Casey’s head rocked backward as he tried to absorb the blow to his jaw.

“Hold him still, Lanny,” Stewart said, popping his knuckles.

As Lanford hoisted Casey higher, his head lolled forward, and he spat blood at Stewart’s feet.

“Filthy pig traitor,” Stewart snapped, pulled his arm back, and before Casey could brace himself, Stewart punched him in his stomach.

Hissing in pain, he slipped out of Lanford’s grasp and collapsed to his knees, wheezing. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to the ground at Stewart’s feet and hoped he didn’t throw up.

“You want a turn?” Stewart asked.

“Yeah,” Lanford replied.

Questioning his decision not to fight back, Casey whimpered, unable to suppress the sound knowing a boot to his ribs was imminent. Lanford did not disappoint. His army issued, steel tip boot connected with Casey’s already tender ribs and Casey skidded across the ground a few inches from the impact.

With tears leaking from the corner of his eye, he drew his knees up and rolled to his side. As he huddled there trying to protect his vital organs, he waited for the next blow and thanked the sky above that two of his four guards were gone. Where they went, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t care. It meant there were two less UTR at camp tonight to beat the living shit out of him.

After a short reprieve, a hand fisted in his hair and yanked his head off the ground, pulling him into a kneeling position. Casey opened a partially swollen eyelid revealing a grinning Lanford. Casey tucked one of his arms around his side protectively and let the other drift down to cup his crotch. Usually, they left that part of him alone, but he wasn’t going to take a chance. They seemed particularly violent tonight.

“Fucking traitors.” Lanford chuckled a low and evil sound. “Just a waste of space.”

“Don’t I know it,” Stewart agreed. “Take a swing, Lanny. Make it a good one.”

Casey flinched and ducked, trying to dodge Lanford’s fist, but he didn’t have enough warning to avoid it completely, and Lanford landed a solid blow to his eye. Flashing lights superimposed themselves over a blackness currently crowding out his vision and left him gasping.

He had to do something. If they kept at him like this, he wouldn’t live to see Fort Twenty-four.

Shaking his head to clear the stars, Casey discarded his pacifist approach and tried to focus on the two men in front of him. Of the two, Stewart was the closest. Pushing to his hands and knees, he panted, hoping he appeared beaten. He sure felt like it, but for his plan to work, he needed them to let down their guard.

Lifting his head, Casey’s eyes widened, and he dropped to the ground before rolling away, narrowly avoiding Lanford’s kick. Lanford, realizing he missed, grabbed for him, and caught him by the back of his shirt. As Lanford lifted, Casey tucked his chin and rolled his shoulders making his shirt ride up his back. When it was high enough, Casey slipped his head free. Twisting his arms as he turned, Casey used his shirt to temporarily bind Lanford’s wrists, and while Lanford struggled, Casey kneed him in the back. Lanford hadn’t expected the attack, and Casey succeeded in knocking him off his feet.

They landed hard.

Casey wrenched the shared bindings tighter and struggled to kneel. As he righted himself, Casey punched Lanford in the head before pinning Lanford’s trapped wrists to the ground with his knee. With his target temporarily neutralized, his gaze fell to the gun strapped to Lanford’s thigh.

He had to get it.

Holding tight, he withstood a fresh barrage of kicks to his side from Stewart who was screaming obscenities at him the whole time, but after a couple of blows to his stomach and ribs, Casey was unable to withstand another strike. He rolled to his side pulling Lanford along with him. When he came to a stop, Casey scrambled back to his knees and reached for Lanford’s gun. Stewart, seeing Casey’s goal, yelled a warning, and pounced on Casey’s back, knocking him flat.

While they rolled on the ground, Lanford freed himself from Casey’s discarded shirt and began yelling at Stewart to get out of the way. It took some effort, but finally, Stewart broke free of Casey’s hold. Before he could stand, Casey hooked his fingers in Stewart’s waistband and yanked, slamming him to the ground once again, but this time, Casey thought with satisfaction, he was behind Stewart.

Stewart twisted and thrashed, trying to break free, but couldn’t shake Casey off. Casey rolled to his back, pulling Stewart with him. Stewart reared back, attempting to elbow him in the side but the angle was wrong, and all Stewart managed to do was smack his funnybone against the ground. Ignoring Stewart’s efforts, Casey dropped his hand to Stewart’s thigh, slipped the stabilizer clip on Stewart’s holster and pulled out his gun.

The familiar feel of the firearm in his hand calmed his racing heart and steadied his nerves. With the ease of years of practice, he flicked the safety off, sighted down the barrel and shot Lanford.

Damn, he cursed mentally.

Instead of catching Lanford in the forehead like he’d wanted, Casey’d managed to shoot him in the chest close to his throat. Lanford looked at him. His eyes wide with surprise before falling to his knees. His gun, which Casey hadn’t noticed before, fell from his slack hand. Both Stewart and Casey watched as Lanford touched his chest. His fingers came away coated in blood. He studied them for a moment, clearly unable to process what happened, and then pitched forward. He didn’t rise again.

Casey’s attention returned to the man he held tight to his chest. He was too still. Casey, knowing this might be his only chance. He shifted the gun upward and pressed it against Stewart’s temple. Stewart swore as Casey paused for a steadying breath. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Stewart’s body went slack above his.

It was over.

He was free.

Pushing the dead man off him, Casey struggled to his feet and staggered back. Wiping his face with his free hand, he glanced at the gun then the two dead UTR guards.

He needed to get moving. He couldn’t be found here.

Flicking the safety on the firearm, he dropped to his knees next to Stewart and set aside the gun. Casey needed Stewart’s clothes. His prisoner’s garb was too conspicuous. Casey proceeded to ignore the blood and the hole in Stewart’s head to get to the other man’s boots, pants, shirt, and jacket, before stripping down himself. Pulling on the other man’s clothes, he took a moment to decide if he should keep Stewart’s boots as well. Thinking that they would come in handy, he tied a knot in the laces, wrapped them around his neck, and as he stood, he grabbed Stewart’s holster. After strapping it to his thigh, he shoved Stewart’s gun into it and went to work on emptying Lanford’s pockets of anything useful.

He took Lanford’s extra ammo, multi-purpose tool, and his wind-up flashlight. Once finished, Casey took Lanford’s holster as well. Strapping it on his other thigh, Casey shoved Lanford’s gun into it and strode toward the tents. He didn’t know how much time he had left before the other guards came back, but he still needed a few items for his survival.

Unzipping the closest tent, he grabbed a canteen and mess kit, water purification tablets, additional ammunition, and a field issued backpack. Loading up the items, he rounded his collection out with Stewert’s other uniform, two blankets and the food rations bag which sat on the other side of the tent. He was about to close up his pack when he saw the gun cleaning kit. Stuffing it into a pocket, he stood and marched to the fire, where he plucked this evening’s travel rations from where they sat by the fire ready to be cooked. Stuffing them in his bag as well, he looked around the campsite for anything else he may need. Not finding anything, he shouldered the bag.

Finally, he was ready.

Glancing around the camp one more time, he turned on his heels and ran. If he were lucky, he’d put some distance between himself and the camp before the other two UTR, Diador and Jenkins, came back from where ever they had gone.

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