“Four. Maybe. There are more, but they’re not with him… off in another direction… maybe trying to cut us off… we need to watch for that…”
“Including Grant.”
“Probably.”
“How do you know it’s Grant himself?”
“I heard him. His voice… unmistakable… Shouting orders…”
Max didn’t know what to do.
Sure, he had been in plenty of bad situations. Since the EMP, it had seemed like his life had been one constant appraisal of serious danger, one endless stream of life-or-death decisions.
But never before had Max felt like he really didn’t know what to do.
There’d always been a set of options. There’d often been tough decisions. Tough choices. Hard calls.
He’d had to rack his brains plenty of times before. He’d had to go with his gut. He’d had to run scenarios through his head. He’d had to just go with his instinct.
It had always more or less worked out.
But now?
Max didn’t think it was going to work out.
What were they going to do?
Sooner or later, they’d tire.
And soon enough, Grant’s men would overcome them.
According to Wilson, Grant and his men had access to ample quantities of not just traditional pharmaceutical-grade amphetamine, but other substances as well. Things like modafinil, that were used by Air Force pilots during military exercises. They were the updates, improved amphetamines, that could keep men going for days and days without fatigue.
It wasn’t going to end well.
Max and Wilson weren’t going to be able to outrun them. They weren’t going to be able to hide.
They were going to have to fight. There were no two ways about it.
Max stopped suddenly in his tracks.
Wilson almost ran into him, coming up from behind.
“What are you doing?” said Wilson. “Come on. We’ve got to keep going. They’re getting close.”
Wilson turned and looked back anxiously.
“This is it,” said Max. “Come on. Get ready. This is as good a place as any.”
“Are we going to die?”
“Most likely,” said Max.
Wilson’s face showed his terror. But it seemed that he was able to pull himself together.
Max readied himself, getting down on the ground, gun in front of him.
Ready to shoot. Ready to die.
Wilson did the same. Slightly off to the side.
There were some obstacles, some trees that provided some cover. But not much.
There wasn’t much point in trying to hide themselves, or trying to delay the inevitable.
Grant and his men would come up, and there’d be a gun fight. If Max and Wilson hid themselves, then they wouldn’t be able to shoot.
“Better to just get it over with,” grunted Max.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Max, speaking no more.
His leg hurt. His whole body hurt. He thought of Mandy and hoped she was OK.
Max’s hands were right on his gun. Gripped hard. Not too hard.
His palms were sweaty. His whole body was sweaty and uncomfortable. Somewhat itchy, too, strangely.
But what did he expect? For death to come on in a nice, pleasant way? Did he expect to die while feeling great, while on top of the world?
No. He never had. He’d imagined this moment countless times before. He’d known it would come. He hadn’t known when. But he’d known that it would be like this. He’d known that it’d be painful and unpleasant.
What were the chances he’d die immediately? Not good.
If Max understood anything about Grant, it was that he was power hungry. And probably a sadist. Willing to do anything to stay on top. A sick man.
Grant, if he could, would have Max tortured.
It would happen fast. Max would get hit. A bullet here or there. Lodged in a leg or abdomen. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to incapacitate him.
Then he’d be taken by Grant and his men. Maybe tied up. Maybe just beaten until he was further incapacitated.
Then the imaginative things would start happening. From what Max had heard from Wilson and from the people in the stockade, the knives would come out.
Max would get carved up like a Christmas turkey.
He wouldn’t enjoy it.
Maybe they’d be the worst moments of his life. Maybe not. He didn’t know.
Max wasn’t scared of torture.
He was scared of dying. That was normal. He couldn’t help it. No point in fighting it.
The dying would end the torture. It would last a few minutes. Maybe a few hours or days if he was really unlucky. And then it would be all over. And after that, what difference would it make to anyone? What difference would it make to Max that he’d spent his last moments in intense physical and mental pain? None. He’d be dead.
Max saw it happen in a flash.
The men came rushing up. Four of them.
Grant was in the rear. Massive. Bigger and more powerful looking than the other men.
Grant’s little unit wasn’t expecting to find Max and Wilson there. They were expecting to find empty ground. They were expecting to keep chasing Max and Wilson.
So they weren’t ready to fight. Not yet.
Max, though, was ready.
His trigger finger was moving. It seemed almost automatic. Almost as if he wasn’t even thinking about it.
His gun kicked. No one fell. Someone was hit, but they kept going. Maybe a result of the drugs. Who knew?
Max wasn’t expecting what happened next.
It all was happening so fast.
Someone was rushing towards the oncoming men, and for a moment, Max’s brain couldn’t comprehend who or what it was.
Then he realized that it was Wilson.
Wilson, rushing the oncoming men as if he were… well, there really was no comparison. Max didn’t know what it was like. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.
Wilson held his gun at his hip, running as fast as he could, faster than Max had ever seen him run during their escape.
It was like Wilson was a crazed warrior, carrying a flaming spear.
“Aghhhh!” screamed Wilson, at the top of his lungs. More shouted words came out, but nothing was intelligible. The only thing he communicated was that he was in a rage, that he was attacking, that he was using everything he had.
This wasn’t just a last-ditch effort. It was something more.
Wilson had decided how he wanted to go out, how he’d wanted to be remembered.
Wilson went down in a flash.
Guns fired. Gunshots echoed.
Wilson was on his way down.
But not without firing shots of his own.
His gun went off like a cannon.
Pretty close range too.
Since, no matter how fast Grant’s men reacted, it wasn’t fast enough. Wilson had managed to get close to them. He’d managed to do the impossible, to give Max and him a tactical advantage when one hadn’t been there to begin with.
Wilson got two of them. Hit them in the stomach. Which was pretty good, considering he wasn’t really aiming at all. He was just firing from the hip, like he was in some old cowboy movie.
Then Wilson was down on the ground.
Max had fired three shots of his own.
It would have been miraculous, had Wilson not died in the process.
Max’s ears were ringing horribly. His heart was pounding.
When it was all over, mere seconds later, there was only one man still standing.
And it was Grant.
Tall and massive Grant.
Fury on his face. A mean face. A horrible face.
Max took aim. He tried to take his time, while moving swiftly. His hands were steady.
Max knew he could make the shot.
Grant wasn’t fast enough. In fact, Grant didn’t seem to be acting rationally. He had dropped his gun. A long gun. Dropped it to the ground.
Grant’s face was twisting, transforming. His mouth was open as he was screaming.