Two others, back-to-back, fumbled to raise their weapons, panic flashing across their faces. But their movements were slow, sloppy, dulled by alcohol. Their swings were clumsy, uncoordinated.
They didn't stand a chance.
Hands grabbed them from behind. One was slammed face-first into the ground, teeth clicking hard enough to draw blood. The other was driven down onto his knees, a forearm locking across his throat until his weapon fell from numb fingers.
Someone kicked it away.
One man tried to run.
He made it three steps before crashing down, tackled from the side, his head bouncing against the dirt. He didn't get back up.
In seconds, the laughter was gone.
Bottles rolled across the ground.
Weapons lay scattered, kicked out of reach.
Bodies were pinned, arms twisted behind backs, knees forced into spines. The men groaned, cursed, tried to fight, but their strength was gone, replaced by fear and pain.
The field was silent again.
