The Mafia Trilogy (60 page)

Blows rained down on his head, but he knew unless they knocked him out, he wouldn’t let go of Scythe’s flesh. He couldn’t or it was over.

Scythe got his other hand on top of Darwin’s head and brought his fingers down to the top of Darwin’s eyes. Then he pushed inward. Darwin wanted to scream at the pain, but his mouth would open if he did. Instead, he moaned louder, a roar coming out of his throat.

Scythe’s fingers dug deeper. The pain grew in intensity. It was enough that Darwin had to let his mouth go and back away from the pressure on his eyes.

When he did, he wrapped a hand around the Scythe’s neck and pulled down as hard as he could, ramming Scythe’s forehead onto the edge of the toilet bowl.

Scythe’s skin split and blood shot out in a small torrent. He tried to pull away, but Darwin yanked again, driving Scythe’s forehead into the bowl over and over until Scythe crumpled to the floor on the other side of the bowl.

The whole time, the other man jumped from foot to foot, watching the fight over Scythe’s shoulder, no doubt wondering how to help in the confined space.

Darwin reached inside the toilet and yanked his sopping wet jeans out of the hole.

“You’re next, asshole,” he said as he got to his feet, his eyes having trouble focusing after all the pressure on them.

The man leveled the gun at Darwin’s face. “Stay where you are.”

“What, you’re going to shoot me? When Yuri gets home he will cut you up for killing his bait. No, I don’t think you’re going to shoot me. We fight.”

The man turned and ran out of the prison. He got to the wire grid and grabbed the fob to push the button for the glass door to close it. Darwin bolted after him as the door began to shut, his wet jeans clung tightly in his hand. He slipped out in time and dove at the man, knocking into him like he was tackling the quarterback.

They hit the floor and rolled. The gun was lost under the cart.

Darwin screamed like a warrior fighting ten men as he pummeled the man as hard and as fast as he could, pain shooting through his back like it was on fire. The man fought back, landing a few punches and two solid kicks that knocked the wind out of Darwin.

One solid knee connected with Darwin’s solar plexus. His lungs emptied and he rolled into a ball, trying to catch his breath. The man stood up, and a moment later the room hissed with a buzzing sound.

He turned the wire grid on.

“You are going to fry for what you’ve done.” The man sounded like he had a lisp as he spoke through broken teeth.

He stepped up to Darwin and kicked him in the back. Darwin yelped, hoping he wouldn’t pass out. If he did, he was dead. The room spun, his eyelids fluttered.

Blood seeped from sections of skin pulled back over his knuckles where they had made contact with the man’s teeth.

Darwin brought his fist up to his mouth, closed his eyes, and bit down on the open wound. It hurt so bad he immediately yanked his fist out but he was fully awake again.

The wet jeans were beside him. He grabbed them and rubbed his face in the cooled water that seeped out.

He rolled to his hands and knees, holding the wet jeans. The room buzzed with electricity.

“Good, get up,” the man yelled. “We need to finish this.”

Darwin brought his feet under him. The man stood between him and the wire grid. Once Darwin was fully standing, the man reached out to grab him. Darwin tossed the soaked jeans at the man’s face. The pant legs wrapped around the man’s shoulders before he could stop them.

The second Darwin tossed the jeans, ignoring the searing pain in his back, he ran at the man. He used both hands to shove the man toward the grid and then jumped out of the way, rolling to a dry part of the floor.

The man fell backwards, the wet jeans still wrapped around his neck, and landed on the lower half of the live-wire grid.

It sizzled and crackled upon contact, the lights above Darwin in the basement dimming.

The man screamed and vibrated violently as he fried. Smoke oozed off his skin. A nasty odor hit Darwin’s nostrils.

Sparks flew from the small box on the table. Then it was over as fast as it had started. The grid shut off and the lights in the basement normalized.

The man slipped off the grid and dropped to the floor, smoke coming off him.

“Holy shit!” Darwin shouted. “How high did you have that thing? Are you fucking crazy?”

He crawled away backwards until he could see inside the room where Scythe had pulled the grid from. Two tables were littered with boxes and tools. The back wall had shelves covered in canning jars. He couldn’t tell what food was in the jars from where he was but it looked like peaches and jams. There was an array of colors—oranges, tans, reds and blacks.

This must be where Yuri’s wife stores her foodstuffs and where Yuri stores his tools of torture. How nice.

He lay on the cement floor, too sore to stand just yet. There could be more men upstairs, and he was in no mood to fight anyone else just yet.

He closed his eyes to rest a moment and catch his breath.

Then something hit him so hard he felt as if his face broke. Before he could open his eyes, he was hit again.

He brought his hands up to protect his face and tried to roll into a ball, but it was no use. He got hit three more times before he saw who was hitting him.

Scythe stood over him, blood covering his face from the wound the toilet bowl gave him. His eyes were wide, his mouth a smile.

“Hello, Darwin.”

“Hey.”

“You are no longer live bait.”

“No?”

Scythe shook his head, blood falling from his chin. “You are dead. Yuri will understand. He underestimated your will to live.”

“Everyone seems to do that. Even you.”

The pain in his cheeks made him talk as if his mouth was paralyzed.

“You’re right. Even me.” Scythe brought a gun up. “Goodbye, Darwin.”

“Wait,” Darwin raised both hands. “Aren’t you The Scythe?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Then why the gun? Where’s your scythe? If this was a movie, wouldn’t you have to kill me with your scythe?”

