The Empty Arguments

"Are you crazy, Anderson?" T.B. shouted, his voice barely containing the wild fury rising in his throat. His words, sharp as broken glass, sliced through the tension between them. The reckless actions of Anderson, the sheer absurdity of his choices, had pushed T.B. past the edge of reason.

But Anderson remained unmoved, his expression unreadable as he slowly slid the Glock 17 pistol into the pocket of his pants, as if the weight of the weapon was nothing more than an afterthought, as if the consequences of firing that last bullet did not exist. His voice, in contrast to T.B.'s unhinged frustration, was calm, measured, and unshaken.

"T.B., before you say another word, help me get this raft downstream—just a little further, past the bend behind the cliff. We'll approach the Toyota Hilux from the river's downstream side. It's the safest path."

There was no time for argument, no room for hesitation. The river rushed beside them, its surface fractured by the dying light of the evening, its depths whispering the promise of both salvation and peril. Without another word, both young men gritted their teeth and dragged the raft, moving quickly, their boots sinking into the damp earth as they carried it about ten yards downstream. The air smelled of wet stone and pine, cold water and distant gunpowder. The weight of their circumstances pressed down on them, heavier than the raft itself.

They pulled it behind the cliff, away from where they had jumped, where the assassin—if he pursued them—would expect to find them. From this new position, they could see everything, while remaining unseen themselves. The terrain worked in their favor—a small rocky beach jutted out from the riverside, half-hidden beneath the gnarled roots of trees that clung to the earth like skeletal fingers. It was the perfect cover. They could stash the raft beneath the thick foliage, then climb the steep slope ahead. The road awaited at the top—a path to escape, if only they could reach it before death found them first.

As Anderson leaped from the raft onto the riverbank, his voice cut through the sound of rushing water.

"I fired the gun to draw the assassin's attention toward us, T.B."

T.B. whipped around, his face twisted with rage, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw looked as if it might crack under the pressure. His patience had run dry. His nerves, already frayed from the relentless chase, finally snapped.

"Anderson, I am sick of your empty arguments! I am done listening to your theories that lead nowhere! You shot our last bullet! That was all we had! Now, we are unarmed, and we are facing a professional killer with a fully loaded weapon! What the hell do you think you're doing? We can't fight an assassin with a fully loaded rifle by our bare hands!"

Anderson exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest shadow of a smile, as if he found amusement in the futility of it all, as if he had already anticipated this exact reaction. He tilted his head slightly and asked, with an eerie sense of detachment:

"T.B., have you ever bought a lottery ticket?"

T.B.'s eyes burned with fury.

"Shut up."

It wasn't a shout—it was a hiss, a low, venomous warning that slithered from his throat like the whisper of a blade unsheathing in the dark. And that sound—God, that sound—Anderson had heard it before. The last time T.B. made that noise, he had a gun pressed against Anderson's skull. The memory flickered in Anderson's mind, sharp as shattered glass, but it did not stop him. He continued speaking, relentless, unstoppable.

"T.B., people buy lottery tickets because they buy hope. Your last bullet—our last bullet—wasn't a waste. It was an investment. A tiny sacrifice for a much greater outcome."

Silence.

The river murmured. The wind stirred the trees. The world waited.

And then Anderson continued, his voice steady, deliberate, unwavering.

"We cannot engage in a gunfight with an experienced assassin. We would lose before we even fired a second shot. But that gunshot—that single, final bullet—was not meant to kill. It was meant to move him. To pull him out of position. To make him react. Now, instead of us walking into his trap, he has to come looking for us. And when he does… We'll be ready."

T.B. had heard enough.

He turned so fast that Anderson barely had time to react before T.B.'s hands—rough, calloused, strong as iron—latched onto his chest, grabbing fistfuls of fabric. His face was inches from Anderson's, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. His voice was low, shaking with barely restrained rage.

"Fuck you."

Anderson was no fool. He was no slow actor. His reaction was immediate, instinctive, lethal. His wrists—hard as stone, honed by years of survival—snapped outward, breaking T.B.'s grip. His arms shot up into the sky for the briefest of moments before crashing down like a guillotine, striking T.B.'s own arms right at the joint, forcing them apart. In the same motion, Anderson's right knee came up, aiming for T.B.'s face—a single, brutal movement designed to end the fight in an instant.

But T.B. was just as fast.

