Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer Page B

situation. Sometimes you ran. Sometimes you fought. You made the choice based on what was best for your survival, not what was best for your pride.
    â€œWe’ll make you pay,” Wilhelm said.
    Webb was okay with running if he had to. But running here would only delay what Fritz and Wilhelm really wanted, which was blood. Sooner or later, they’d force Webb to fight. No sense waiting and wondering and looking over his shoulder during the next week.
    As Webb stood, he palmed a rock about the size of a baseball.
    The Germans took another collective step, which was enough to convince Webb his guess was correct. They weren’t trying to scare him; they wanted to hurt him.
    He showed them the rock.
    â€œWe’re close enough,” Webb said, “that if I throw this, I’m not going to miss. And we’re close enough that one of you will be hurt really badly.”
    Webb didn’t feel anger like this very often. A couple of days earlier, he’d been ready to drive over Brent in his own truck. And once in high school, a bigger kid had tried pushing him around in the hallway, mocking him for the military haircut he had been forced to get when Elliott made him sign up for junior cadets. Without warning, Webb had viciously punched the kid in the stomach, then pulled him to the ground by his hair and knelt with his knee on the kid’s throat, promising to crush the kid’s windpipe if he messed with him again. Webb had been as surprised by his response as the bigger kid had been.
    It had definitely been an overreaction. Thinking about it later, Webb realized that the kid in the hallway had been a convenient scapegoat for his anger at his stepfather.
    Whatever the reason—and he didn’t spend too much time analyzing it—Webb had learned a couple of things. First, he was a lot tougher than he realized he was; he knew that which does not kill us makes us stronger was true. And second, responding with a tremendous overreaction made people think you were nuts, so they didn’t mess with you. It was something he’d learned subconsciously from Elliott. Choose your guitar over obedience to me, and your mother will pay the price.
    Webb had also learned from Elliott that a soft-voiced psycho was very intimidating.
    â€œAre you prepared to kill me?” Webb asked mildly. “Do you understand? Kill me? Because that means you will go to jail for a long time, understand?”
    â€œNot kill,” Wilhelm said quickly. “Just hurt.”
    â€œNo,” Webb said. “If you try anything, you better kill me. Otherwise, when you’re asleep, I’ll sneak into your tent and slit you open like that ptarmigan yesterday. You see, I don’t care if I go to jail. And I’ll be happy to kill you anytime. Because in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not normal.”
    He braced himself, ready to fire the rock into Fritz’s skull, but he held himself in control. Just barely.
    â€œSo ask yourself,” he said, looking from one to the other. He could hear Elliott’s voice echoing in his own memories as he spoke. “Am I bluffing? Or will I hit one of you so hard they’ll have to fly you to a hospital?”
    â€œNo bluff,” Wilhelm said, putting up his hands. “You leave us alone. We leave you alone.”
    â€œGood decision,” Webb said. He dropped the rock at his feet and smiled coldly as they backed away.
    He hated himself for that cold smile.

TWENTY-FOUR
    The storm hit hard halfway through the second day and caught them at Mile 152. Everyone threw on rain gear and kept slogging. What else was there to do? They made it to Mile 147 before George signaled they should stop for the night.
    Putting up tents in the rain with cold, soaked fingers was a pain. Webb didn’t complain though. He saw no point in it. Besides, he’d faced worse when he was actually living on the streets, before he’d figured out how to make enough