Against the Grain by Ian Daniels Page A

set up in another spot. I wasn’t going to wait for long, but if there was anyone else with him, I wanted to know it sooner rather than later.  
    After probably too short of a time, I came around from the other direction to find him still whimpering where he had fallen. A 1911 pistol was on the ground next to him, and he knew enough not to go for it when he finally saw me come around the side of the garage.
    “You move, you die,” I stated simply.  
    “Hey shit man, I’m bleeding to death here. Help me out,” he pleaded.
    “Bleeding to death is what your buddies did just a little while ago,” I informed him.
    He paused, then spat “You …!”
    I cut him off, not really interested in hearing his crap.
    “How many in your group?” I demanded.
    “Screw you!”
    “Look, I’m going to level with you here, I’m having a bad day… but you are having a worse one; you’re going to die today,” I stated it again in a very mater-of-fact way. I was somehow managing to hold my voice and my temper in check pretty well all things considered. “I’m going to kill you… today. It is up to you whether it happens slow or fast.”
    “Just take me to the hospital man, or let me go. I’ll never come back here, I swear!”
    My pistol barked and a hole in the top of his hand appeared. He screamed and clenched it to his chest, but a kick to his face reminded him what we were doing here. I really was not a violent person by nature, but I was also not in a good mood.
    “This is happening you fat piece of shit… slow or fast? How many in your group?” I bellowed at him.
    “Four, there’s only four of us left!” he screamed.
    “Wrong. There is just one left; you,” I corrected.
    “You psycho little…”
    The concussion of the bullet going by his leg brought him up short. I really didn’t want to waste any more bullets, and I needed to get some more answers so I decided to switch my tactic up a bit.
    “Where’d you guys come from? How’d you get here?” I lowered my voice slightly.
    He was a wallowing mess, but he quieted as I holstered my Glock and drew my knife. I actually didn’t know the first thing about knife work other than being able to skin a deer, but I could imagine what might seem scary.  
    “Hey, no man, I didn’t hurt anyone,” He pleaded.  
    I stopped and stared at him, fingering the knife delicately, then refolded it and clipped it back to my pocket. Walking the few steps to where I had kicked his 1911, I stooped and picked it up.  
    “How many bullets in this thing?” I asked evilly.
    “Oh no please…” he sobbed frantically.
    “Where did you come from and how did you get here?” I asked again.
    “A truck! We left it at the end of the road,” he finally answered.
    “Anyone else there at that truck? I’m not going to ask you again,” I checked the chamber and cock ed the hammer back.
    “No! No one!”
    The .45 placed a hole in the dirt by his right shoulder followed quickly by another scream and more pleading.
    “Nice trigger,” I remarked absentmindedly. “Anything else? Anyone else out there? You working with anybody? Any other groups like you? Where were you going?” I started pounding the questions out. He was loosing his concentration, but I was hoping something would stick.
    “No man, no,” he sobbed pathetically.  
    “Alright… can you walk?”
    “What?”
    “I said get up, fat ass.”
    “What, why?” he looked around confused.
    “Do it!” I roared as he struggled to his knees, then holding on to the fence with his good hand, staggered to his feet.  
    “Get going, that way,” I instructed him.
    “What! No way man, you’ll shoot me!”
    “Motherf…” I trailed off exasperated and then reminded him, “I already shot you… twice. Now GO!”
    Still sniffling and holding his hand, he started limping off in the indicated direction. I wasn’t actually giving him a chance. He was a piece of crap and part of a group that had tried to kill my friends, and I