We Live Inside You (10 page)

Jackson knew he was bleeding from a deep gash over his right eyebrow, but the wound seemed to be gumming shut, and he’d washed the blood out of his eye at a public water fountain.

I think I shattered that guy’s jaw.

The man was about two blocks east of Jackson now, likely still lying in the pool of blood that had been spreading wide under his splayed face.

He had it coming. Try to cut me with a fucking broken bottle…he’s lucky I didn’t kill him.

“You should have killed that guy, Jackson.”

Kane had found him.

“I think he’ll die, but you could have made sure.”

Kane had dived all the way into the big night. His wife-beater was Pollacked with blood spatter in varying degrees of dryness. Jackson thought he could see a glint of white bone where Kane’s knuckles had split open, but it may have just been the weird arc-sodium light from above. The black S (for Strength, he’d said) on Kane’s forehead was now smeared with sweat from exertion.

“You take care of that gash, Jackson?”

Jackson nodded in the affirmative.

“Good. We have to keep moving. Frank said that if we stick to our small groups and stay in motion it’ll take them way longer to pin down what’s going on.”

“I know what he fucking said, Kane.”

“I know. Just making sure that bummy bar fucker didn’t cut loose your brain with that busted bottle. Being all stoked on steroids doesn’t make you Superman.”

Shit, he knows.

How does he know? Does he really know? Don’t let this escalate.

“Yeah, right, man. I’m all juiced up. Whatever.”

“Jackson, I’ve sparred with you. I’ve been in the group shower with you at the gym. And I’m not as fucking stupid as you think. Your arms are big like mine, but they feel puffy. You’ve got a nasty patch of back zits going. You put on 20 pounds in two months.”

“Hey, I’ve been working my ass off, just like…”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re going to lie to me? To
me
?”

Kane had him pegged. This was a no-graceful-way-out scenario. Best he could do was damage control and be ready if Kane charged.

I’m big now. Maybe I can take him.

“Okay. Yeah, I’ve been cycling. I wanted to be ready. I was so stressed out about tonight and I needed to be sure I could hold my own. I know it’s not
pure
like Frank wants it to be, but…”

“Excuses. You know who you sound like right now? Kill it, man.”

“Does Frank know?”

“No, but he will if you don’t end it right now. Things are only going to get rougher after tonight, and you need to be stronger than that. Not in your body, in your mind.”

Jackson guessed he might have felt relief at hearing this, were his system not so awash in the chemical stress-bath this night had become.

“Alright, man. I swear. I fucking swear on everything—no more of that shit.”

This is another chance. I’ll show Kane I mean it. I’ll prove I’m an EndLiner. The next asshole that gets in my way is going to find out what kind of a man I am.

“Okay, then,” Kane said, “let’s keep moving.”

Jackson agreed. Staying in motion kept your blood pumping. It would keep the thoughts about Jackson’s lies on low/conflict on high.

The beast who struggles most survives, and all that.

Besides, if we slow down we’ll have time to think about what’s going on. About the fact that we’re running around town assaulting people at random. Because Frank said to.

And because it feels good. No, great. It feels great.

Some part of Jackson’s mind felt guilt at this last thought, but he started to walk with Kane and let the feeling fade in the face of motion. The air across his skin felt warm, almost a caress over his throbbing forehead slash. He’d ditched his pillowcase back at the first rumble, as had Kane, and he felt streamlined by their forward inertia. Jackson’s weapon of choice, a five pound barbell he’d planned to hold in his fist, had proven unwieldy. Kane still had a small, steel-rod enforced bat with the word “Grendel” written on the side.

They’d grown up in this town, and now Jackson felt they were wandering its streets like a Death Squad. The idea gave every second a bizarre power.

“Kane, we’re changing everything tonight.”

“I know, man! It’s fucking awesome! I’m so glad we’re on this squad and didn’t get stuck with the grocery store run. Maybe those guys will catch up later tonight.”

