Twelve, eleven, ten…
The footsteps stopped, the two men ten feet apart as silence swirled around, the only two people in the country with any clue what was happening. Martin cracked open his eyes just enough to see a blurry Chris, his white hair the most prominent feature standing out against the dark backdrop of the trees. Chris held a pistol in his right hand, but didn’t have it pointed toward Martin yet.
He took one more step, clearly taking caution. Martin could only rely on Chris’s greed to spare his life. Had the roles been reversed, six bullets would already be in the old man’s head and chest, but Chris couldn’t resist the theatrics of a heated moment. He wanted the last word, and wouldn’t rest until he got it. Martin groaned, rolling his head as if he were coming back to consciousness.
Chris took one more step closer, his figure casting a shadow from the moonlight that glowed high above. Martin had a moment to make his next move, knowing it was only a matter of time until Chris realized the shoulder injury wasn’t anywhere near as serious as Martin had sold it. He opened his eyes, locking with the dark pit of shadows that had formed around Chris’s face, and caught a final glance at the pistol still hanging by his side.
Now.
In one swift motion, Martin planted his elbows into the ground and nudged his body a few more inches toward Chris, shooting up his left foot that connected squarely with the pistol, sending it sailing toward the darkness that would make it nearly impossible to find.
Martin grunted as he sat up, his back still offering plenty of protest, but he powered through the pain, jumping to his feet and swinging a fist for Chris’s face that failed to connect, sending Martin off-balance as he tumbled away.
“This ends now!” Chris snarled, his lips parted like a dog ready to attack.
Martin regained his footing and planted himself in place, ready to absorb the old man charging in his direction. Chris stomped two steps before lunging, his thin arms flailing in the air like sticks in a windstorm. He landed on Martin’s shoulder, taking both men to the ground where they rolled in the snow, clamoring for an advantageous position.
A sharp pain tore through Martin’s forearm, as he realized Chris had bitten him, tearing a small chunk of flesh away, spitting it behind him.
“Fuck!” Martin howled, grabbing his arm and rolling away, the duffel bag’s strap getting tangled around his neck and throat. Chris leapt toward him once more, but this time Martin met him with a sturdy kick that connected perfectly on his ribcage, sending Chris sprawling to the side where he landed face-down in the snow, gasping for breath.
Martin flailed for the duffel bag, unzipping it and reaching inside for the first thing his fingers landed on. They found the handle to a hunting knife, a late addition to the bag that had been added after plenty of discussion on how to best equip Martin for the mission. His lieutenant had insisted on the knife, claiming that as long as the bag didn’t leave Martin’s side, he’d have every accessible weapon. The arguments against it were the risk it could put Martin in should he fall on the bag.
Martin had the final say, and agreed to carry the knife, now grateful for the decision as he watched Chris stumble back to his feet, gearing up like a bull ready to flatten him.
He has no idea, Martin thought, tightening his grip, knowing that if Chris still had any ability to read his mind, he wouldn’t glare at him with rage-filled eyes.
Martin shouted, a maniac howl that filled the night, echoing through the woods that would have been heard in town had the residents not been frozen in place. He angled the knife toward the Keeper of Time, keeping it within the bag, and dashed forward, grunting as he watched Chris jump toward him.
The two men crashed into each other, Martin getting the wind knocked out of him in midair as Chris landed a fist squarely in his gut. Martin managed to hold control on the knife and pressed forward as hard as he could upon clashing with Chris, moments before both came crashing to the ground, rolling away from each other.
Martin tumbled as he tried to make his way back on his feet, slipping on a patch of ice, but gaining his footing, adrenaline bursting at full speed as he waited for Chris to do the same.
But the old man made no effort to stand, instead lying on his back much like Martin had earlier.
Don’t fall for it, Martin assured himself. He would take none of the chances that Chris had, no desire for the vanity of an up close look at his enemy. He untangled the duffel bag strap and pulled it off, dropping it to the ground as he squatted to look through it—more like feel through it, amid the darkness. An extra gun had been packed, a small pistol to be used if his original one had gone missing.
Martin stood up, gun in hand as he shuffled toward Chris, writhing on the ground, hands clenched over his stomach, dark red spreading out from his sides and seeping into the white snow like spilled ink. He stayed six feet back, close enough to see exactly what was happening, but keeping a safe distance to leave time to react should Chris try to pull any final tricks out of his sleeves.
“Martin?” Chris whispered, his voice broken, defeated.
Martin gulped, taking one more step and planting his feet to not be tempted any closer. He also didn’t gamble with his pistol, aiming it directly at Chris’s head. “It’s over. You have no more ways out of this.”
Chris shivered as a stream of blood spilled from his lips. “It’s over,” he muttered. “Congratulations, you did it.”
Martin’s arms trembled, his mind running in overdrive as it attempted
