The Others

I slam my body against his, smashing him into the hard brick wall. His body crumples, first against the wall, and then down to the floor. His denim jacket and pants both show shades of lighter blue, runs in the material from scraping against such old and eroded brick. I flip him over so he faces up. His jacket folds open, exposing a white t-shirt, unprinted but yellowed with sweat stains around his pits and neck. His hair, neatly and tightly coiled into cornrows seems as if it would act as something of a natural helmet, but his eyes roll in their socket, the obvious signs of confusion, perhaps a concussion. I wind up and punch him in the cheek just to make sure. Again to the gut and he doubles over in a jolt of pain.

"You had to do this the hard way didn't you?" I pant, out of breath from all the running. He spits in my face. Stunned, I wipe the spittle from my right cheek, and knee him in the groin. 

I pull a pair of zip ties from my back pocket, and begin to fasten them around his wrists. At this point the Others catch up with me. 

"We lost track of everyone else" 

"Okay, lets just get this one back home, then we'll think about what to do next." 

A big burly man steps up and offers a hand. After getting up off the denim clad nightmare, he hoists him over his shoulder, hands tied and limp across his back. 

We start to walk away when a knife comes flying at our heads. The only warning is the whistling sound it makes as it cuts the air, just seconds enough to duck out of the way. We look up. At the top of the eroded brick wall, several men, all oriental and dressed in colorful and baggy garb, glare down at us, knives held in outstretched fingers. 

"It's the fucking Mongols!"

At that, they unleash a torrent of knives upon us. They are not very accurate, obviously hoping for pure luck than skill to land a hit upon us. One runs the length of my right calf, creating a long but superficial cut. I hear a loud thud, and look behind me. The big burly man has fallen over, several knives sticking out of his back, and a large cleaver split across his head. I suppose a larger target. The man in denim is on the floor behind him, frantically trying to crawl away. 

I hold an arm over my head, in a feeble attempt to shield myself, and run back to him. I pick him up off the ground and hold him over my shoulder. As I lift him, I notice that he too is covered in small cuts, but no knife has pierced him completely. A completely lucky bastard then. 

The Others have gotten away, just out of knife throwing distance, and are dragging one Mongol along by his shirt collar, he too is secured in a zip tie. This Mongol is a giant, over 7 feet tall, wearing a long brown and weathered leather trenchcoat, and a fading Stetson on his head. A long ponytail emerges from underneath the hat and trails on the ground, and although his eyes are hidden by the brim of his hat, I can still make out the Fu Manchu on his face. His lips are curled into a sneer. 

They have all pulled guns, and begin firing wildly at the Mongols, hoping to scare them off. But we can see them still standing on the rooftop. Backlit by the sun, we cannot make out distinct features, but their eyes shine through regardless, wide and unblinking, like cats eyes in the darkness of night. I catch up with them, and slowly we retreat backwards, continuing to fire, as the Mongols stare at us, heads bobbing like pigeons, avoiding the bullets. 

Finally, we reach a chain link fence. I look up, and see that the top is covered in barbed wire. We look around for something to cover the top, to allow us to scale it, but the surrounding ground is dry soil, with barely any grass growing at all. There is no litter at all. I can hear, one by one, all of our guns click empty. We stare at each other, unsure how to proceed. One pulls a knife, another a machete. We all pull out our barbaric weapons. Chains, crowbars, clubs. The Mongols have realized we are no longer shooting, and approach us across the field, knifes in hand. 

"Man, untie me and give me a knife. I'm not going to fucking die tied up, I'm fighting for my life" I look down at the man in denim. Even in binds, his eyes radiate with hatred, his cheeks puff up and deflate quickly. I pull out a switchblade and remove his ties, then pass him the blade, alternating the machete from my left hand back to my right. I offer my left hand to pull him up. 

From behind us, we feel a presence towering over us. I turn to see the giant Mongol standing. He too is free of his binds, but none of us had released him. He holds a katana in his hands. 

"These are my people, but today they act as savages. I will assist you in showing them a lesson." He spreads his legs, grinding the balls of his feet into the dirt, steeling himself for the oncoming onslaught. We turn back to the Mongols, doing the same. 

One Mongol shrieks, then the rest join in. They begin to rush across the field, shrieking and howling like demonic harpies, teeth and knives bared, eyes bright. They leap, nearly 10 meters away from us. High and up into the air, seeming to hang just above us, before turning their blades downwards, and beginning their dive bomb assault. 

If there was ever a way to die, a battle to fall in, men to die alongside, this is the time and place.