On the short walk from the clearing to downtown Jackson and Kane had managed to listen in on a few mission details. Rumors or not, neither had any idea. Supposedly there was a crew headed up to the reservoir. Frank had instructed everyone to stock up bottled water the week prior, so Jackson guessed this detail might be true. Another crew was likely headed to the warehouse-sized grocery store on Berger to inject the butcher shop’s meat with some homegrown bacterial culture. A third crew was headed to the
real
pillow fight at the Sternwheeler Mall parking lot that Frank had set-up as a decoy. They would watch the cops there and walkie-talkie out to Frank when the lawmen were made aware of the more serious rumbles that were being launched elsewhere.

Jackson pictured the cops there at Sternwheeler, laughing, watching the feathers fly, thinking, “Man, kids these days…” while downtown had gone slaughterhouse.

He actually hoped they’d catch on sooner than later. Part of him wanted an excuse for their crew to slip back into the shadows, and part of him just really wanted to beat up a fucking cop.

The faster he walked with Kane, the more the latter felt like the truth. They walked like giants. They were lions/Kodiak bears/sharks that never slept. And this town was theirs until someone else could prove otherwise.

The Black Rabbit was a dive bar on the southernmost tip of downtown.

It was here that Frank had begun his series of public executions.

The public, of course, had no idea that this was to be the case. Nor did Jackson until he and Kane approached and saw Frank bring the mallet down.

The man in the brown corduroy jacket let out a scream that squelched on impact. Metal met skull and kept moving, bone went smashed-pumpkin wide and slid curbside on brain. The man’s body spasmed until Frank brought the mallet crushing down again, this time at the neck. A woman in a red denim skirt and cowgirl top screamed out, “Harold!” and two EndLiners held her back, one seizing the opportunity to score a fist full of tit.

Frank lifted his head from his work, smiled, and shouted out, “NEXT?” He used one thick leg to roll what used to be Harold to one side, clearing a space in his impromptu killing floor for whoever else was to be randomly doomed.

Two EndLiners Jackson knew by their nicknames, Chud and Scam, walked forward with another man from the belly of The Black Rabbit. Jackson guessed that there was a whole crew in there, that EndLiners had taken the place over. They’d likely have secured whatever firearm the owners had behind the counter.

And Harold, poor brain-panned Harold, must have tried to oppose them.

This new guy, he was
definitely
an obstacle to Frank’s game-plan. Morbidly obese, three chins deep, barely contained by a too-small Schlitz t-shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans wrapped around surprisingly skinny legs.

“Kneel down,” Frank commanded. Jackson edged closer, as if his proximity would reveal to him whether or not this was real.

This can’t be happening, right? This is happening. I think it is…

The fat man hocked a snot-ball at Frank that hit his left forearm. Frank slopped it off with his right hand and stepped closer to his captive.

“I like that spirit, man. Where the fuck was that when you sold your soul to the Yumm Corporation for ten cent tacos? It’s too late for you.”

The man tried to throw his girth around but Chud and Scam weighed as much in pure muscle. The big guy quickly recognized that and slumped.

“That’s what I thought,” Frank said. Then he brought down the fist-sized steel end of the mallet. It didn’t kill the man but was enough to make him lose his legs. Chud and Scam dropped the body and let Frank finish his work.

Jackson’s heart beat faster. His breath had doubled and he couldn’t tell if he was smiling or grimacing.

Am I enjoying this? Is it just the Mercabol?

Frank took two more decisive swings at the fat man’s head, and then—almost as if he hadn’t been involved in the murder that was bleeding out below him—he was holding his walkie talkie up to his head and listening intently.

He leaned over to Chud and whispered something. Cops must be on their way.

Frank had said he had a plan for dealing with law enforcement, but not one that allowed for direct combat. At least not yet.

“Okay, folks, only time for one more.” Most of the “folks” watching Frank were EndLiners, although a few were bar rats who’d edged towards the front but couldn’t muster up the guts to take any action.

Chud and Scam were back quickly.

