Ryan Westfield - Staying Alive

The wind had picked up, ruffling his hair and his shirt. His hair had grown longer than he normally let it. There hadn’t been time since the EMP to worry about keeping up appearances. The stubble on his face was thick.

Max had his Glock in its holster. He didn’t reach for it. He raised his hands in the air and began limping towards the Ford Bronco, which was slowing to a stop some hundred meters behind the minivan.

The men sat in the Bronco for just a moment, before the passenger got out.

He looked bigger, somehow, than he had before. Beefy and strong, like he’d spent his whole life eating and working out, trying to get as big as possible. He must have been eating pretty well since the EMP.

Max, on the other hand, had lost weight since the EMP, as everyone in his group had. But he was still strong, a wiry sort of natural strength that came from somewhere inside him.

Max kept his hands in the air, even though the other man had his shotgun with him as before.

“What’s all this?” shouted the man.

Max kept walking towards him, closing the distance. He saw the man looking towards the van.

“Where are the others?”

“They’re gone,” said Max.

The man kept peering at the van.

“There’s still one there. This is your plan or something?” The man spoke with a gruff voice, full of sickness and cruelty. “You thought you could let them escape and fight us yourself?”

“Something like that,” said Max.

“We can still have fun with that one in the van,” said the man. “She’ll do just fine, and then we’ll find the others. Don’t worry. We know these woods like the backs of our hands.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” said Max.

“Yeah?” said the man, spitting a glob of tobacco onto the ground.

Max had never been a smoker or dipper, but he’d tried dip once in high school. He remembered the pleasant buzz, the rush of energy. It could be useful for a situation like this, but Max knew that he didn’t need it. The adrenaline was enough for him. He felt like he could handle anything.

“Hand to hand combat,” said Max. “One on one. We fight like men. To the death. If you win, my partner there will tell you where the girls are.”

The man studied Max in silence. He started laughing, that same laugh as before.

The wind blew in gusts. Dead leaves from the year before danced across the two lanes of blacktop.

“Sounds like fun,” said the man.

Max almost breathed a sigh of relief. He’d accepted the deal. The plan had worked. So far.

The hardest part was yet to come.

“If you pull any tricks,” said the man. “My partner’s got a high powered rifle with a scope. You don’t want to mess with him.”

Max knew that even if he won, the man’s partner wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Max knew that these men had no honor. And that was why he wasn’t going to play by the rules either. He just hoped Georgia was faster than the other one.

The man walked back to the Ford, keeping himself facing Max the whole time. He had a few words with his partner in the Bronco.

“It’s a deal,” he shouted.

He lay his shotgun on the hood of the Bronco.

“Leave that Glock, though.”

Max removed the Glock from its holster and set it down on the road.

“You armed?” said Max.

“Of course.”

The man took a Glock of his own from a holster. And he took a revolver out too. He set both down.

The other man in the Bronco stepped out. He held a high-powered rifle in his hands. He pointed it at the van.

A shot rang out, intensely loud.

Max hadn’t been hit. He looked back at the van. One of the tires had been shot out.

Another shot. Another tire had been hit, completely deflated.

The back of the minivan sunk towards the ground, both its rear tires punctured. Georgia wouldn’t get far in the van like that.

The men both grinned and laughed.

“That’s so your partner doesn’t try to escape when I finish you off.”

Georgia would have no way to escape. Max would have to kill them. And Georgia would have to shoot the other. There wasn’t any other way out.

He and Max approached each other.

Max knew that it was a good bet that a guy who carried two large handguns had other sorts of weapons on him. But he didn’t ask. He had his own knife on him, and he wasn’t going to set those down. He was expecting trickery from the man, a knife pulled on him when he was least expecting it. Max knew he’d have to act first.

The man spat on the ground again, while looking Max directly in the eyes.

They were close now. Only ten feet from each other.

The man’s face was full of small scars. A large scar ran down his neck. He’d been in fights before, bad ones.

He was at least a full head taller than Max.

No words were spoken.

They stared into each other’s eyes. The man didn’t blink.

Suddenly, he let out a yell, an animal-like growl, and charged Max. His head was low, his body lurching forward.

Max stepped to the side, but not fast enough. His injured leg slowed him down.

The man collided with Max, knocking him to the ground.

Max’s lungs were deflated. He struggled to breathe.

The man rolled on top of him. He was heavy, his weight pressing down on Max. He raised his arm and swung down, expertly shifting the weight of his torso to add more power to the punch. His fist was hard and it connected with the side of Max’s face.

Max felt dizzy. The pain seared through him.

Another punch, this one in his stomach. Though not as hard.

Max finally got in one of his own, sending his fist smashing into the man’s face.

The man got up and stood over Max, laughing.

“Nice one,” he said. “I was worried for a second this was going to be too easy. I want to have some fun.”

Good, thought Max. Let his opponent not take it too seriously. Let him think it’s a game. Let him have his fun. Until the moment is right and he dies.

Max wanted as many chances as he could get. He didn’t care that the man was giving him a breather, just to toy with him more. It’d be better for Max in the end.

“You fight OK,” said the man. “But you don’t stand a chance against me. Come on, get up.”

Max struggled to his feet. His leg was killing him.

They both put their hands up, and began slowly circling each other. Each was looking for the chance to get a punch in.

The man came at Max with a right hook, fast and powerful.

Max managed to dodge it, even with his leg, stepping to the side.

He came back at his opponent with a left hook, even though he was right handed. It caught the man in the side, and he lost his breath for a moment before straightening back up.

“Good one,” he said. “But you’ve got to hit me harder than that.”

The continued circling each other, punching and dodging. The wind was blowing and time was passing.

Max took another punch, this one to the face. Blood streamed out from his nose. It might have been broken. Not that it mattered.

He’d gotten the man in the stomach with an uppercut, but the man was strong, and he didn’t seem winded at all.

“I’m getting tired of this,” said the man, spitting. “You’re stronger than I thought. But not as fun.”

Max said nothing. He kept his thoughts to himself.

“You haven’t said a damn word,” said the man. “You’re too good or something? Is that it? Taking the high road? I’ll show you the high road.”

The man reached into his pocket and drew forth a folding knife. It was an automatic, and a second later, with the push of a button, a vicious looking double-edged dagger blade shot forth from the handle.

The man charged Max, holding the knife, ready to stab.