"That son of a bitch actually was going to try to kill me," Martinez exclaimed, looking in sheer horror at the contents of Kyroll's duffle bag.
Martinez had some thoughts of what it might have contained, but nothing came close to this. The bag was essentially a kill kit you would see in the second-rate spy drama or some bad in the hollow flick: handcuffs, syringes, gloves, a jug of lye, bleach, a tarp, and some scalpels.
That was just what Martinez could immediately identify when opening the bag; there were dozens of technical marvels he had no concept of what they were for. The horrible reality that Martinez was facing only worsened when he dug past the tarp.
A knot formed in his throat, damn near gagging him when he realized what that taped-up plastic bag of gold and yellowish powder had to have been.
Visage.
How Kyroll, or anyone for that matter, was willing to use such a horrible substance was unfathomable. One whiff of this stuff, and you would forget the next several days, all while being so impressionable you would gladly chop your arm off if someone asked.
Martinez had seen plenty of people under the effects of this drug since working at the trauma center. None were ever stable, each usually near death or permanently maimed and often across to the other side of the Galaxy from where they were drugged.
If Kyroll had a chance to use this on him, Martinez could easily have woken up on the far side of the galaxy. But if Kyroll was willing to use a drug like this to silence him, there was no doubt that he would maim Martinez. Martinez likely would end up like Ruhinley: missing a limb, cold, and alone.
Pushing those dark thoughts aside, Martinez returned to the kit and continued looking through it. Just beneath the bag of Visage, there was another thing he did not recognize. It looked like wet granola shoved into a sandwich bag and soaked in oils.
But the colors were all wrong.
Instead of grays and browns, this was a mixture of deep reds, oranges, and purples. By look alone, it reminded him of wet cat food.
Whatever it was, it really didn't matter; it was going to get tossed out with everything else in this kit. Martinez was not going to give Kyroll a chance to use any of his preparations on him by scattering his equipment to the wind and booking it as fast as possible.
He could be home within a day or two; all he would have to do is manage to navigate back. Navigating back by hugging the roads would be easy enough, even if being in the semi-tundra would suck.
As quickly as possible Martinez draped one of the handles over his shoulder and fished the items out at random and began tossing them into the night, never to be found by Kyroll again.
Putting the kibosh on that horrible man's plan gave Martinez that warm and fuzzy feeling in his stomach. One, someone would only get it when they truly beat someone at their own game.
He hated to admit it, but Lysa was right about Kyroll being no good, and now that Martinez had given the man a chance, he felt like an ass and realized that even trying was a horrible mistake.
All was going well until Martinez grabbed hold of the bag of kibble-like substance. It squelched and exploded oily juices onto his hand, soaking the bag through. He gagged from the overwhelming rot and decayed overflowing from the substance; as quickly as possible, Martinez chucked it off into the woods, pulling in every muscle possible, and oil dripped into a slick trail from where he stood off into the darkness.
Just as he grabbed the Visage, Martinez was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. "Martinez, stop!" Kyroll shouted, looking at Martinez in confusion and then down into the empty duffle bag covered in slick goo. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Yeah, I stopped you from using this shit on me!" Martinez yelled, shoving Kyroll back and throwing the bag of Visage off into the pond before turning back around and then glowering at the older man, looking flabbergasted at him.
"Not that you stupid Vur---" Kyroll started but groaned and collapsed to the ground when Martinez brought a firm kick straight into his crotch.
"Shut the fuck up, you sociopath," Martinez barked while Kyroll collapsed down and tried to stay steady with one hand, a task that was nearly impossible as he began to vomit, spewing bile, alcohol, and food slop in the snow.
As a man, Martinez felt the slightest twinge of sympathy for Kyroll. No one likes getting hit in the nuts, after all. But as a realist, he could not have cared less; a nutshot was the bare minimum that he deserved.
Kyroll gagged and attempted to look up towards Martinez. His hollow, red eyes were vapid, looking as if he deserved what he was getting and accepted it.
The older Aviex looked pathetic, and rightfully so. Anyone willing to use those drugs as a weapon was an enemy, and the Marines had taught Martinez what you do with enemies: you give them no quarter—and make them submit.
Martinez stepped forward to enjoy giving Kyroll what he deserved—a firm ass-kicking. "Get up!" he challenged.
Kyroll tried to get to his feet, pressing up and out of the snow, but the moment his legs found an unstable purchase beneath him, Martinez drove a kick into the hunched man's diaphragm, knocking him back into the frost.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"I said get up!" Martinez barked before stomping down onto Kyroll’s back. Martinez's hefty size twelve boot cracking the man's rib was audible through the night.
Martinez quickly removed his foot and let Kyroll try to stand up—the keyword was try. No matter how the older man attempted to scramble away and regain his composure or however many times he broke his lips and attempted to mutter more lies, a swift boot, fist, or shove was given as an answer, keeping him on the ground, and adding uncountable contusions to his body.
"Come on, is this all you can do? Weren't you going to try to kill me?" Martinez roared, demanding a challenge from the man.
"I don't want to fight you," Kyroll managed to squeeze through his teeth after recovering just enough from a hit, but he was still on all fours in the frost. “You have to listen to me."
