Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

“You’re probably right, Sadie,” said Georgia, sighing. “I guess there’s not much point in philosophizing about it anyway. It’s all a moot point now.”

“I hope Max and Mandy are OK,” said Sadie, shivering slightly as she stared out at the snow-covered landscape. “At least it’s a little warmer now, I guess.”

“They’ll be fine,” said Georgia. “They know how to take care of themselves. John and Cynthia, too. They did well last night.”

“I don’t think they could have done it without you, though.”

Georgia laughed. “I’m not doing much good now.”

“That’s crazy, Mom. You’re the best shot of any of them, and you’re walking a lot better now.”

“You know me, Sadie. It’s hard for me to sit back and let others do things for me. Remember our house? I mean, when did I ever hire a plumber or a painter?”

“You wouldn’t even hire an electrician! You almost got electrocuted.”

Georgia laughed. “Yeah, that probably would have been better done by a professional.”

“And James convinced you to hire a plumber once, when he’d clogged up the toilet really badly. You finally caved in, and then you made the poor guy’s life impossible. You wouldn’t let him work.”

“I did too!”

“By standing behind him and telling him he was doing it all wrong?”

“Well, he was! He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

“Maybe you have a point, Sadie,” said Georgia, a grin on her face. “Wow, it feels good to laugh. It’s been a while. Too long.”

“I guess that’s what I was trying to explain earlier,” said Sadie. “Everything’s been so, I don’t know, serious. Intense. There isn’t any time to live, really. I mean, I can do without my cell phone.”

“James would argue differently.”

“I’m getting used to it! I’ve hardly even looked at in the last week.”

“You’re not still hoping it’ll turn back on?”

“I know it won’t. It’s just a habit, I guess, looking it. It used to be a sort of comforting thing. And I never even realized it until it didn’t work anymore. But what I was saying is I can live without all the comforts we had. You know what I mean, like food in the fridge, a bed to sleep in, stuff like that. But it’s the other stuff, like feeling like we’re constantly in danger. Like we could die at any moment. Or like I could lose you or James.”

“That’s not going to happen, Sadie,” said Georgia, putting her arm around her daughter.

“I hope not.”

The thrill of his last kill was still with him. It was so much better doing it himself than simply watching and listening to men dying. Completely different. No comparison.

Killing that dog hadn’t done it for him. He’d killed so many animals that it was merely a matter of routine. There wasn’t that thrill. That spark.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to wait long. The plan had been to wait patiently. To bide his time. To pick them off one by one.

Sure, he was still going to do that. He’d be careful. But he needed another one. Another kill. Just one more, then he’d hide again and wait. Well, maybe two more. Depended on how things went. He’d have to wait and see. If the opportunity was there, he wouldn’t pass it up.

This time was going to be different. He was working on a plan. He’d do it at his leisure this time, with no fear of interruptions. The woods were big, and there were a lot of places to hide. A lot of places to do what he needed to do.

Marshal wasn’t that far from the camp. After killing that woman, he’d taken a path that ran around the camp in a large half-circle. His plan was to get to the other side. After that, he didn’t know. He needed more to his plan. He needed to think. He needed to speed up a little.

Marshal had been taking amphetamines the entire journey, ever since leaving the militia boundaries. He’d been doling them out to himself, one by one, about every four hours or so. They were time release tablets, white and plain looking. A protective coating around the outside of the tablet slowed the tablet’s breakdown in the stomach, roughing the rate at which the drug entered his system.

But Marshal needed something more. He sat down behind a tree, propped his gun up, and took out the orange plastic prescription bottle. Opening the safety cap, Marshal shook out two pills. He needed a good kick.

Swallowing the pills wasn’t going to do it for him.

From his pocket, Marshal took out a small gift card, the type of card that had always been floating around the prison. It no longer had any value on it, not that that mattered now, but at one point it had. They’d been a sort of unofficial currency in the prison, the way packs of cigarettes often were.

It was a little strange taking the card out and looking at it. The name of the store was plastered in bright colors across the front of the hard, rigid plastic. The name meant nothing now. And it never would again.

Marshal liked the card because of its stiffness. So often the gift cards he’d seen were that filmy type of plastic. Not any good for snorting.

Resting the card on his knee, Marshal place the tablets carefully on top. Using the butt of his survival knife, Marshal crushed and ground the pills into a fine off-white powder.

Leaning down, his nose near his knee, Marshal pressed his index finger against the outside of his nose, blocking off one nostril. With the other, he inhaled deeply, the powder burning his nose all the way up his sinuses. He enjoyed the harsh, burning feeling.

The effect was almost instantaneous. He was already starting to feel it as he switched nostrils and inhaled again, sharply and deeply.

The effect was one not just of energy. But of power, raw and cold. He felt physically capable of almost anything, with a cold adrenaline-like energy rushing through his body. His mind was sharper and swifter than usual.

He felt cold and calculating, just the way he liked it.

Finished with his powder, Marshal was renewed. Not just refreshed, but stronger than before.

Marshal stood up, breathing in deeply, tucking the gift card carefully back into his pocket.

When he grabbed his gun, he knew the sound.

Footsteps coming from the direction of the camp.

Marshal waited, listening carefully. He heard no voices. Just one person slogging through the snow.

Marshal could barely believe his luck. It was like someone was being delivered to him. A new victim, a new set of thrills and pleasure.

Marshal already knew the plan.

It was simple. Easy. And foolproof.

Nothing could go wrong.

A single, narrow trail led through the trees. It was almost a completely certainty that whoever it was would come down this trail. Marshal didn’t have to do any guesswork.

Marshal got into position, rushing over to a tree near the trail. It was a large pine tree, with long drooping branches that would give him the complete cover and secrecy he needed.

Now he waited. Like a spider, lying in wait. The only difference between himself and the spider was that he himself was the trap. Just him and his gun. And his cunning.

The spider killed for food. Marshal was fulfilling a similarly crucial need. To kill. To cause pain.

The footsteps were louder. They were the only sound in the area. Nothing else for miles around. No animals sounds. No chirping or squeaking. No distractions.

Marshal had to resist peeking at his prey. He was going to do this completely blind. That was the only way there’d be no risk.

He waited until the footsteps had reached him.

Marshal counted to himself slowly.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.