10

MAX

Max had dozed off sometime after the sun had gone down. It hadn’t been restful sleep. But instead a sleep punctuated with nightmares. Terrible dreams where Mandy had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Only to have something unspeakably horrible happen to it.

He’d wake up, breathing heavy, feeling as if he’d just run a mile, with the intense darkness of the night around him. The clouds must have been heavy in the sky. The faint snores of his stockade companions.

He’d wake up and think of Mandy and wonder whether she was OK, whether she was eating right. He’d wonder what would happen to Mandy and the baby if he didn’t return.

If Max had one quality that had helped him survive, it was that he never gave up. Somehow, he’d always pushed on. He’d always continued, no matter what the odds.

Max had always been able to ignore how he’d felt about a situation, ignore the mounting dread that the body and mind naturally produced in the face of difficult odds. He’d always been able to divorce himself from the fears that came up.

Others may have thought that he just hadn’t felt fear. But it wasn’t that. Fear was natural. Fear was everywhere. Fear was omnipresent.

It was what Max did with the fear that mattered.

But now? Now that he and Mandy were together? Now that there was a baby on the way? It was harder. So much harder.

He hadn’t thought it would be. And now, faced with the reality that he couldn’t process his dread and fear as well as he could before, he didn’t know what to do.

Something that came easy to Max had suddenly become hard. That fact made it all seem so much more difficult.

He’d been asleep when the guard had come in. Given him a couple of swift kicks to wake him up, the pain intense and pumping through him.

He’d been dragged out of the stockade. Tossed to the ground like a rag doll, unable to fight back properly because of the pain. Another kick, this one harder.

Max lay on his side, involuntarily doubled over in the dirt.

He had no gun. No weapon. Even his watch had been taken from him.

He was weak from hunger. Weak from thirst. Weak from pain.

No matter how strong a man was, or thought he was, he could become nothing in the blink of an eye. He could become as weak as anyone. A couple of days without food would bring most men to their knees.

And most thought that they could deal with pain. But most hadn’t experienced real pain.

Max looked up. A bright flashlight shone into his eyes.

He couldn’t see much.

The light danced around. Max hoped for a glimpse of someone. His captors. Of his tormentors.

But he saw nothing. Not even a shadowy outline.

“Leave him with us. Back to your duties,” said a harsh, deep voice. Gravelly. Male, definitely. Maybe early fifties. Late forties at the youngest.

It was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

Then another voice. A familiar one. “What are you interested in him for? He’s just a nobody. Came in today, arrogant as hell. Wanted a leadership role. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Who was it? Where did Max know that voice from? His brain was sleepy. He wasn’t putting things together properly.

“You think he’s a nobody?” said the other voice, the gruffer voice, laughing harshly. “We’ll see about that.”

“How do you even know about him? I haven’t even given you the nightly briefing. You don’t have any of my reports from today.” The familiar voice again.

Suddenly, Max realized who it was. It was Wilson. The man in the tent. The man with the paperwork. The man who had sent him to the stockade.

“I have my sources,” said the gruffer voice. “I have eyes all around.”

“And if he’s not a nobody, Grant, just who is he?” said Wilson.

Grant! It was the man that Max had heard so much about. The leader himself. The famous Grant. The man who was going to restore order. The man who was going to stamp down chaos. The man for whom Max had, essentially, left his wife and unborn child for, thinking that he had the answers.

Well, maybe he still did.

“You remember the group that we had the most trouble with? Back about a month ago? All that fighting? We lost a lot of good men.”

“The guys who called themselves the New Disorder? The anarchist group? The ones who welcomed the new chaos of the world and would stop at nothing to accelerate the spread of chaos, violence, and civil unrest. The ones who had hated civilization and society since who knows when.”

“Exactly,” said Grant. “You remember the leader?”

“The guy who called himself, improbably I might add, Moby Dick. Absurd name. Yes, I remember him. What about him?”

The pain was subsidizing a little bit for Max. He knew he shouldn’t make a move. Not yet. Not before he knew what was going on. And what was going to happen to him.

But Max couldn’t help himself. The fight was still in him.

Max moved. Just a little. Trying to see if he could get a look at Grant or Wilson. See what kinds of weapons they had.

Max’s movement was ever so slight.

Grant didn’t speak until after Max felt the pain. An incredible pain. Sharp and intense. It felt like a piece of metal had been smashed hard into his thigh.

“Don’t move anymore,” came Grant’s stern voice. “Or you’ll get it worse than that.”

“Shit,” muttered Wilson. “You don’t want to break his leg, do you?”

The pain was bad.

But Max had felt worse.

“Maybe I do,” said Grant.

“Just tell me what the hell’s going on,” said Wilson. “What does a violent anarchist group have to do with this man here? Do you think he’s one of them or something?”

“Nothing like that,” said Grant.

“He’s not one of them?”

“No.”

“How do you know for sure? Maybe he is. Maybe this is a late-stage attack. An infiltration. Or a decoy. Something, anyway.”

“He’s not one of them,” said Grant. “And I know because I talked to one of the leaders.”

“One of the leaders? You talked to him? I thought they were all dead. We killed them all. Didn’t we?” Wilson sounded more confused by the minute.

“Not all of them,” said Grant. “I struck a deal with one of them.”

“A deal?” Wilson couldn’t have sounded more shocked.

“Exactly. A deal. It is what it is, and I won’t apologize for it.” He sounded vicious. Cruel. Intense. “In exchange for letting some of them live, I asked them to keep their ears to the ground. Provide me with information. They’re in hiding now, their mission failed, but they still know people. They hear things.”

“This is insane,” said Wilson. “I just can’t… you struck a deal like that… without consulting me…”

“Get over it,” snapped Grant. “That’s the way things are. I don’t have time to consult everyone.”

“I’m the second in command, though.”

“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.

Max knew he didn’t have long. He pushed with his arms against the earth, twisting his body, trying to get so that he could at least face his attacker. He knew he didn’t have time to get up. Not before Grant got to him.

Max got his body flipped over, his arms in front of him. He didn’t have a weapon. But at least he could do something.

He would have never thought of doing nothing, of giving up. It wasn’t in his character.

If it had been, he would have died long ago.

Grant was already there, waiting for Max to get himself flipped over. He looked tall in the shadows, in the darkness. His torso had that classic V-taper. Those classic broad, strong shoulders. It all seemed more pronounced in the harsh outlines of the darkness.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” growled Grant. “I’m not letting some halfwit Californian upstage me. Not after all this time. All this work I’ve put in.”

Max didn’t protest. He didn’t open his mouth.

He’d do everything he could to survive.

But he wasn’t going to protest his innocence. He wasn’t that kind of man. This wasn’t his kind of game.

Grant’s fist was huge. It sped towards Max. Max’s hands did nothing to block it.

Grant was strong. Very strong. His fist collided with Max’s face.

Max’s vision went fuzzy and black. Saw the bright lights scattered across the TV-like static.

Then another blow. And another.

The back of Max’s head bounced off the earth underneath him. There was blood, and, somehow dirt, in his mouth.

Загрузка...