Finding Shelter

13

The blows rained down on Max. His body quivered in pain. His body was so full of pain that it became pain.

If he’d been able to think a single normal thought, it would have been that what he hated most of all was simply not being able to fight back. The pain wasn’t the hardest thing for him to deal with. It was the lack of agency. The lack of taking action.

Max’s mouth was somehow full of dry earth. It felt horrible in his mouth. Dry. Disgusting. It hit the back of his throat. His face was pressed into the dirt now. A boot pressed hard down on his back. He felt the pain in his spine radiating up towards his skull.

Another boot came down hard, right onto his shoulder blade.

Max couldn’t help it. He let out a scream of pain. Dry. As if the saliva was gone from his mouth.

For so long, Max had been searching for an answer. He’d been searching for someone or something to bring order out of chaos. From what he’d heard, the man who could do it was Grant.

Max had thought he’d needed to find Grant. To talk to him. To work for him.

And he’d finally found him.

He’d found Grant.

The same man who was kicking him. The same man who was inflicting so much psychical pain. The same man who was about to kill him.

Max had found what he’d thought he needed, only to discover that he’d needed something else entirely all along.

Max should have never left Mandy. Never left his unborn child. Never left the camp.

He should have never come.

And now he’d never get a second chance.

It was a hell of a way to go out. After everything that he’d avoided, all the danger he’d fought through, he’d finally dug his own grave by marching right into the lion’s den. Max only had himself to blame. He’d delivered himself right to Grant.

The boots were off Max’s back now. No pressure. No weight.

Max could move. He shifted his weight around, bending his knee, pushing with his hand against the ground. He was going to get up. He was going to fight. Maybe he wouldn’t live, but at least he’d go down fighting.

But before Max could get up, another boot smashed into his side, sending him collapsing back to the ground, letting out a grunt of pain.

“I thought you were the type of man who’d let me get up to fight,” said Max, laboriously, through gritted teeth. His breathing was heavy and labored. It was difficult to speak through the pain.

“I’m the type of man who knows not to give his enemies any chance,” growled Grant.

Another boot smashed into Max. This time into his face.

Max felt the pain. His lip burst open. More blood in his mouth. Pain in his cheek. Deep in it. A couple of teeth loose. Tumbling around his mouth. More blood. More pain.

“This’ll be better with… using my own two hands,” growled Grant.

Max was on his back, lying in the dirt. Struggling to get up.

In a flash, Grant sank to his knees. His knees, like sharp points, dug into Max’s belly and chest.

Max couldn’t breathe. Just a little bit. Just a little air coming through. Like trying to breathe through a plugged-up straw while on the bottom of the ocean.

Two rough strong hands were around Max’s neck. Squeezing. Hard. Very hard.

Now Max really couldn’t breathe.

This was it. This was really it.

Partial images flashed through Max’s mind.

Childhood memories. Images of Mandy. Strange, partial thoughts, neither coming nor going.

“Good riddance,” growled Grant.

Grant’s face was right up against Max’s, as if Grant wanted to see Max die in an up close and personal way.

Max stared right back, right into Grant’s eyes. Beads of sweat formed on Grant’s forehead and dripped down onto Max’s face.

Grant stank, a horrible stench that went right into Max’s nostrils. The smell of an animal, the smell of rot and the smell of the death that would come soon enough.

A noise behind Grant. Like a twig snapping.

Without releasing his hold on Max’s neck, Grant turned his head partway around.

But it wasn’t enough.

Max saw it. Up close and personal. He saw the huge hard stick swinging right towards Grant’s face. He saw Grant try to avoid it. He saw Grant try to duck.

Max saw the stick smack into Grant’s face.

Max felt the strong hands release. It happened suddenly.

Max gasped for air, suddenly able to breathe.

Grant’s eyes rolled back. A funny look came over Grant’s face as he started to slide down to the side. Grant slid right off Max.

