Fighting for Yourself

​ My gaze was fixed on the unconscious Mike, the blood at his temple now a dark, congealed scab. A cold, clear thought crystallized in my mind. "Wake him up," I said to Lynda, my voice low. "I have questions." Lynda's eyes swept the room in an instant. She snatched a half-empty beer bottle from the table, unscrewed the cap, and, without a moment's hesitation, tipped it over Mike's head. Icy liquid and frothy suds cascaded through his hair and down his face. Mike started with a violent shudder, and his eyes snapped open. They blinked in bewilderment and then focused. When they saw us, his pupils constricted to pin-pricks, and raw terror flooded his features. I was there already, the rusty axe in my hand, its notched blade pressed firmly against his throat. "Make a single sound," I whispered, the steel cold against his skin, "and I will open your throat." The sharp edge bit into his fleshy pupils, constricting them enough to make his breath hitch. All color drained from his face. His eye