“This isn’t a movie and I will not leave you alone long enough to go and get my scythe.” He clicked something on the gun. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Darwin lifted his foot hard and fast, connecting with Scythe’s crotch. As Scythe bent over, Darwin rolled into the cold room as fast as he could.

The gun went off, the bullet chipping the cement beside his head. It went off again. A searing pain ran through his calf muscle. He rolled a few more times in case another bullet was headed his way, and he bumped into the wall under the canned food shelves.

Scythe filled the doorway, his broad shoulders almost touching the door frame on each side. One hand held his crotch and the other, the gun.

“I like the fight you have in you,” Scythe said.

Darwin looked around for a weapon. Nothing was close but the canning jars. He reached above his head and snatched one off the shelf.

Peaches.

“What are you going to do with that?” Scythe asked. “Feed me to death?”

Darwin tossed the jar high in the air. It landed on the cement floor between him and the door where Scythe stood. He grabbed another, then another, and lobbed them at Scythe. Each one broke, spreading peaches across the floor.

“Stop,” Scythe yelled. He raised the gun, but his hand shook. “Stop it.”

Darwin got on his knees and reached to a higher shelf.

Jams.

He threw them harder at the doorway, closer to Scythe’s feet.

The gun fired. Darwin ducked. It fired again. A jar shattered beside Darwin’s head.

Holy shit.

He threw a smaller jar of pickles right at Scythe. It hit the doorframe beside him and shattered, spewing green pickles and pickle juice all over Scythe’s chest and face.

Scythe fired his gun one more time and then dropped it. The last bullet broke one of the shelf supports an inch above Darwin’s face. A dozen jars dropped, a couple of them hitting Darwin, the rest falling harmlessly beside him, except two jars that broke when they hit the wall. They covered Darwin’s chest and stomach in foodstuffs.

He dropped to his butt. Peach juice and chunks of red jam filled the room with an intense strawberry smell.

Scythe had retreated from the door, retching around the corner.

Then Darwin remembered what Yuri had said about The Scythe.

Half the time he ends up in the hospital on an IV if he eats the wrong thing. Scy worked himself up so much about food that he can’t even be near it much anymore. He juices.

He’d had a stomach injury. That’s why he wasn’t at the restaurant that day.

Still in socks and underwear, Darwin got to his feet. He couldn’t believe a body could be so wracked with pain. His back screamed, his face ached and he was afraid to look at the damage to his hands after all the abuse he’d rained down on them, even though his vision was clearing.

On the verge of exhaustion, his stamina was all but gone. But he had no choice. Fall asleep here and never wake up, or get out of the house and sleep away from this mad world.

In his sock feet, he tried to step around the shards of glass, but picked a couple up on the way to the door. All he could smell was the jam dripping off this chest and belly. Peaches clung to his white underwear, making the blood stains look like an abstract collage of colors that had been painted on him.

Scythe was on the floor near the stairs, passed out, vomit covering his chin and neck, clumps of it resting on his chest. It was a liquid green mess.

Darwin leaned against the wall. His legs threatened to not support him.

I have to get out of here.

He picked up the gun and hobbled over to Scythe. On his way past the wire grid he realized that soaking his jeans in the toilet had helped him fry the man to the grid. It was one thing to be electrocuted—but quite something else to be electrocuted with sopping wet denim wrapped around your neck.
 

After checking the safety on the weapon, Darwin aimed it at Scythe’s forehead from one foot away.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. He pulled again. Nothing.

That’s why Scythe dropped it.

There was no energy left in him to search for more bullets. If he didn’t leave now, he would pass out.

The stairs were like walking up the side of a mountain. He collected himself at the top, breathed in deep and waited for his heartbeat to calm.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. Both ways, the house was empty.

Darwin put one foot in front of the other and walked to the front door of the house, leaving bloody footsteps behind him from the glass wounds. Chunks of peaches and jams slipped off his body and mixed with the blood.

He opened the door and the sun hit his skin, warming him. He walked outside and started across the grass.

Yuri’s house was on the end of a cul de sac with no other houses on either side. It was like he bought the whole block and then just had his house built there.

Someone yelled behind him. Darwin turned on his heels and almost lost his balance. He couldn’t take anymore.

Behind Yuri’s house was an expanse of green.

A golf course.

The man who had yelled slapped another’s hand in the air and dropped his driver in the bag on the back of a golf cart.

The other man stepped up to the tee, took two practice swings, and then tried to murder the ball. He cursed and slammed his club into the ground at his feet.

Darwin started toward them. He raised a hand and tried to shout.

The men dropped into their cart and sped off.

Darwin made it to the edge of the golf course grounds and started for the tee box. He stumbled halfway there, fell to his hands, and dropped to his knees. He couldn’t walk any farther, so he crawled. With each lift of his knee, and each bit he crawled, he expected to pass out.

The tee box marker came into view below him.

He stopped, fell to his side and rolled onto his back. The sun warmed his thighs, his stomach, his face. The scent of the wet peach and jam covering his body filled the air. He breathed it in and thought about Rosina.

A golf cart engine revved from somewhere to his left.

“Hey! You okay?” a man shouted.

Darwin didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to talk.

“Hey?” the man asked, louder.

Sleep felt wonderful. The idea of going under for a couple of days was what Darwin needed.