Ryan Westfield - Fighting Rough

Marshal knew from experience this was the perfect distance.

He stepped out from under and behind the pine tree.

His gun was aimed perfectly before he spoke.

“Don’t move a muscle. Stay right where you are. Or I kill you right here and now. A bullet right in the back of the head. Not a bad way to die, but not what I’d recommend, personally.”

Marshal stood behind the man. His eyes traveled up and down the man. He was wearing one of the parkas recovered from the compound men. He carried one of their guns, too. He didn’t wear a pack. He was fairly tall. His hair was overgrown and greasy, just like everyone’s now.

“What do you want?”

“You’re doing good so far,” said Marshal. “I was worried I was going to have to shoot you.”

Marshal always seemed to know what to say to convince people to do what he wanted. Sometimes he couldn’t help but marvel at his own abilities. The words just seemed to tumble out of his mouth.

If the man decided to fight, Marshal would have no choice but to shoot him, injuring him and possibly killing him. That would take most of the fun away. Marshal wanted this one to be special. He wanted to take his time, starting with the most mild pain and slowly working his way up over the course of a day until finally he’d kill him.

The man was breathing heavily. Marshal saw his arm starting to move ever so slightly, just barely twitching. If Marshal didn’t say just the right thing, the guy was going to go for his gun.

“Look,” said Marshal, using his most sympathetic tones. “I don’t want to do this. You’ve got to understand me. But I’m desperate. I don’t have any food, and I’m exhausted and hungry, basically at the end of my rope.”

The man said nothing.

Marshal knew he had to appear sympathetic in order to get this man to drop his weapons. Marshal was too careful to approach him now to try to tie him up. Marshal would probably end up being attacked.

The man was on the brink of trying to attack Marshal, probably knowing full well he was going to get shot. But all Marshal had to do was convince him he wouldn’t hurt him. He had to make the decision easy.

“What’s your name?” said Marshal.

“John,” said the man after a long pause.

“Look, John,” said Marshal. “Trust me, I’m not this kind of person. I was an accountant before the blackout, before everything went to shit. Imagine that, just a little office worker who was good at keeping his head down during lay-offs, suddenly out on his own, starving in the wilderness.”

John didn’t say anything.

“I was doing OK, but now I’m literally about to die from hunger. And I’ve got a kid to look after. If it was just me, hell, I’d just let myself starve to death. You get what I’m saying, right?”

“Maybe,” said John, speaking slowly.

“I know there’s a camp out here with plenty of food. I need some of that food. For my kid. I don’t want to hurt anyone. And I can’t risk going to that camp. I know how people are now. I know what this blackout has done to humanity. Everyone’s an animal now. Not me, though. I mean, I will if I have to. I’ll act like that for my kid.”

John didn’t say anything.

“We’re all in this together,” said Marshal. “I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t. It’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Look, I’m just going to take you hostage. You’ll be my bargaining chip with your friends at the camp. They’ll give me the food I need, and I’ll return you. No one gets hurt. It’s easy. Then I’ll move on out of here and everything will be fine.”

“They won’t hurt you,” said John. “At the camp, I mean. I know them. If you really have a kid…”

“Of course I do!”

“We’d never hurt a kid,” said John. “And new people are always joining the group. If you’re a good person, they’ll help you out, or even take you in.”

“I heard gunshots last night,” said Marshal. “I don’t trust people like that. I don’t think you’re who you say you are.”

“We were attacked,” said John. “You’d have done the exact same thing. Our lives were on the line. But if you come in peace, it’d be completely different. And the way to start that is to put down your gun and let me turn around.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” said Marshal. “So put your guns down, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

“How are you going to use me as a bargaining chip if you shoot me?”

“Like I said, I don’t want to shoot you. But I will. I’m a desperate man.”

John breathed out heavily, and slowly placed his gun on the ground.

“Now the handgun,” said Marshal. “And no tricks either.”

John removed his handgun from its holster and placed it on the ground.

“And the knife,” said Marshal.

John took two knives out, one folding and one fixed blade, and placed them next to the guns.

“Now take five long, slow steps forward.”

John did as Marshal asked.

Marshal was starting to feel it. He was close to his goal. So close.

Marshal had already taken the rope he’d brought along out of his pack, having slung it around his shoulder.

He pulled at it now, took out his knife, and cut off a length of it that he used to bind John’s wrists tightly together. Marshal wasn’t taking any chances. He pulled as hard as he could, doubling and then tripling the knot. Marshal did it from the front, wanting to savor the budding expression of hopelessness on John’s face.

“Can you still feel your hands?”

“Yeah,” said John.

“Good,” said Marshal. “I want you to feel everything.”

“Feel everything?”

“You’ll see,” said Marshal.

Marshal started to bend down, ready to bind John’s legs together. But as he did so, John made his move, swinging his bound arms together, like a pendulum that came right at Marshal’s head.

Marshal was too fast for him. He ducked easily, then threw himself forwards, knocking John to the ground.

Their bodies fell together into the snow. John brought both arms up, his hands in fist, slamming them into Marshal’s stomach.

Marshal grunted in pain.

Then he grinned.

It just made it all the more thrilling.

Marshal brought his right fist up high, slamming it down into John’s face. It hit him in the nose. He probably broke it. Blood gushed down John’s face.

Marshal had his handgun out, and jammed it with one hand into John’s mouth, forcing his lips open. With his other hand, he gripped John’s neck tightly, applying just the right amount of pressure.

“Now you’re going to cooperate,” said Marshal. “And I don’t need to give you my reasons.”

John’s eyes were wild looking. The fight hadn’t left him. Not yet.

The amphetamines were still in full effect. Marshal almost had to struggle against them, against the violent exuberant energy that coursed through him. He had to hold back. He couldn’t simply kill John here and now. He needed to be patient, to wait. That was the only way he could get the full effect, the full joy of the experience.

John was troublesome. He’d fight. He wouldn’t let himself go easily. Now he seemed to understand that Marshal hadn’t been telling the truth. Maybe he’d guessed it all along. But it didn’t matter since he’d allowed himself to at least partially believe it, relaxing enough for Marshal to make his move.

Marshal couldn’t figure out how to tie up John without risking his own life. John was clearly ready to fight. He’d been hoping to drag John away fully conscious. That way John could appreciate what was going to happen to himself. He’d be aware of every moment, of every moment of pain that was fast approaching. Marshal would explain it to him all on the trip as he dragged John’s fully-bound body through the snow like a sled.