Max couldn’t hear Grant’s screaming over the intense ringing in his ears.
Max didn’t know what he was saying.
But he saw what was happening.
Grant’s desires had shaped his behavior. They had overtaken him. They had prevented him from thinking or acting rationally.
What Grant should have done is stood in place and shot Max to death.
But he didn’t.
Now the ball was in Max’s court. All he had to do was shoot.
He pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
No kickback.
No noise.
The gun was jammed. Just an empty trigger pull, accomplishing nothing.
Grant was coming at him fast. He looked like a linebacker. A linebacker who could do the 100 in 10 seconds flat. A linebacker who knew how to sprint, who knew how to pick up his knees, who knew how to move his arms. He knew how to propel himself forward.
He was mere feet from Max when he launched himself forward. Half-jump, half just thrusting himself froward
Max had no knife. No working gun.
Wilson’s gun was far away.
This was going to be hand-to-hand combat. This was going to be a fight to the death. Nothing but their hands.
Unless Grant pulled a knife.
Anything was possible.
Grant’s huge body smashed into Max.
It was hard to tell what was happening.
The impact seemed to make Max’s vision go blurry for a moment.
And it stayed blurry.
Grant’s hands were huge. Abnormally large. And strong.
His hands were around Max’s neck. Grant’s legs were splayed out as he crouched over Max’s body.
Max was on his belly. Grant’s breath was hot and close to his neck.
“You’re going to die,” hissed Grant, his voice deep and intense. “But don’t worry, it’s not going to happen fast… I’m just going to choke you out… when you wake up you’re going to be in more pain than you’ve ever imagined…”
So Max had been right. Grant wanted to prolong his suffering.
Not that it mattered much.
“You hate me more than Wilson?” Max managed to say, despite the hands around his neck.
“Wilson…” grunted Grant, not adding any more.
“He’s still alive,” said Max.
It was a classic trick. The classic trick. It was a variation on “look, what’s that over there?”
But it worked. Even if it was dumb, it still worked.
Grant looked, turning his big massive head on his big muscular neck.
Max brought both his legs up at the same time, as hard as he could. He had to pull them backwards, since he was on his belly.
It was his knees that connected with Grant’s groin.
Max kicked backward with everything he had.
And it made a difference.
Grant squealed in pain. A high-pitched squeal.
Max didn’t know how he did it but he managed to squirm his way out from under Grant, breaking free of the hands on his neck that were weakening.
It was all a blur.
Hard to say what happened in what order.
But now they were locked together, like wrestlers. Both of them on their knees. Both of their heads pressed against each other. Max’s forehead hurt from the pressure.
Max’s neck hurt from the strain of pressing as hard as he could against Grant’s.
Grant’s face was red. His cheeks were puffed out. His teeth were gritted. He wore an intense grimace.
“You’re going to wish you were dead,” hissed Grant.
Max didn’t waste his breath talking. He didn’t waste his energy.
But he knew what to do. He had to trick him. Distract him.
Max smiled. A big, creepy smile. Showed all his teeth. Really got the corners of his mouth up high.
It unnerved Grant. Max could tell that much.
It gave Grant just that moment of hesitation that Max needed.
Max had spotted the knife on Grant’s belt earlier.
He reached for it now, completely blind, his eyes staying locked on Grant’s, his forehead staying pressed hard against Grant’s.
Grant’s hands were once again at Max’s throat, but it didn’t matter. Max ignored it and just kept on flashing his absurd smile, as if everything was fine with the world or it just really didn’t matter, as if he’d just completely lost his mind.
Max moved fast. Trying to get the knife.
It was hard doing it blind.
Max’s first attempt missed. Instead, he just grabbed a bit of Grant’s thigh.
It was as if he were making an awkward pass at him or something.
Max’s hand fumbled around.
Found the knife.
It was a fancy fixed blade in a fancy holster.
The sheath was leather. Fortunately, there was no small piece of leather that snapped in place, securing the knife.
The knife stayed in just by friction. The sheath was tight.
Max wrapped his fingers around the cool handle. It was a strange-feeling material. Without seeing it, he knew it was something fancy. Something strange. Maybe some kind of rare stone. Pearl? Was that possible?
It didn’t matter.
Max had been ignoring the hands around his neck. But now he couldn’t ignore the light-headed feeling, the sensation that he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen.
He had mere seconds.
Max pulled the knife from its sheath. He moved fast.
He moved his hand to the right, swinging the knife out far. Then he brought it back, moving as swiftly and as forcefully as he could.
The blade of the knife plunged into Grant’s side.
Grant let out a grunt of pain, but managed to keep his eyes focused on Max’s, and his fingers around Max’s throat.
Max had never felt this lightheaded. Never felt so close to passing out.
It was almost like he was drowning. There was some distant memory from somewhere that was trying to surface, but it stayed put.
Max brought the knife back out. Then in again, plunging it into Grant’s body.
Grant was a hardened, muscular man. But it didn’t matter. The knife was sharp. It was double-edged. It was a real weapon, with a sharp point. And it plunged through Grant’s muscles easily, slicing them apart as if it were surgeon’s scalpel
The hands around Max’s neck were loosening a little.
“You’ll never…” growled Grant, bits of his spittle flying and hitting Max’s face.
Grant’s eyes had fury in them. They were locked onto Max’s.
Max stabbed him again. And again.
And again.
By the time he’d stabbed him for the tenth time, Grant was done.
His eyes were blank. Pupils rolled back in his head. A strange frothy substance on the corners of his lips. His hands had gone limp.
Max kept the knife in, driving it in even harder.
It took a huge effort to push Grant’s inert body off of him.
But he did it. Grunting in pain and exhaustion.
There was blood soaking the hand that he’d stabbed with. Blood up to nearly his elbow. His hand felt cold and weak from the intense effort.
Max’s neck hurt.
It seemed like he couldn’t quite get enough air to breathe.
He staggered away from the scene, his eyes casting around on the ground.
He didn’t know if everyone was dead yet. He needed a weapon. There was no time to celebrate.
He found it. A handgun someone had dropped. Not his own Glock, but it would have to do.
Grant was dead. His body was still. Max walked back over, checked the pulse.
No pulse.
Good.
Max made the rounds.
Wilson was obviously dead. Shot to pieces. His body was torn up from the bullets. A gruesome sight. No point in even checking the pulse.
The three others were on the ground. Max went to them each in turn.
The first two were dead. No pulse. Stone-cold dead. Good. Easier that way.
The third was still alive.