By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter 10

My breath came in ragged gasps as I half-carried, half-dragged Viktor through the gnarled roots and tangled branches of the dense forest. He was barely conscious, his weight heavy against my shoulder. His once-mighty frame was so frail from starvation and dehydration, his steps sluggish.

“Viktor,” I whispered urgently, shifting my grip to keep him upright. He was too weak to continue standing on his own.

“You have to keep going.”

Viktor groaned, his head lolling to the side.

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I have nothing left.”

My grip tightened. “That’s not true. You always told me to find the strength inside myself. Now it’s your turn.”

With a weak chuckle, Viktor nodded. “Damn, throwing my own words back at me.  I taught you too well.”  He said nothing more, but I could feel the shift in him — the stubborn spark of willpower that had once made Viktor the strongest man I had ever known.

He forced himself to stand on both feet, leaning heavily against me.

We pressed on.

We weaved through the knotted roots and overgrown brush. Every crack of a branch or rustle in the distance made my heart pound. I glanced behind us constantly, fearing the bikers would be on our trail. But the only thing that mattered was getting Viktor to safety.

After what felt like an eternity, the trees began to thin, and the rough dirt under our feet gave way to solid pavement. A stretch of roadway lay ahead, dark and empty. I hesitated, knowing the open road made us vulnerable. Walking out in the open was a risk, but the forest was becoming too much for Viktor. He needed solid ground, a straight path.  We had no choice. With one arm still wrapped around Viktor’s waist, I helped him onto the pavement, he staggered but was determined. His feet scuffed against the asphalt as we walked, each step agony for him.

We kept on in silence. I strained my ears for the sound of approaching engines, but all I could hear was the crunch of our footsteps, our ragged breathing, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl.

Then, far down the road, headlights appeared, cutting through the darkness.

I froze, heart hammering. The lights in the distance were growing brighter. Was it the gang?

My grip on Viktor tightened. “Stay low,” I whispered as I shoved Viktor into the bushes beside the road, and crouched low myself, my eyes locked on the approaching lights as they grew closer.  I braced myself.  If it was the bikers, we were finished.

The sound of tires crunching gravel filled the air.

Then I saw it — not choppers, but a battered blue pickup. My heart leapt.

With newfound energy, I stepped into the road, waving my arms frantically. The truck screeched to a stop, dust billowing up around it. The driver leaned out of the window, his expression twisting in shock.

“Wagon Boy? Is that you?  What the hell happened to you guys?”

My lips parted in disbelief. “Jacob?”

The roustabout climbed out, eyes scanning the two of us. His gaze landed on Viktor, and his brows knit together in concern. “Damn, you look like hell.”

I exhaled a breath of relief. “We need a ride.”

Jacob nodded, already opening the truck door. “Get in.”

As I helped Viktor into the truck, Jacob shot me another look. “And what happened to your hair?”

I ran a hand over my shaved scalp. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. “Long story.”

Jacob shook his head with a chuckle and threw the truck into gear. “You two always did have the weirdest luck.”

The truck rumbled down the road, carrying us away from the ordeal.

***

The rhythmic clang of metal plates, the deep grunts of men pushing their limits, and the scent of sweat, leather, and iron fills the air. The gym is alive with energy, bodies in motion, wrists wrapped in lifting straps, belts cinched tight around waists.

In the center of it all, Viktor stands tall, clad in a T-shirt that reads HEAD TRAINER across his broad chest. His strength had returned, his muscles once again carved from more years of hard work. He moves between lifters, adjusting their form, offering words of encouragement, commanding respect without even trying.

At the front desk, I lean against the counter, watching it all unfold. My head remains a slick chrome dome — my choice now. Funny to think how much I hated it when the bikers first shaved me, but now I think it suits me.  I touch the gold chain that has never been off my neck, and scratch at the new stubble growing along my jaw, a grin plays on my lips.

Above the entrance, a bold sign hangs for all to see:

STRONGMAN BROTHERS’ GYM

My Training Collar hangs from a nail next to this sign, a private symbol between us.

I glanced over at Viktor, who catches my eye and gives me a nod.

We have survived. We have built something new.

And we have done it together.

The End

Metal would like to thank the author, Peter B. and his assistant, Art Intelli, for the story and for the images!