to enjoy this one, savor it in his own way, on his own time.

The woman threw her body towards him, trying to attack him, trying to throw him off balance. There was a wild look of instinctual desperation on her face.

But she’d gotten hit too hard with hypothermia. She was off balance, and she didn’t even reach Marshal. She ended up just throwing herself into the snow, falling face first and crying out in pain as the icy snow cut into her.

Marshal was on top of her in a flash. He dug his knees into her back, putting all of his weight onto her.

“You’re not making this easy enough for me,” said Marshal, his voice deadpan. “Nor hard enough.”

She flailed at him with the one hand that wasn’t stuck underneath her body. But she could barely reach him.

Marshal laughed. He was starting to feel something, that happiness that seemed to come surging back to him.

Marshal holstered his gun.

The gun was too fast. He glanced over at the dog carcass. Sure, he could injure her with a gun. He could intentionally aim for the non-vital areas.

But that wouldn’t be as much fun as his knife.

He needed to get out of this what he could. She was already ruining the whole thing, mainly by being half-comatose, unable to really pose a serious challenge.

Marshal felt for the sheath at his belt, lifting up his parka to do so. He unbuttoned the single strap that kept the knife in place. It was a good one, a carbon steel survival knife issued to some European country’s military. Marshal didn’t know the details. He didn’t care.

The knife had been liberated from some dead idiot out in the suburbs by another militia member, who hadn’t shut up about the knife’s advantages. He and Marshal had been on a scouting mission when they’d killed the man. Marshal had gotten so fed up listening to the story about the knife that he’d simply shot his scouting partner in the face and taken the knife for himself.

That had been back in the early days, in the early weeks after the EMP. The militia had been young. It was still young now, relatively speaking, but things had gotten more orderly. Now, there was an official roster of all members. Marshal simply couldn’t go around shooting whoever he wanted, especially not other militia members. The good days were gone.

Marshal was making his own good days.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” muttered Marshal, as he got the knife into position. He himself wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

With his free hand, Marshal grabbed the back of the woman’s head. His grip was strong. He cupped the back of her skull easily. He turned her head, so she was face down in the snow and pushed. Hard. Her cries were muffled by the snow.

Marshal waited patiently, counting the seconds.

He didn’t want her to pass out. Not yet.

When she was almost there, Marshal let up the pressure. She raised her face above the snow, sputtering, spitting snow from her mouth.

At that moment, right when she thought she was free from the suffering, Marshal seized her ear in one hand. He pinched the top of her ear hard, squeezing with his fingers. Pulling the ear back with one hand, he used his knife to slice slowly and carefully.

She screamed.

Blood spurted.

The ear was gone.

Marshal held the bloodied severed ear up close to his face, examining it impassively.

He was starting to feel the swell of that elusive happiness. It was working.

The woman was thrashing harder now, like some wild animal, doing everything she could to fight off Marshal, to save herself.

Marshal stayed in position, his knees still digging into her, as he considered his options.

The ideal situation would have been to take her away somewhere. Cut her up slowly and steadily, without fear of distractions. Give her as much pain as possible.

Marshal knew he was out of earshot of the camp. No matter how loudly she screamed, they wouldn’t hear her.

But he was still too close to the camp to fully enjoy himself. He wouldn’t be able to take his time. Someone could come along. There was that chance, no matter how unlikely, and Marshal had to be wary of it.

He’d learned his lesson once before. He’d gotten too greedy, too carless. That was back when he’d been living in the city, preying on the weak. That was how he’d gotten caught.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Marshal looked down at her thrashing body. He longed to slash it and mutilate it. Maybe even burn it. Or parts of it, at least.

But he’d have to wait.

He’d have to take what enjoyment he could from this brief encounter.

After all, there’d be others. Soon enough, too. There were plenty of men and women at the camp. Marshal would pick them off one by one. He’d take his time. They’d be easier. They’d be better victims.

“Sorry this is going to be so quick,” said Marshal.

The woman screamed.

Marshal brought his knife down swiftly, stabbing her in the back, through her coat. He pulled the knife out, blood dripping off the steel. He stabbed again. And again, until she was silent, until the life had completely left her.

Marshal felt the swelling of emotion in his solar plexus. This was good, but it had only whet his taste for more. Much more.

Marshal stood up calmly and slowly. But not before wiping the carbon steel blade carefully on the dead woman’s jacket.

He looked to the sun, which had just appeared on the horizon, bringing warmth and light to the snow-covered landscape.

“You feeling better?” said Mandy.

Max nodded. His whole body had been stiff with cold, but a few hours by the fire, and some venison, had made him feel limber once again. Not that he wasn’t exhausted. They all were.

“You weren’t serious about going out alone, were you?”

Max shook his head. “No,” he said.

“Why’d you say that?”

“I was serious at the time,” said Max. “The cold must have gotten to me… the adrenaline from the fight. It’s better to wait until there’s daylight.”

Max was glad he hadn’t rushed out into the night looking for Jake and Rose. He still thought there could easily be more enemies out there. And, frankly, the probability that Jake and Rose had died was high.

“Good,” said Mandy. “Because you know it doesn’t make sense to go all cowboy and try to do everything yourself. You’ll just get killed. You’re the one who’s always advising caution, after all. It wouldn’t look very good if you got killed by not following your own advice.”