Mother didn’t duck. He just lowered his head and the glass smashed harmlessly on the front of his helmet. I needed to get one of those things. He stepped forward, raising his fist and bringing it straight down on top of my head like a hammer blow. It rattled my teeth and compressed the bones in my spine. Great, now I’d be another inch shorter than him. I saw stars and heard little cartoon birds tweeting around my head. Before I recovered, Mother lunged forward again and the front of his helmet connected with my forehead. Things started to go dark and I felt my knees buckling.
“You need to fight back!” I heard a voice say. Maybe it was Harmony. Or the voice of my long-dead mentor. It had a strange echoey quality. I blinked and uncrossed my eyes. Mother was watching me to see if I’d go down. I wanted to. But I didn’t think Harmony would be impressed by that. I willed myself to stay upright.
I shook my head to clear it. I reached for the last mug of beer on the tray. I drank it down and tossed the glass straight up into the air. Mother’s eyes followed it and I used this moment of distraction to swing a fist towards his jaw. It connected solidly. And appeared to have absolutely no effect. Not on him at least. The bones in my hand felt like they’d been crushed.
Mother’s fist came up and slammed under my chin, lifting me off my feet and throwing me backwards onto the table in our booth.
Harmony looked down at me, genuine concern on her face.
“It’s all right,” I said, “I’ve got this. I’m just wearing him down.”
She was no more convinced by this than I was. She tried to push my gun into my hands, but I batted it away.
Mother advanced, clawed hands stretched out in front of him. I swung my leg round in a wide arc and caught him in the jaw with the heel of my boot. He staggered backwards. As I struggled to my feet, he darted forwards and grabbed the front of my shirt. I don’t think he wanted to help me up. He lifted me and I sailed through the air like an ungainly low-budget superhero.
I barely had a chance to cover my face with my arms before I smashed into the glass shelves and the mirror behind the bar. As if I needed another seven years of bad luck. I seemed to hang there for a few seconds before the shelves collapsed and I fell. An overwhelming cocktail of odours wafted up from the smashed liquor bottles. I crashed to the floor behind the bar. The alcohol stung a dozen tiny cuts in my skin – but at least they wouldn’t become infected.
I stood and shook off the shards of glass. They tinkled to the ground and crunched underfoot when I moved. I tried to climb back over the bar but Mother grabbed hold of me and shoved me. I slid along the length of the bar, the front of my shirt mopping up whatever had been spilt there. As I passed, a couple of people lifted their plates of food and drinks out of the way. I sailed off the end of the bar and landed in a heap not far from the booth where the two policemen sat. I looked up at them.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” I asked, getting to my knees.
“Nope,” the Marshal said. “That feller seems to be doing just fine on his own.”
He was right. Mother stomped towards me in his big biker boots. I got to my feet, looking around for something I could use as a weapon. All I saw was the handle of a broom leaning against the wall behind the bar. I reached for it. It was heavier than I’d expected and oddly balanced. Not a broom. A wet stringy mop that had been standing in a bucket of water. It reeked of disinfectant. I swung it and jabbed the soggy end into Mother’ face. Caught off-guard he staggered backwards. I pressed my advantage, thrusting the mop forward again and again, driving him back along the length of the room. Mother roared, trying to swipe the mop away and blinking the dirty water from his eyes. I shoved the soaking mop towards his open mouth. It didn’t quite fit in there. But some of the filthy water must have got inside because he began choking and retching. He threw up his arms to protect his face. I jabbed the mop towards his scronies. It left a wet patch that made it look like he’d swazzed himself.
Mother ducked his head and ran towards me. He swiped the mop aside and aimed the top of his metal helmet at my stomach. It came at me like a battering ram. I sidestepped at the last minute and the helmet smacked into the wall, creating a dent and cracking the plaster. He staggered, stunned for a moment by the impact.
I lowered the mop and stamped down on the handle, breaking the stringy mop head off. Now I had a stick to beat him with. I whacked it down on top of his helmet several times, hoping to disorient him further.
Mother reached up and grabbed the stick. Before I knew what was happening, he jerked hard on it and pulled me towards him. He wrapped his massive arms around my torso in a bearhug – and began to squeeze.
I threw my head forwards and it connected with his nose.