If anything, his pleading made the situation worse, turning Martinez’s treatment from punishment to cruelty. That Kyroll did not want to fight back earned him a swift boot straight into his face, leaving an imprint across his forehead and cracking his nose like an egg, blood pouring out and into the snow, mixing with the vomiting and bile.
"I don't have to listen to shit from you," Martinez yelled while stepping off to the side a moment before driving a soccer ball kick straight into Kyroll, several of his ribs buckling and snapping underneath the force, leaving him supine and gasping like a fish out of water.
"You know I was more than happy to give you a fucking chance for the sake of your wife or your daughter," Martinez started as Kyroll lay there gasping for air. "But now I don't care anymore," Martinez continued, placing his boot firmly atop Kyroll’s chest and grinding it against his ribs. “But you—you just had to not even extend a fucking olive branch back.”
Despite the apparent amount of pain Kyroll was in, he hadn’t even yelped once as Martinez thrashed him. Maybe it was a matter of adrenaline coursing through him, or Kyroll was legitimately just that much of a hard ass.
Either way, Martinez didn't have any of it.
Martinez pushed more weight onto his foot atop Kyroll’s chest, leaning in closer.
Air escaped Kyrolls lungs as the weight on him increased, making breathing all but impossible. "Unlike you, I'm not just going to kill someone and think that solves all of my fucking problems. But don't get it twisted here. I am not above hurting you."
Kyrolls gripped Martinez’s calf and pushed, alleviating the slightest amount of pressure, but he still made no attempt to fight back; he just kept himself breathing.
This was different from how Martinez pictured a confrontation between them. Yeah, Martinez was a decent fighter, But Kyroll was a former Special Forces operator and had more combat experience than Martinez could fathom. Kyroll was almost double his age but still should be able to put up a fight; it shouldn't be a one-sided beatdown. Something was off here. But in Martinez’s sadistic rage, that thought did not register.
Before Martinez could ponder the idea further, Kyroll lifted his leg just enough so he could croak out his warning.
"Run Away!"
"Run? Run from what, you? Or is there something else out here that you also planned to try to kill me?” Martinez replied, gesturing around himself into the darkness and re-engaging his hold on Kyroll. "Are your friends out there ready to blow my brains out now?"
Before Kyroll could elaborate on the dangers present, a roar as loud as a jet fighter echoed through the night, shaking the timbers and rattling both to the core.
"From that," Kyroll assured, using the lapse in Martinez's focus to slip out and lever up from the ground, taking the chance to spit blood and a broken fang out his mouth. "That bag of Brigal rang the dinner bell."
"For what?" Martinez replied, rushing past the fire to retrieve his rifle, understanding that an animal is often more dangerous than a sentient—at least in a pinch.
Kyroll hoisted himself out of the snow, every muscle screaming and in agony, and began to limp to his tent to grab his rifle."Any Milurt within several days' walk," he answered plainly, not wanting any embellishment to make the danger they were in any less evident. It also helped because just breathing at this point was agony.
Kyroll wanted Martinez to feel like he wasn't much of a threat anymore and thusly took the thrashing he gave him. But in retrospect, with that bag of Brigal having been opened? He should have actually fought back, but either way, they still would be in the same situation, and if he had fought, they both would be wounded messes, not just him. So it did not matter.
"So what, were you going to feed me to that thing?" Martinez said, checking for a round in the chamber. Upon seeing the small orange straight-wall caseless round, he sent the bolt home and continued to scan for wherever that roar came from.
Kyroll shrugged, knowing there was no point in explaining the details of the plan he had given up on. If they made it through this, he could explain his thought process to Martinez, but he knew very well that was a big if. For now, survival was the only thing that mattered.
Limping as quickly as his battered body could, Kyroll moved past Martinez toward the trail leading to the truck while leaving the majority of his gear where it lay. They wouldn't need it, and gathering it would take too long. "Come on, we need to go."
Martinez shot his hand out and grabbed Kyroll's shoulder, earning him a venom-filled glare, ”You must be high if you think I’m following you anywhere."
“I'm not high, and you will follow me if you want to live," Kyroll argued, rolling his shoulder free of Martinez's grasp, continuing down the path, and starting a slow jog.
The millisecond, Martinez's hand was wrenched from Kyroll's shoulder, a roar louder than the first vibrated his teeth; looking off into the distance, Martinez couldn't see hide nor hair of what was creating those whaling roars.
But more joined the first two and quickly became a defiant chorus. Like watchmen on an old bastion's front, one after another rose up, calling for violence; the cacophony shook the bows, each new tone announcing they had joined the hunt.
Before long, Martinez couldn't even tell one from the other. There were dozens of them, likely stretching out hundreds of kilometers, all answering the call to find the liquid soaking his skin.
Deciding that survival was more important than their fight, Martinez pivoted and followed as quickly as possible. "Can't we scare them off like last time?"
"It wouldn't work,” Kyroll plainly replied. “Any of that Brigal would have alerted them to kill anything nearby.”
Hearing that, Martinez paused, his heart as still as a statue while he looked down at his right arm glistening in the dim moonlight; his heart sank like a stone, understanding fully what Kyroll had just told him.
"I’m covered in it," Martinez admitted.
Without even looking back to confirm, Kyroll took Martinez’s words as gospel and accelerated from a jog into a full-bore run, his wounded body moving as quickly as possible as the wan moonlight would allow. "Double time Doc, we have to move."