Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

“Probably dead,” said Max, correcting her.

“That makes me feel even worse.”

Max didn’t say anything. He was trying to make sense of the footprints.

“Why are you carrying that rifle, anyway?” said Mandy, after a few minutes.

“You’re asking me why I’m carrying a gun? You are too.”

“Yeah, but you know how to use the semi-automatics from the dead guys. I thought they were better guns.”

“Not better,” said Max. “Just different. And while I may know how to use it, I feel more comfortable with one of Georgia’s rifles. Sometimes the best tool is the one you know how to use the best, rather than how it looks on paper. Unfortunately, I spent too much time at the target range with my Glock, and not enough with anything else.”

“Seems like you’re doing fine with it.”

Up ahead, Max saw something. He stopped in his tracks, and raised his binoculars to his eyes.

“What is it?” said Mandy.

“Looks like a dead animal,” said Max. “But it’s hard to tell. It’s pretty far off. Come on.”

They continued forward, through the snow, in silence. Max’s finger rested outside the trigger guard of his rifle. But he was ready.

“Can you see it now?” said Mandy. She sounded nervous.

“Yeah,” said Max, using the binoculars again. “I think it’s a dog.”

“A dead dog?” said Mandy. She sounded upset.

Soon enough, they were close enough to see the dog with the naked eye.

“Someone shot it,” said Mandy, bending down to examine it. “I wonder what it was doing out here.”

Max touched the dog. “It’s still warm,” he said.

“It’s horrible,” said Mandy. “Why would someone shoot a dog?”

Max didn’t answer.

Max kept his eyes on the surroundings. He doubted whoever had shot the dog was still here, but he didn’t want to take his chances. He used his binoculars again, but he saw nothing.

“Maybe it was the same men who attacked us,” said Mandy.

“Maybe,” said Max.

‘You think it was someone else?”

Max didn’t say anything. He was looking at the ground now, at a pair of very clean footprints that began not far from the dog.

“Where are you going?”

Max bent down, examining the prints.

“Look at these.”

“Look like boot prints. It must have been those men.”

“The dog wasn’t shot long ago,” said Max. “It means there’s someone else out here. Could be more than one.”

“There’s only one set of footprints.”

“No,” said Max, pointing. “There’s two.”

“But what’s that over there?”

Mandy walked slightly ahead of Max, pointing to a strange pattern in the snow.

“Looks like the mark a sled would make,” said Mandy. “But that doesn’t make sense.”

“It wasn’t a sled,” said Max, following the strange tracks. “Take a look at this.”

“What is it?”

It was a mound in the snow about the size and shape of a body.

“Give me a hand,” said Max, starting to dig at the snow with his bare hands.

“I have a feeling we’re not going to like what we find.”

Mandy suddenly let out a gasp, standing up and backing away from the mound.

Max looked. It was Rose. Mandy had been digging by her head, and had revealed her face. Her eyes were open wide, and the color was gone from her.

Max continued digging. Whoever’d buried Rose had done so hastily. The snow wasn’t packed in tightly.

“Keep an eye on our surroundings,” said Max. His hands were cold and numb, but he kept digging.

It didn’t take him long to reveal the whole body.

“Someone cut off her ear!” said Mandy. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Max examined the corpse, thinking he’d find a bullet wound. But there was nothing. Not until he pushed Rose over on her stomach did he find the knife wounds.

“This is my fault,” said Max. “We should have left earlier.”

John and Cynthia had left the camp twenty minutes ago. Cynthia was exhausted from the night before, and annoyed that no one else was complaining about it much.

John had been acting strangely since they’d left. Cynthia could almost felt his anger. And she knew it wasn’t about the battle last night. And it wasn’t about fearing for their lives. It was something that wasn’t quite about survival.

“I don’t see how we can just go, go, go,” said Cynthia. “Don’t you realize that people need to rest?”

“We’re looking for two missing members of our group,” snapped John. “Don’t you think that’s a little more important than you getting your beauty sleep?”

“Beauty sleep? When’s the last time we slept at all? Who said anything about looking good?”

“Sorry,” said John. “I know you’re tired. So am I.”

“And I know we need to look for Jake and Rose,” said Cynthia. “It’s just you’re not making this easy. What’s going on with you, anyway?”

“It’s nothing,” said John.

“It’s your brother, isn’t it?”

John didn’t answer.

“Come on, John. Why don’t you talk to me about it?”

John muttered something unintelligible.

“Yeah, I know. Men don’t like to talk about their feelings.” Cynthia add her classic sarcastic bite to her words. That usually got John to talk, even when he was being too quiet for her liking.

“It’s not that,” said John. “It’s just there’s no point in talking about it.”

“What? Talking doesn’t fix anything? Sounds like a typical male answer.”

“No,” said John. “Like I said, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Max is right. There are more important things at stake right now than how I feel about… certain things.”

“You mean your brother?”

John didn’t answer.

“I know you’re disappointed,” said Cynthia.

“What? How?”

“Women’s intuition.”

“Mandy told you?”

“Maybe,” said Cynthia, not wanting to fully reveal her sources. “Look, what you’re feeling is normal.”

“How so? What do you know about it?”

“There’s no reason to get upset with me,” snapped Cynthia.

“I’m not,” said John.

But it was clear that he was.

“You were hoping Max would be something like our savior. I mean, you and I talked about it enough. You can’t pretend that isn’t the case.”

“OK,” snapped John. “So what if it was?”

Cynthia glanced at John. She’d rarely seen him like this, so upset and angry. She’d touched a nerve. Together, they’d been through countless trials, many near-death situations. There’d been many times where they’d thought they’d never make it out alive. And yet, she’d never seen this anger in him before. Not like this. It was different. More personal.

Cynthia had the instinct to back off of the topic, to let sleeping dogs lie. But, for some reason, she continued. “I just don’t get what you’re upset about. Max is great. I mean, without him, we’d definitely be dead.”

“Oh, is that so?” said John. “Well you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have any idea.”

He spoke to her in angry, aggressive tones, and his eyes glared at her.

Cynthia shivered, recoiling from the expression his face.

“What’s gotten into you?” she said.

“Nothing. Nothing’s gotten into me. I’m fine.”

But he was visibly angry. His body was quivering, almost shaking with anger.

“If this is all about Max, then I think the best thing to do is…”

“Just shut up, would you?” snapped John.

It had come on all of a sudden, this mood, and it surprised Cynthia. She’d thought she’d known John. She’d thought what they’d been through together had let her know him as well as anyone could. But there were always dark parts of a person, things that rarely revealed themselves. And when they did, they were shocking.