The Last Defense

The dust hung thick.

Marcus wiped his brow.
The sun burned high. No shade. No breeze.
Stone walls rose around them—cracked, stained, ancient.

The pit reeked of sweat, blood, and something older. Something that remembered screams.

Three lions circled. Lean. Quiet. Watching.
No roars. Just patience.

He gripped his blade. Shield high.
Brothers on either side—no names, just breath and grit.
One limped. Another bled.
Nobody fell.

The first lion lunged. Marcus stepped forward, met it with his shield.
Bone-rattling thud. Dust and spit flew.
The beast backed off, tail lashing like a whip.

Another came low. His brother jabbed—missed, but close.
The third crept behind. Marcus turned. Steel flashed.
A bluff. They scattered.

Their formation tightened.
No words. Just breathing.
Claws on stone.

Sweat slid down his spine.
Arms burned. Shield splitting.
Sword heavier by the second.

They wouldn’t win.
But they wouldn’t fall easy.

Then—

“Put the tongs down!”

The world cracked.

Marcus blinked.

Foil tray lid in one hand—bent like a busted shield.
Grill tongs in the other, dripping burger juice.
Smoke billowed—burgers charred like meteorites, hot dogs bubbling like lava tubes.

A squirrel tore across the lawn, dragging a full hot dog.
The bun flopped behind it like a wounded flag.

Friends stood nearby, paper plates in hand.
One looked concerned. One looked amused.

A kid clutched his mom’s leg. “Is he okay?”

His wife approached, potato salad in hand.
Expression flat. Fork raised like a warning. “You’re scaring the children.”

Marcus tugged the flimsy chef’s hat off and plopped it onto the nearest kid.

“Congratulations—grill captain. Don’t let anything burn.”

He kept the tongs, twirling them like a short sword.

“Wish me luck,” he said, and sprinted after the squirrel.