Vincent fumbled for his revolver as the vicious pack of predators closed in around him. He wished now more than ever that he had slipped into eternity while he was still unconscious. No such luck. He was tired. More tired than he’d ever been. He was cold. Colder than he would have thought possible. He was weak. Too weak to summon the strength to fight. Too weak to face with courage, what he knew would be his final battle. He was too dried up. Too much of a husk to weep, but he wept internally. Lamenting why he had to go out this way.
After all the strife and suffering he’d endured to get here, he wanted nothing more than to die in peace. He almost gave up then. Almost collapsed with exhaustion, waiting with apathy for his inevitable demise. There was nothing left for him to do. He’d die whether he wanted to or not. He just hoped it would be over soon. But as he heard the enemy edging closer, he had a final moment of clarity.
As was often the case with folks on their death bed, he was shaken out of the here and now. With life now behind him, he began to ponder eternity. What would happen when he died? Where would he go? He didn’t want to die. But he had to face reality. He could sense the end was near and had finally begun to consider the condition of his soul. And so, with nothing left to lose, he cried out in silent prayer. “Dear God, give me strength. Help me to leave this forsaken place with some dignity. I’m sorry for all my failures in life. I’m sorry I abandoned my family. Please take care of them.”
He finally found the tears his body had refused to relinquish earlier. He felt the hot liquid against his skin as it trickled down his face and was surprised to discover that he found it oddly comforting. “Please forgive me.” He pleaded. Then he exhaled slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. It was a simple, lowly, prayer. One that lacked eloquence. But it was all he had to offer. Vincent felt a renewed sense of determination.
He remembered vividly now how hard he had fought. He had given everything he had left in him. He defied the gates of death with his entire being. Knowing this, he couldn’t stomach the idea of dying like a coward. He wouldn’t. The mere thought of it made him sick. At this moment, his final breath -- the last syncopated beating of his heart -- was all that mattered. It didn’t matter that he would die regardless of his actions. He couldn’t make that choice now. The only choice he could make in this moment was how he would leave this world. And one thing was for certain. He wouldn’t be going down without a fight. Vincent dug into the depths of his soul and pulled out a surge of strength. The defiant fury and raw willpower of a dying man.
He struggled against his uncooperative body and limbs, forcing them to obey his command. He wasn’t a corpse yet, but he felt as if rigor mortis had already set in. The encroaching threat and subsequent surge of adrenaline made his body more limber, but also left him shaky. He prayed that he wouldn’t have to reload. If it came to that, he would have a herculean task ahead of him. But that was a worry for another time.
First, he had to actually get his hands on the gun. This was proving to be a challenge all its own. He could hear the bone-rattling howls edging ever closer, and he fumbled through the rocks and the dirt around him in a panic, desperately attempting to locate his trusty revolver. Time was a luxury he did not have. If he didn’t find the weapon soon, he would be torn to shreds with essentially no ability to defend himself. He would simply be -- as he’d imagined earlier -- a tender morsel. A snack for the ravenous wolves to feed upon. Once they broke through the barricade, he would be as vulnerable as a muscle cowering inside an opened clam. Exposed and helpless. The thought horrified him beyond words.
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He heard snarling and the angry rapping of paws attempting to break through the barricade. This brought his terror to unimaginable heights. His heart was beating so furiously that he could hear it pounding in his ears. If the wolves didn’t kill him, the shock just might. As he scrambled for his life, he thought for a moment that he could feel the cool touch of a metal stock. He explored further. Feeling with the fingers of his shaky hands and exulted with relief as he clasped the barrel of the gun. He managed to get a decent grip on it and awkwardly wrestle it into a firing position. With a significant amount of effort, he was able to cock back the hammer. As he heard the satisfying click, a feeling of pure elation reverberated through the length of his body. This was it. The defining moment of his life. He would make his final moments on this earth count. And he was determined to take as many mangy curs as he could with him. In fact, he was determined to take every last one.
As triumphant as he felt for accomplishing a few “simple” tasks that felt nearly impossible considering the difficulty of the situation; his struggle had scarcely begun. The real trick would be aiming and firing. He was a decent shot when holding a weapon properly. But this was typically done standing. He’d never practiced his marksmanship lying down. And certainly not on his back. He had limited time, limited space, movement, and ammunition. Things were about as bad as they could get.
The only thing that could make it worse was if his body decided to seize into a cramp at the pivotal moment. This would be disastrous and would all but ensure his swift demise. As if on que, he felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten. “You better not,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.” Vincent imagined firing at his abdomen to stop the muscles from seizing. It was an insane thought, but he was in an insane situation and the last time it happened, it almost got him killed. In fact, when he thought about it, the cramp did kill him in the end. It had led directly to his injuries, which led to his current situation. So, he could say with a certain confidence that it had been the final nail in his coffin. It just so happened that the end result was a little… delayed.
Thinking about how shameful it was to die from something as common and stupid as a muscle cramp, made Vincent’s blood boil. “They always come at the worst time,” he thought with disdain. He wanted to scream with frustration, but Vincent had a sudden epiphany. He realized becoming tense would only worsen his chances. He decided instead, to remain calm. The best way to ensure that his body wouldn’t revolt against him was to relax and take deep breaths.
This had the added benefit of putting him in the right frame of mind for proper marksmanship. If he could get into the right rhythm, he would have a much higher chance of focused, accurate, shots. Which were crucial if he wanted even the barest chance of accomplishing his final goal. By the sounds of it, there were three ravenous beasts stalking him. Six bullets, for three wolves. That meant his aim would have to be nearly perfect. If he couldn’t get a kill shot on the first try, he would only have one more chance to get it right. He knew it would be incredibly easy to miss or simply end up creating a flesh wound, which would only anger the beasts and make them all the more determined to kill him.
The margin for error was razor thin. The odds were so stacked against him it was staggering. The chances of Vincent killing all of them -- before they killed him -- were astronomical. He could allow this intrusive, morbid, thought to overwhelm him; or he could use it to strengthen his resolve.
He chose the latter.