[ WP ] In a post-apocalyptic future , two desperate men fight each other over a bottle of water .

I used to think time could change a man. But it does n't, we are all who we are, the change is in our mask. The easier it is to live, the easier it is to act like you think you should, But a man that would kill you to save his own life is always that man; he just does n't know it until his life is threatened. 
 
 I used to be a therapist, not the `` sit down and tell me about your life'' kind, I was a physical therapist; I spent my 20's showing people they could get better. That's why I thought people could change; watching a man who's given up find that inner spark and keep moving forward, it makes you want to we can all become the person we need to be. But it's just not the truth. The man who overcame losing his hand would have over come losing both hands, his feet, his hearing, his vision, it would n't have mattered: he would have overcame. 
 
 And the man who gave up the minute he became a paraplegic, well, he would have given up to something much smaller. It's because deep down, under everything you tell yourself, you've already made your choice, already answered the big question, `` Am I a survivor?'' 
 
 All of this flashes through my mind for a fraction of a second as we stare at each other over the lifeless corpse between us. The fire pit, like the body, had long been dead, and neither of us could have told you for how long, or which happened first. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the bottles that lay next to the dead mans backpack. In the initial scramble, so many necessities were over looked, reliable fire starting materials, compasses, quality knives, and most important, durable bottles to store water. And those half dozen bottles sitting there were all Lifesaver Systems 4000UF's. The only bottle who's lack of a return policy was their promise it would last a lifetime. 
 
 I see his hands drifting, slowly, to his waist, while keeping his eyes on me. My knife, already in hand, perfectly balanced for my hands, I speak first. 
 
 `` Before you reach for that snub nose currently pointed at your cock, you should ask yourself two questions: You think you can grab it before I can throw my knife? and what are the odd's a snub nose will shoot straight at 30 feet?'' 
 
 His hands hesitate, feigning reconsideration, but I can see in his eyes, his jaw, that his mind is still set. `` No the question I have to ask myself is, `` Will my actions affect your's, or is your mind all ready made up?'' Because I think you're already calculating if I'm the kind of guy that will go down with a knife to the gut, or if you have to risk a more difficult and more lethal throw.'' 
 
 This man would have overcome a wheel chair. I shift my weight, ready to drop and roll should his revolver make an appearance. `` The way I see it, we can roll the dice, take a fifty-fifty chance that you are the faster shot, or we can pretend the bombs never dropped. For a minute pretend our world never changed, act with civility, and split the water bottles down the middle and go our separate ways. How do you want to do this?'' 
 
 I can see his mind working, what kind of man is he? A loaded question these days. Back when the world was still jogging in place and not a race for survival there were all kinds of people, but now the only people left are survivors, all that varies is how well that identity fits us. He begins raising his hands. 
 
 `` Okay, we can still be people. Your knife is already in hand, so here's what we will do; You will walk forward, take your three bottles and walk back. You will keep walking, until you're gone and no one is gon na have to die. Can we do this?'' 
 
 I remember how I used to fix the broken. How every one of their victories was mine too, how every wobbly, shaky step on a prosthetic leg's echo would whisper through the gym, a triumphant shout to the gods that they would not stay broken. 
 
 `` Yeah, we can do that. So let's stay calm, I'm going to walk to him now.'' I begin taking my slow, shaky steps toward the body, toward the bottles, adrenalin already pumping. I can tell that this is new to him, he's getting edgy now. `` Hey man, everything's gon na be okay'' My words seem to only increase his jitteriness; his mind begins to become hyper-vigilant. Eye's darting around, behind me, next to me, in front of me, to the bottles, the body, the woods around us. 
 
 `` Hey man, it's all good. HEY! eyes here! On me. I'm the one you need to worry about.'' His panic becomes ever more visible. 
 
 `` What does that mean?!? You got buddies out there? Is that it? you gon na have them jump me as you leave?'' His hands start to fall to his waist again. 
 
 `` Hands up! Eye's here! No one else is here, it's just us, you and me. We made a deal, remember? Three for me, three for you. Do n't fuck up what could have been just fine.'' 
 
 I'm at the body now, bottles almost in my reach. `` I'm right here, look at me. I'm not gon na do anything, I'm picking them up now.'' 15 feet away, I can smell his sweat from here. `` Look, I have my three, no one else is here, this is all almost over, I just need you to-'' My words are cut off by an owl's hoot from no further then 30 feet away. 
 
 His head spins toward the noise as his hands rush for his snub nose, `` I fucking knew there was someone else'' He tries to shout, but only manages, `` I fuck-'' as my knife finds his throat; a much easier throw from fifteen feet. He looks down at the knife sticking out from the base of his throat, less then half and inch above his collar bone and dead center. 
 
 `` Oh shit'' is all he can say as he crumples to the ground and I collect my bottles and search the rest of the now two body's gear. 
 
 I used to think people changed, but they do n't. Eight years ago if you'd have asked me if I'd have killed a man for a bottle, I would have said `` no.'' Four years ago I'd have asked you, `` how thirsty am I?'' But today I know that the years do n't matter, the question I would have always asked myself is, `` do I want the bottle?'' People do n't change, the only thing that changes is if the world let's us be true to ourselves, to who we are. 
 
 And who am I? 
 
 I crouch down, lighting the crummy camp stove sitting next to the bottles and cut a juicy looking hunk of meat from the more recently deceased body, tossing it into a pan over the flame. 
 
 I'm a survivor. 

