The Last Stand of Muc

A pounding above my head causes my heart to skip a beat. I knew they’d find me eventually, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon—sneaky buggers. I’d hoped to be able to give them the slip again, but I can’t think of a way out. I’m cornered like a rat. In many ways, I am a rat. That’s what I get for spending the last couple of weeks in an abandoned maintenance tunnel. There was a time I’d try to fight my way out. I know better now.

It takes every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to try and run. They’ve got the place surrounded. I wouldn’t make it ten steps before a spray of bullets found my back. No, better to take my chances. Better to go quietly. They’ll probably still kill me, but it buys me time. I laugh as I drop to my knees with my hands up. My old mentor used to tell me there’d come a day when I’d have to make a choice like this.

“If it comes down to dying now or in ten minutes, take the ten minutes.” She’d say. “It’s never over till it’s over, and a lot can happen in ten minutes.”

I hope she was right. Thud. Thud. Thud. They’re about to breach the entrance; I can feel it. Each thud vibrates my bones and rattles my emotions. I remind myself there’s no other way. I wince and shield my eyes as the large maintenance cover crashes from the ceiling into the floor. Before I even look back up, I hear the sound of a rope. I try to look stoic. I put my hands back up and try to hide my fear.

Thirteen iron-armored soldiers slide down the rope and circle around me. It’s oddly quiet, a sign that they’re using helmet comms to communicate. The silence unnerves me, but I’m happy they didn’t shoot yet. That meant they wanted something. It should buy me at least a few more minutes. I assess the situation and wonder if I could have made it past these soldiers. Thirteen is a lot, but I know a few effective tactics. They surround me, and I see any chance I had is gone. One of the men approaches me, and his visor pulls up into his helmet. Inside, I see a young man. He can’t be older than twenty-three and has a familiar face. I can’t quite place it, but he looks like someone I know.

“Hello, Muc,” the boy says, a green creeping onto his face. “My father sends his regard.”

Fear hits my heart in a jolt as I realize who sent him. I barely have time to react as the boy pulls a knife from his belt and tries to stab my chest. He’s fast. I’m faster. I grab his wrist and push it up—the tip of the knife scrapes across my chest, creating a shallow cut. I twist the boy around and use my other hand to take control of the knife. Within seconds, I’ve reversed the situation. Twelve armed men stand around me, each wanting to blow my head off, but they can’t. I see the anger in their eyes and can’t help but smile.

“Nobody moves!” I shout. “Or father is going to get a nasty response.”

The boy grunts and tries to get out of my grip. I twist his arm, and he shouts in pain. Conveniently, the struggles stop. I lean in close to the boy’s ear.

“What’s your name, son?” I whisper. He doesn’t seem to want to answer, so I pull the knife closer to his neck. “If I wanted you silent, I’d finish you off. Now speak.”

“Thatch.” He says through gritted teeth.

“Alright, here’s what’s going to happen, Thatch. You’ll tell these nice fellows to put their guns down, then you’ll help me get out of here, got it?”

“Guns down!” Thatch calls out. The other men seem reluctant but comply.

“Tell me, how many more are up top?”

Thatch doesn’t answer, so I pull the knife close enough to draw blood.

“Only three!”

“There’s a good boy. Why don’t you go ahead and…” Suddenly, I hear a gunshot and feel a sharp pain in the hand holding the knife. Three of my fingers start bleeding as the knife skitters to the floor. That would have phased me once, but I’ve been through worse. In a blur of motion, I kick thatch forward, jump toward one of the guns the soldiers put down, and try to pick it up. I nearly succeed before the nearest guard stomps down on my arm. I hear a crunch and scream in pain. Thatch has turned around now and grabs me by the hair. I try to use my good arm to fight him, but it’s useless now.

“I see my father doesn’t like you.” He says. “I was going to show you mercy and end your life here, but after this? No. Death is too good for you. I’ve got a better plan in mind.”

Thatch slams his knee into my face hard enough that I see stars. I try to process his words, but my head is pounding. Vaguely, I feel something warm running from my nose across my mouth. I’m on the ground now, and the last thing I see is Tatches reinforced iron boot swinging toward my face.