“Exactly. Second. I’m the first.”
Wilson said nothing. It seemed as if he had no response.
Max opened his eyes again, to see if he could see again. Maybe the flashlight was now pointed off at an angle. But it wasn’t. He was just hit with the blinding light, his eyes squinting reflexively
Max closed his eyes again before anyone noticed. Apparently Grant and Wilson were looking more at each other than at him. The conversation was getting intense.
Maybe Grant and Wilson would start fighting. A long shot, probably. But maybe. Just maybe.
If a fight broke out, Max would have a chance. A chance to escape.
Wilson seemed upset. Maybe angry. But probably not angry enough. He seemed too subservient. Too subservient to start fighting.
OK. A fight was a long shot. But if they weren’t looking at him, maybe he had a shot now. Maybe he could escape. Break free. Run off.
Max wasn’t bound. Seemed like a huge oversight.
Plans were quickly running through Max’s head. He was trying to calculate angles, guessing where Wilson and Grant were from the sound of their voices.
It’d never work if they spotted him too early. Surely they were armed. They’d just shoot him in the leg or arm. Or the back, the bullet hitting his stomach. He’d bleed out slowly, and they’d try to get the information they wanted out of him then. It didn’t seem like they’d care if he died or not.
But who did they think he was? It didn’t make sense.
Apparently Wilson was wondering exactly the same thing.
“So who is he?” said Wilson. “He told me his name was Max. He told me he wanted to lead a local group, that he was interested in restoring order.”
“Maybe his name is Max, for all I know,” said Grant, his voice cold, emotionless. “Not that it matters. What I’ve learned from my anarchist contact…”
Wilson let out a long sigh, as if he was frustrated, as if he still simply couldn’t fathom Grant dealing with an anarchist. But he said nothing, and Grant continued.
“There’s another group like ours.”
“Another group like ours? What do you mean?”
“Just what it sounds like. A militia composed of men and women of diverse background, many of them from the armed services, the police force, the government… all sorts of people who are interested in restoring order back to this great country.”
“Another organization like ours? A group to fight the chaos? How is that possible? How haven’t we heard of them?”
“They’re based in California. Far away from us. They’ve grown very large. Larger, even, than our own camp here. And they’re powerful, growing quickly, taking up new territories, slowly squashing the anarchism that had developed. That’s why my anarchist contact was so interested in them. It was a serious threat to his desires for the world.”
Wilson sounded stunned as he spoke rapidly in excitement. “A new organization… this is great news… it’ll make our job so much easier… we’ll team up with them… I’ve got to put together an envoy as soon as possible… this will speed up our plans for restoring order…”
“It’ll never happen,” said Grant.
“Never happen?”
“They’ll swallows us up. They’re at least ten times our size, by all estimates.”
“OK…” said Wilson, clearly struggling to see the bigger picture. “So what? I’m sure we’ll still get to our goal… we’ll still be able to help… And anyway, what does this have to do with this man here?”
Max sighed internally. It was almost as if he could feel the eyes turning back onto him. He had been about to make his move. Now it was too late. Well, maybe they’d look away again.
The conversation seemed to be winding down. Grant seemed to be ready to make some point, to defy Wilson’s expectations once and for all.
Max didn’t know how this conversation would lead back to him. But he knew that when it did, it wouldn’t be good. He had the sense something bad, something terrible, was about to happen to him. And he didn’t want to wait around to find out what it was.
“This man,” said Grant, “is a spy from the California militia. The anarchist told me one would come. He told me the day he’d arrive. He said that I needed to destroy him, or else face the consequences.”
“Consequences? What the hell are you talking about? Clearly this anarchist was just feeding you a load of garbage. How would he know all this?”
Grant didn’t answer him.
“What’s your fear, anyway, here? Why are you so fixated on this other group? Our goal is to restore order. Get a government running again. Stop the violence and chaos. If that’s their goal too, then everything should be fine, right?”
“I have no fear,” said Grant. “But I will not let my leadership be challenged. As our own organization grows, I’ll be the head of it. When we rule the whole country, I will rule…”
Wilson let out a little laugh. Kind of a half-scoff. It surprised Max. “So that’s it, eh?” said Wilson. “You don’t want to lose your big ego. You don’t want to let your own power be challenged. I’m surprised at you, Grant, I thought better of you…”
A sudden sound, like a fist colliding with flash. Wilson suddenly let out a noise of pain. Then the sound of a body, likely Wilson’s, collapsing heavily to the ground. Another grunt and groan of pain.
“I’ll do what it takes,” said Grant. “And I won’t have anyone, even you, disrespecting me. When the time comes, we’ll destroy this other militia. And I will reign over…”
Max thought it was now or never. He opened his eyes. A flashlight lay on the ground, pointing out into nothing. In the periphery of its beam, Max saw Wilson on the ground, clutching his stomach. Grant stood over him. A tall, muscular man. Powerfully built. An intense beard. Intense eyes.
Max scrambled to his feet.
“You egoistical bastard,” spat Wilson.
Grant’s foot lashed out. Fast. The toe of his boot collided with Wilson.
A grunt of pain.
Max had to make a split-second decision. Fight or flee.
It wasn’t a matter of pride. Or ego. Neither of those mattered.
All that mattered was surviving. Whatever got the job done was the best option.
The choice was easy. Grant was almost certainly armed. And he was big enough and strong enough to make disarming him a serious problem.
Grant, in the flash impression that Max had, looked like he’d been eating well for a long time. Very well.
Max had been eating well. But not for that long. And only in comparison to how he’d been eating before they’d become stable, which wasn’t very well at all.
Max was already turned the opposite direction.
His legs were moving under him. His mind was trying to get them to move fast. Very fast. But they were going slow. Felt like slow motion. Like he was stuck in quicksand.
Time had slowed down for Max. It was the adrenaline. It was everything, his whole mind and body painfully aware that this was really life or death.
And it was most likely going to be death.
At any moment, Max expected to feel pain. Then hear a gunshot. But he couldn’t control that. He could just control how fast he ran.
His feet were pounding into the earth below him.
There were noises behind him. Heavy footsteps raining down. Heavy, fast breathing. The swish of arms through the air. And, farther back, the painful groans of Wilson.
The darkness was in front of him.
Then pain.
But no gunshot.
It wasn’t a bullet wound.
Something had smacked into his leg. Something hard. Maybe metal or wood.
Max went tumbling, his leg giving out from under him. He fell forward, his fast pace propelling him into the darkness.
He broke his fall with his arms. But he fell hard, and his face smashed into the earth below him. Pain in his nose. The taste of blood. All normal. All almost routine.