He was dead, and he knew it. 

Around the time they kicked in his ribs, he tuned out the beating. If you been on the receiving end of enough punishment, you know to tune out the small stuff. Eyes, nose, teeth, bones... they're gonna take all that from you. You just gotta hold tight to that little piece in the centre. That bit, they can't take away. 

He was vaguely aware that his wheels were burning, somewhere off to his left. His home. Everything he owned, save the shit they'd scavv'd, or the bits that lay strewn over the ground nearby. They'd pulled off his boots... fished through his pockets. He thought of the old, torn polaroid stuck in the dash, pictured it burning, melting. He rolled onto his stomach, started dragging himself toward the ditch, away from whatever they had in store for him. Someone grabbed him by the ankle, hauled him in a different direction. His eyes were so swollen, he couldn't tell where, or why. 

Why. There was no 'why.' There was never a reason. Kill or be killed. Survive. It was reason enough. Take the shit you can from the guy who's weaker, or unlucky. He smelled the man long before he was flipped over and straddled. Could hear the unmistakable sound of steel leaving an oiled sheath. Smelled copper, and felt the cold, putrid spittle drip from the man's mouth. But he'd brought a knife to a gunfight. The tiny derringer slid into his grasp from its nook up his sleeve, and he aimed it by feel. When it went off, it left a neat hole in the man's neck, and he slumped over, hot blood jetting over the other man's countenance. Blessed unconsciousness followed... 

[@Nallore]