His hands, now freed, dropped swiftly, intercepting Anderson's knee before it could meet his face. His grip was unyielding, his muscles coiled with tension. And then—

T.B. struck back.

With a force that could shatter ribs, he drove both fists straight into Anderson's chest. Anderson staggered backward, his breath forced from his lungs, but he refused to fall. Even as the impact sent him reeling, his fingers uncurled from their fists, his hands latching onto T.B.'s sleeves like hooks. He twisted, using his own momentum, pulling T.B. forward, sending him sprawling toward the ground.

T.B. did not crash.

Like a cat, he twisted mid-air, rolling to the side, his arms bent into sharp, protective angles, shielding his face. Anderson's next strike was already coming—but T.B. was faster. His foot lashed out, kicking Anderson square in the chest. Anderson absorbed the blow, twisted, and rolled to his feet.

T.B. did the same.

And then, they stood.

Two fighters. Two animals.

Their breath came in ragged bursts, their muscles coiled, their fists clenched. Their eyes locked, wild and unyielding, burning with the raw heat of battle. They were waiting—waiting for the next move, waiting for the next mistake. The fight was not over. It had only just begun.

And then—

"Help me! Please!"

The voice—weak, desperate, filled with the terror of a dying creature—cut through the air like a blade.

Both young men turned sharply, their eyes snapping upward.

And there, silhouetted against the bleeding colors of the Alaskan sky, stood Layla Smith.

She was barely holding herself up, her body swaying, her legs trembling. Her golden curls, now streaked with mud, still caught the wind, still carried remnants of beauty even in her ruined state. She stood at the very edge of the cliff, the abyss yawning before her, the river roaring below.

And behind her—

A shadow moved.

Silent. Predatory. Inevitable.

A man stepped into the moonlight, the faint glow outlining his sand-yellow armor, a military vest strapped tight across his broad chest, its heavy fabric stained with sweat, dirt, and something darker. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing arms that were grotesquely inked, the red and blue of his tattoos writhing like open wounds across his flesh, twisting into shapes that looked more like ritual markings than art. Beneath the ink, veins pulsed like rivers of poison, thick with whatever darkness ran through him.

In his hands, he held a relic of war.

The M1 Garand.

Its wooden stock was smooth from use, its steel barrel dull in the night, but in his grip, it became something more—an executioner's blade, a reaper's scythe.

Layla didn't see him.

She was still gasping, fingers curled against the rocks, eyes wide with fear and desperation. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her breath ragged, her muscles shaking from exhaustion and cold. She was so close to escape—so close she could taste it, could feel the bite of the wind, the call of the open river just beyond her reach.

But freedom was a lie.

His voice came like a gunshot.

"No one escapes me!"

The words weren't spoken. They were snarled, spat, and a growl pulled from the depths of something inhuman.

Layla froze.

Her fingers tensed against the wet stone. The muscles in her neck twitched. Her body knew before her mind did—that primal instinct, that animal recognition of a predator's presence.

She turned.

Too slow.

The rifle swung.

The wooden butt came in fast, brutal, perfect in its arc—a motion drilled into the bones of soldiers, of killers, of men who had long since forgotten what mercy felt like.

The impact was sickening.

A deep, meaty CRACK as wood met bone.

Layla's head snapped sideways. Her skull fractured.

Her body gave up instantly.

She crumpled, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut, her limbs folding in on themselves in a way that wasn't natural.

And then—

She fell.

She hit the water like a stone dropped from the heavens.

A splash. A shudder. A silence that was worse than sound.

For a single heartbeat, she vanished.

The river swallowed her whole, dragging her beneath its surface with a lover's embrace. The water churned, rippling where she had been, as if unsure whether to keep her or spit her back out.

And then—

She rose.

But she wasn't Layla anymore.

She was a body now, a thing, an object, a hollowed-out shell.

She floated, arms spread, face tilted toward the sky, her hair fanning out like black ink bleeding into the current.

And then—

The river turned red.

It began as a trickle. A thin, curling thread of crimson unfurling from her scalp, dancing in the water like silk unraveling in the wind.

Then it grew.

It pulsed outward in thick, blooming waves, staining the river in deep, rich hues of scarlet and rust, spreading like the petals of a dying flower.

The current carried her, rolling her gently, whispering secrets against her skin.

Her mouth was slightly open. Her lips were still parted in the shape of a final word, a final scream, a final prayer that had never come.

The water took it.

Took everything.

And Layla Smith drifted away.

The river was red.

Her blood reddened it.