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Endings & Beginnings
Topic Started: Mar 11 2011, 04:13 PM (3,495 Views)
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((Mike Maszer continued from Aching Chest and Blurry Sight))

Mike made very good time down the mountain. The fear and adrenaline kept him going. He hadn't seen much of a sign of Maxwell in some time, but he couldn't go back. If the killer had chosen to continue upwards, had killed Mike's allies, well, then he was the only one who knew the remainder of the plan. He had to spread it before something happened to him. He had to do something.

He was in the felled forest, the southern side, on the mountain's northern slope. He could see people leaving. He could also see some other people standing around. No way to tell who they were. They had to be better than Maxwell, but that wasn't saying much.

It would be better to take a slow, stealthy approach here. Unless, of course, some killer popped up guns blazing and shot him from behind. Still, that was looking less likely by the second.

So Mike, still breathing heavily, started creeping towards the people. He wasn't keeping too low a profile, so they might well notice him, but he certainly wasn't drawing attention to himself.
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Mike didn't even notice the guy coming towards him until he was right there. He was too busy worrying. Maxwell had to be up the mountain still. That was sure. That, or he had lost the trail somewhere. The people in the distance, though, were a bigger worry. He'd finally been able to identify one of them, the guy who was leaving. It was that guy who had killed Max Neill. Luckily, he was gone in a second. Mike stood very still, though, keeping quiet, waiting until he was sure, positively sure, the guy was out of sight and not coming back or looping around for an ambush.

But now, there was this other guy right here, asking Mike to kill him. He blinked. Looked the guy over. He didn't really have a clue who he was dealing with. He was out of breath and in a fairly foul mood and did not need to be dealing with more crazy people right now. He panted for a second, then said, "Why would I kill you? And who are you, anyways?"

The last thing he needed right now was some crazy suicidal person trying to get his help offing themselves.
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Mike blinked at the guy. What the hell was his problem? There were all sorts of things to worry about on the island, and he wanted Mike to kill him? That was insane. Mike didn't want to kill this guy. He hadn't done anything to Mike, well, except put him in this awkward situation in the first place. Moreover, being a killer would probably really mess up his credibility when it came to trying to escape this awful island.

More than that, why was it so important that he do the killing? Why not just mess with the collar and explode or whatever? Mike wasn't even armed. He'd have to beat this guy bloody with his bare hands or choke him or something, and the thought gave him chills.

"No, man," he said. "If you want to die, you can do it or something. I have to go. I have things to work on."

He turned, and started walking away from the crazy guy.
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And just then, Mike realized his mistake. The crazy guy wasn't just suicidal or stupid. He was totally nuts. He made the even showed the courtesy of fairly well announcing such, giving Mike a second to respond. Mike spun, preparing to defend himself, but the scythe lashed out at his leg.

The angle wasn't the greatest, and the laceration inflicted by the blade wasn't too severe, but the blow had far more dire consequences. The shape of the scythe meant it caught Mike's limb easily, with the result being that he was unable to back away, unable to put more distance between himself and this freak. Instead, as he tried to jerk clear, the scythe pressed harder into his knee, driving the blade in deeper, and Mike tripped, toppling over backwards.

He threw his hand out to catch himself, but landed in a pile of sticks, the splintering wood cutting his palm. He gave out a yell of pain and fear, but didn't slow down, rolling over and throwing his arm up as a futile preemptive defense against the strike he was sure would soon be coming.
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Mike's knee was burning. He was shaking. This guy was mad. This was as bad as it got. The worst thing was, Mike didn't even really know who he was dealing with, didn't know what to expect, what he was in for. Not Maxwell, that was for sure. Liam whatever, the recent killer? No, the name didn't match the face.

The guy was getting closer. He brushed Mike's hand aside, rather than hitting him with the scythe. Mike was so confused and tired from his desperate escape earlier that he barely put up a struggle. The guy wasn't moving too quickly, though. What new insanity was this? He leaned down...

And punched Mike right in the groin. Mike let out a cry and curled up instinctively, the pain washing over him and drowning out everything else. He could see spots. For a couple seconds, he couldn't even respond properly, but he managed to force out, "F-fuck you."
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Mike struggled and gasped as the guy grabbed him by the face and jerked him to his feet. He had no choice but to follow along, though, not if he didn't want his face mangled by the guy's hand. Mike stumbled, paused, righted himself. He was vertical again. It was time to run. Time to get out of here. Right now, he didn't care about the plan. He didn't care about much of anything except getting away as quickly as he could.

The scythe, though, put an end to that.

The swing came from an angle he hadn't expected, and more quickly than he had been prepared to deal with. He actually leaned into it a bit, just from some misguided reflex. He heard the tip ping off of his collar, and was worried for a second that it was going to explode. Then, an instant later, as the scythe slashed into his upper neck and the soft area under his chin, he wished he had been blown up. It would have been so much easier.

He knew right away that he was dead. He couldn't breath, as blood flowed down into his windpipe. The scythe hadn't gone through to his brain, though, stopped by the bone in his head. It wasn't much of a consolation. He gurgled, clawing at the handle of the weapon, trying to wrench himself free. It wasn't doing any good. The world was going black, from pain and oxygen deprivation, the latter greatly exacerbated by the fact that he had been struck mid-exhale and was not panicking and rasping, drawing more and more blood into his lungs. He wanted to ask why this was happening. He wanted to know who was killing him. He wanted to scream at this guy, to tell him he was being stupid, tell him he could have escaped, but now he was doomed. Nothing came out, though, and, after a couple of seconds of rasping, Mike's eyes drooped closed and he slumped forward, no longer able to support himself.

B068, Michał "Mike" Maszer: DECEASED
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