The man they held was small, and curled in on himself. He wore a blue dress shirt tucked in to a pair of khakis. Jackson noticed one side of the collar was buttoned down while the other was loose.

Why would I notice that at a time like this?

The man already looked as if he was resigned to death. He could barely keep his feet under him. Had he been crying?

Again, a woman rushed out after him, but she was quickly restrained by a few of the gathered EndLiners. She had a short, permed haircut and a pair of round wire rim glasses on. And she looked furious.

Her face was bright red. The veins at her neck bulged in a way Jackson found admirable. She screamed, “Don’t you hurt him! What the fuck do you think…”

Scam backhanded her and she would have dropped to the ground unconscious had Frank’s men not been holding her.

The captured man lifted his head. “No, Rhonda!”

Help help me, Rhonda…

Jackson almost had time to laugh at his own joke.

Wait, Rhonda?

Jackson looked at the man.

Dad?

The man looked at Jackson.

“Dad?
DAD
?”

Frank was lifting his mallet as if he hadn’t noticed the development.

“Frank!”

“What?” His voice rolled out in a low monotone. No inflection. Nothing human about it. And Jackson guessed that gave Frank great pleasure.

“That’s my dad.”

“So what? We found him here, drunk off his ass. He’s just another one of them. The weak. The failed. The wasted. Should he live because you’re sweet on him?”

They were all watching him. His brothers-in-arms were around him now, their mania disturbed, eager to continue their takeover, waiting for the next kick, the next snuff. Even Kane was twitching to his left, “Grendel” in hand, his face twisted and un-readable.

Shit. I’m alone here.

Jackson eyed his father, the man who had seen fit to bring him into the world despite the fact that he’d always love his boozy oblivion more. He felt the grunting breath of the animal tribe he was running with, could smell them around him.

There was no opposing them. He could give them a hell of a fight, but turning on them now probably meant death for his dad
and
himself.

Why is the old bastard here anyway? What happened to Pinebrook?

Is this man worth dying for? Dying with?

Who the fuck is he?

Jackson looked his father in the eyes and said a single word.

“Rehab?”

The old man shook his head from left to right as his eyes drifted to the ground. His voice came out small from between his hunched shoulders.

“I just wanted you to pick up the phone. I just wanted to talk to you, bud. I’m sorry. I…”

Jackson cut the old man short by stepping forward and planting a kiss on his forehead.

Then he stepped back and things felt still. None of them knew how to react. The scenario didn’t fit into the new code they’d chosen.

His father was shaking, his face hot-red and streaked in new tears.

Frank raised the mallet again, although Jackson didn’t know whether the next blow was intended for him or his father. Jackson sensed Kane at his side, saw his fist tight around “Grendel”, ready to swing.

None of these things mattered. Jackson had said his goodbye to this man.

All that was left now was survival.

Jackson threw all his weight, from the legs up, into his right arm. His fist connected with the top of his dad’s low-slung head causing Jackson and his father to topple in unison and from that moment there were no more EndLiners and no more lies and Jackson couldn’t blame the Mercabol for this because the fury he fell into ran deeper and truer than any chemical reaction. His fists clenched like they had at his mother’s funeral where his father had asked for a chair at graveside because he was too drunk to stand any longer and now Jackson clasped his hands together and swung them down on his father’s head.

If there was a face that resembled Jackson’s under all that blood, it was disappearing.

Jackson’s arms grew tired. His rage began to subside. A soft gurgle pushed its way from his father’s throat.

He was never me.

Never me.

But maybe he loved me. Maybe…

It doesn’t matter.

Don’t think. Finish it.

Jackson could tell that the men he’d been with were running away because Rhonda was trying to pull him off and saying something about the cops and it became obvious to him that he was the only one who could see he was saving the man they called his father from a slow and terrible death to be suffered at the foot of sadness—this immense sadness that the man had fallen in love with and then cultivated and tended to like a rare and exotic flower.

And so Jackson’s fists fell again, sure and steady, the echoes of his final mercy sounding long into the night, saving them both from the burden of being human.