Maxwell Richards

"This dang day keeps getting weirder and weirder."

Maxwell was standing at the foot of a large oak tree, looking down at a bloodied mass that used to be a man. Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew him, or at least had seen him somewhere but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Three days. Three whole days in this hellhole, hunted by those things, fighting to stay alive, afraid to sleep or start cooking fires… And now the hunger was setting in drastically, both for him and the group he took upon himself to lead. He had the military experience after all and his platoon numbering thirty four scared, dirty and tired men and women truly did look to him for guidance. Thank the good Lord Leah was there. His wife was alongside him when he woke up to chaos erupting all around, and proved to be a tough fighter in her own right. Those, Russian women sure didn't play around and Leah was as Russian as they get; tall, blonde and packed on hell of a punch when the situation required it.

Maxwell had spent eight years in the navy, three of them fighting alongside the meanest killing machines known to man, the navy seals. Even so, this place was taking its toll on him and he often found himself at a loss as to how to proceed. While he stood there, immersed in his thoughts, Leah crept behind him and gently placed her hand on top of his shoulders. She wasn't much shorter than him, perhaps only by an inch or two and he cleared six feet by a long shot. This time his shoulders were slumped and his head leveled with hers.

"What'd you find?" She said softly, while looking down at the man covered in dried blood.

"Another poor fool that gone and got himself killed. I figure he was pushin' for that there pass." He gestured towards a small pass that almost looked carved into the Cliffside. "He wadn't alone though. See them tracks there? Least fifteen or twenty more of 'em went it. Might be a good idea to follow." Maxwell was a Southerner through and through, a Kentucky boy to the core and his speech showed it. He had held a reign on it in the navy as much as he could but he was regressing now. Leah would just have to deal with it, they had bigger problems.

Leah's gaze was still fixed upon the man on the ground as she bend down slightly to get a better look, her long golden locks covering a portion of her face.

"That ain't what I'm puzzled about though. It's… this." Maxwell turned to gesture at a pile of corpses that surrounded the downed man in a semi-circle. They all seemed to be pushing towards that same spot and they all died from the same slashing wounds as far as he could tell. "Had to be 'bout fifty of these suckers out here. Not to mention the big one with his throat torn half off. Even if he had help from the others… it just dodn't fit in."

Leah was kneeling down now, brushing the strands of the man's long hair from his face. His whole face was bloody, though it was tough to tell how much of it was his. The rest of his body was riddled with cuts and slashes, his clothes were barely being held together in some places and yet she kept staring. Suddenly, her eyes widened in shock and she clasped the man's head in both hands, turning it to face her. "This, this is Francis!" She mouthed half to herself in shock.

"Who?" Maxwell bent down beside her and repeated the question since she failed to respond the first time.

"F-Francis. My friend, my… ex-boyfriend." Leah avoided his gaze and gently placed Francis' head back down. "He's still warm…" She trailed off, cupping his face in one hand.

That's where Maxwell knew him from. That rat bastard whom she used to date before he had married her; the same rat bastard whom she went to visit in Europe a few years back. Oh him and a group of old college friends of course. Maxwell often referred to that group using air quotes but he didn't have much leverage with Leah at the time, he was no saint either during their long marriage.

"Max I think…" Leah trailed off while pressing two fingers onto Francis' neck, trying to feel his pulse. "I think he's still alive!" Her head spun to face him, her expression one of disbelief.

"No way in hell!" Maxwell said as he bent down to check for himself. "The feller has been stabbed and slashed more times than Cesar himself, Leah, nobody could survive th…" He stopped dead in his tracks as he felt a faint pulse from his jugular vein. This was beyond bizarre! He had a dozen wounds that would down a hardened soldier in a matter of hours and this wimp sure as hell couldn't go toe to toe with the U.S. army. There he was though, still kicking after who knows how long. The other bodies had already started to stink so it could have been over a day.

"We have to do something for fucks sake, don't just stand there!" Leah yelled furiously and took out a water flask that she fleeced from one of the creatures she managed to kill. Finders keepers they say. She splashed some water on this face to clear the blood away and tried to force a few gulps down his throat. He convulsed weakly, coughing the water up along with what seemed to be more blood. Jesus, how was this guy still alive?

Maxwell called out to two others from their group for help, Emma and Richard, who were a nurse and a veterinarian respectively. They got to work immediately, trying to clear off as much gunk from his wounds, bandaged him up and tried to keep him hydrated as much as possible. After a solid hour or so, they had done as much as they could. Emma stayed with Francis to keep track of his vitals while Richard pulled Maxwell aside.

"I'm no doctor Max but even my 17 hand thoroughbred stallion would drop after that much punishment. I have no idea what's keeping that man alive but here he is nonetheless. I'm not sure that he'll ever walk again, even if he recovers by some miracle; his whole right knee has been shattered into dust." The vet looked behind at Francis again with a sad look on his face before speaking to Maxwell again. "Might be better to just, you know, put him out of his misery."

Maxwell stood there, his hand over his mouth, contemplating what to do. He wasn't the kind to leave a fellow soldier behind, no matter how hopeless the situation may be but then again, what were they to do with him? Carry him around for miles until they find shelter or some semblance of civilization that doesn't want to kill them? Casting another look at his wife, still at that bastard's side made his blood boil but he swallowed his pride once again. Honor was worth more than petty revenge for a deed he had no proof had been committed in the first place.

"Get a few guys together, let's see if we can fashion a stretcher. We carry him in twos, half an hour per man." When Richard paused, as if to protest he cut him off. "The sooner we git started, the sooner we can get outa this slaughterhouse." The high road may be the right way to go but damn, was he itching to do stray off course for once.