Utterly Mad

Instinctually, what I did first was size up the situation. I was big, and tough, and I knew a whole lot about hurting people, but I myself was hurting real bad at that moment. I was losing blood, exhausted, malnourished, and thirsty. Not the best condition to be scrapping in. The two men in front of me looked like animals who learned to walk and talk. They were filthy, had raggedy beards and loose teeth, and were covered head to toe in rawhide and jingling scrap. Ruthless scavengers, through and through. They didn't look well-fed, in fact, they were a bit scrawny. But they looked mean, and they looked crazy.
 
        The one with the knife looked at me, looked at the entrance, and looked at me again. His blade swished back and forth with his head. It was about four inches of rusty steel, sharpened into a point. The grip looked to be made of tape.
 
        "Wha....the hell?! Who're you, dead man!?" He piped up, a voice akin to nails on a chalkboard, worsened by borderline insanity.
 
        I struggled for words. Coughed hard, once, twice, tasted blood in my mouth.
 
        "Concerned passerby. Heard a real ruckus. You boys sound like you're havin' some fun here." It came out as a rasp. Barely a whisper. No chance of intimidation.
 
        The one with the wrench slapped the instrument on his palm. Once, twice, thrice. It sounded like someone beating a piece of meat with a rock.
 
        "The time of our lives, dead man. What's it to you?" His voice was deeper. Gravelly. Too much sand inhalation, I'd wager.
       
        "Ain't nothing to me. Your business is your business, and we can keep it that way." I retorted. The man strapped to the column's eyes had closed halfway between our conversation. His chest wasn't moving.
 
        "You interrupted us, stranger. Nobody takes kindly to bein' so rudely intruded upon." The one with the knife had a fancy vocabulary, for a raider.
 
        Now, I could see where this was going, to say the least. I'd walked right into a situation where the only answer appeared to be either dying or killing everyone else. Something told me I'd been in this kind of situation before. I saw a hungry look in the eyes of the knife-wielder, and the one with the wrench was looking to his buddy. Seemingly, for some kind of 'go ahead.' From what I could remember, I knew how to handle this situation, somewhat.
 
        You get the first hit in. Always.
 
        Despite my injuries, I charged to the side. Put the column between me and the scavengers, and ran towards the shelves. They were surprised. I could hear a gasp, and the gravelly voice of the one with the wrench screech "GET 'IM!"
 
        The tool-benches lining the wall weren't well stocked. My hand blindly reached out, scrabbling for something, anything to fight with. I glanced behind me. Knife was circling around the column. Wrench was behind him, looking over his buddy's shoulder to glare at me. My hand clasped something in its grip, and Knife charged.
 
        He charged straight into the eight-inch screwdriver I'd pulled from the small assortment of tools. He had his knife out in front of him, but my arm was much longer, and the metal implement sunk right into his gut with an awful sound. He froze. Looked down. Looked surprised, that was for sure. I didn't waste any time. Lifted my boot up as high as I could, and kicked out, hard. Caught his waist, and sent him careening away from me, blood dripping from his pierced belly. The red liquid was running down my weapon, all over my gloves.
 
        Wrench seemed just as surprised as his buddy. But he seemed tougher, too. Knife hit the ground hard, yelping and hollering and trying to stop the bleeding, while Wrench grit his teeth and made a noise like a bull and came running right at me, the big piece of metal in his hands shining in the dim light.
 
        I didn't slow down. He came at me, I came at him, he swung that wrench hard, in a swiping motion meant to catch me in the ribs, and I went low enough to duck right underneath it. It hurt like hell, having to exert myself so fast in my condition, but it paid off. I wound up right behind Wrench. He was still recovering from the swing, still gaining his footing. Big weapons like that were no good against a spry guy with a bladed implement. Too slow. The screwdriver caught him in the lower back. Right where the spine meets the waist. Sunk down to the handle, no doubt peeked through his belly at the other end.
 
        Wrench made a noise, an awful wheezing sound, but I interrupted him. I spun around on my left foot, kicked with my right, and hit the sunken handle of the screwdriver with my sole. Hard. It knocked Wrench off his feet. His jaw crashed into the toolbenches with a cracking sound, and then he fell fully and settled there.
 
        Knife was staring. Staring hard. Watching his dead friend with blank eyes. The bleeding from his gut looked bad. It was seeping through his tight-knit fingers, despite their valiant effort to stop it. He made another, different noise as I picked up Wrench's wrench. A scared one. I wasn't exactly feeling merciful. What goes around comes around.
 
        He tried crawling away, but the wrench stopped him. I heaved it over my head, then brought it straight down. Like splitting a log with an axe. It crashed right into the center of Knife's chest. I heard ribs splitting inwards, compressing on his organs with a vengeance. His face got all screwed up with pain, and he looked like he was about to start howling. That is, he would have, if the wrench hadn't landed again, a split second later, right smack in the center of that pained expression of his. Knife's face caved in, just like that. The wrench embedded itself, sent the whole thing inwards, like smashing a melon.
 
        I breathed in, breathed out. Rolled my shoulders, caught my breath. Then I turned to look at the man on the column.
 
        He wasn't breathing.