As Grant’s body slid away, it revealed the man who’d been standing behind Grant. The man who’d swung the stick. The man who’d saved Max’s life.

It was Wilson. The same man who’d thrown Max in the stockade earlier.

Wilson looked tall there in the darkness. Tall and thin. A strange sort of strength about him. A grim expression on his face.

Wilson extended a long arm down, his hand reaching towards Max.

Max was sputtering, still gasping. But he knew he didn’t have time to waste. Or options. He grabbed Wilson’s hand.

Wilson pulled Max to his feet.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Wilson. He spoke quickly. Urgently.

“No shit,” Max managed to say, despite coughing, his neck killing him.

Wilson’s hand disappeared for a moment, dipping down into an unseen holster. Reappeared with a handgun.

Max nodded at Grant, who lay unconscious in the dirt in the darkness. The gesture was asking a question. The question was: why don’t you shoot Grant?

There were footsteps off in the darkness. Probably the penitentiary guard coming running.

There wasn’t much time.

Wilson pointed off into the darkness, in a direction away from the stockade.

Max realized he’d have to verbalize the question. Better to make it a statement. “Shoot him. Kill Grant.”

It was painful to speak. Painful to get the words out.

Wilson gazed down at Grant. There was some kind of internal debate happening inside his head.

Max could hazard a guess. Grant was Wilson’s superior. But Wilson was having trouble with some new revelations about Grant. Not to mention being attacked by him.

Max knew Grant needed to die. Right then and there. Or else Grant would come back to haunt them.

If Grant lived, they weren’t going to get very far. They weren’t going to live for very long. Not with Grant alive and an entire militia camp at his orders.

The footsteps were thudding. Nearby. Very close.

Max wasn’t armed. So he reached down, fumbling around Grant’s unconscious body, looking for the holster.

Found it. His hand grasped Grant’s handgun. Got it out of the holster.

Max raised it. Couldn’t see the manufacturer in the darkness. But he could feel the weight of the gun. Felt for the safety. Found it.

“I’ll do it myself,” said Max.

Max pointed the gun at Grant’s unconscious body.

“Don’t,” said Wilson, pointing his gun at Max.

“We’ve got to. He’ll come after us.”

“You shoot him,” said Wilson. “You die. If you don’t, you have a chance of living.”

Max couldn’t argue. The terms were clear. And Wilson’s face showed no signs that he wasn’t completely serious.

The footsteps were louder. The guard was near. Very near.

Max caught a glimpse of the guard in the darkness, raising a long gun.

Max reacted quickly, pointing his handgun over Wilson’s shoulder, at the guard.

Max pulled the trigger. Twice. In quick succession, before Wilson could react.

Max saw the surprise on Wilson’s face. He heard the shots. Then realized that he wasn’t dead or shot.

Wilson turned his head, saw the dead guard.

“Come on,” said Max. “I assume they’ll send more. Not killing Grant is a mistake, and you know that better than I do.”

“It is what it is,” said Wilson, who took off at a run, heading in the opposite direction of the stockade.

Max took one last look at Grant’s unconscious body and took off running after Wilson.

Max knew it was a mistake not to kill Grant. A huge mistake.

But at least he was alive.

His leg was hurting worse than usual. He could taste blood. His whole body hurt. As he ran, another tooth came loose, and Max spat it out without a second thought.

They were running side by side now, heading into the darkness.

Behind them, alarms sounded. Mechanical alarms. All sorts of non-electronic sounds were coming at them. Pots and pans banging. Gongs. Whistles. Shouts and yells. People hollering.

“They’re not going to give us much of a head start,” said Wilson.

Max didn’t bother wasting his breath. After being beaten by Grant, it was hard enough to keep up with Wilson.

Wilson’s decisions didn’t make sense to Max. Why was he doing this? Why was he risking his life? Had he gone off his rocker? Had he been so offended that his boss had attacked him that he’d simply lost his cool and decided to go on the run?