“Badtard!” he shouted. But he loosened his grip enough for me to squirm around and get my back to him. I tried to remember what I’d been taught years ago in a martial arts class. How do you tackle a bigger opponent? It had something to do with getting down and putting your shoulder in there, using your opponent’s own weight against him. Or something. I bent my knees and tried to get him up on my back so I could throw him. I may as well have tried to lift the truck. He didn’t move. I shifted position and tried again. Nothing doing.
Mother’s arms tightened around me again and he lifted me off my feet – as if to say ‘this is how it’s done.’ He threw me. Again.
If he’d thrown me towards the plate glass in the big front window I’d have been splattered against it like a bug on a windshield. That stuff doesn’t shatter like they show you in the movies. Luckily – and I use that term loosely – I was flying in slow motion towards one of the smaller side windows. The little panes of glass and the wooden frame cracked under the impact and flew outwards into the street. And so did I.
I put my arms up to shield my face and when I hit the ground I rolled to try and absorb some of the impact. Glass crunched under me.
I lay looking up at clear blue sky, breathing heavily, and wondering how bad the damage was. More scratches for sure but it didn’t feel like blood was actually flowing.
Crunching of big boots on glass. Mother bent and looked into my face. “Are you dead?”
“Yes,” I said, in the hope that he’d go away satisfied. I was beginning to wish I’d just shot him.
He reached down a hand to help me to my feet. I took it. I was amazed to find that my legs would still hold me upright.
“Had enough?” Mother asked.
I shook my head. “Just getting started.” It would have sounded better if I didn’t gasp for breath between each word.
“Tough little scracker, aren’t you?” Mother said.
“No, just stupid,” I said.
Mother took off his helmet and looked at it. There were some new scratches and dents in it. He wiped it with the sleeve of his jacket and hung it on the handlebars of a nearby bike.
I bent, resting my hands on my knees, still struggling to breathe.
“You all right?” Mother asked.
“I think I ate too much,” I said. I straightened up and looked into his face. “Let’s finish this.”
“Just back away,” Mother said. “Honour has been satisfied.”
“Not while one of us is still standing.” This was a stupid thing to say. I think it must have been the blow to the head.
“You sure?” he asked.
I raised my hands palm upwards and bent my fingers in ‘come on’ gestures.
The Dragon Riders gathered behind Mother and he waved them back. People filed out from the roadhouse, not wanting to miss the conclusion of the fight. Some of them brought their plates and carried on eating.
“I don’t want to do this,” Mother said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You chicken?” I would have made chicken noises but I couldn’t remember what sound they made. My brain was scrambled.
Mother didn’t take the bait. He was probably thinking that if we stood there long enough I’d just fall down. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing that
happen. I took a step towards him.
“Don’t do this,” he said.
I heard a distant wailing sound. I wasn’t sure if it was inside my head.
“Police,” Mother said. “We should both get out of here.”
I shook my head. “We have to finish this.”
“Oh, for scrack’s sake,” Mother said. He lumbered towards me.
Chapter Forty-Five
Mother threw a haymaker towards my head. I ducked under his fist, darted forward and punched him hard in the gut. It was like hitting a tree. I backpedalled but not quickly enough. His fist shot out and smacked into my mouth. He had long arms, I needed to remember that. Blood flowed from the split in my lower lip and I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
Mother was bigger than me and much stronger. But I was quicker, more agile. I had to use that to my advantage – keep moving around him, staying out of reach, and ducking in with quick jabs. And I needed to stay out in the open. If he managed to trap me back against the wall, I was done for.
I swung a right hook but it didn’t connect. I needed longer arms. His fist came from nowhere and hit me in the side of the head above the ear. I staggered sideways but managed to stay on my feet. The next blow slammed into my chin so hard that it knocked me off my feet and I sat down heavily. The twittering birds were back and firebugs danced in front of my eyes. I shook my head to try and clear it. Mother reached down and grabbed the front of my blood-splattered shirt, lifting me to my feet. Holding me up with one hand he punched me twice in the gut with the other. I almost puked my burger into his face but managed to keep it down. For future reference I should remember that fighting was like swimming – you should never do it on a full stomach. Wait at least an hour. This assumed I had a future.
Pulling free from his grip, I danced back and then quickly forward. I jabbed punches at his nose – right, left, right. Blood trickled from a nostril but he hardly seemed to notice it. He looked at me as if to say ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ It pretty much was at that point.
I was only dimly aware of the crowd around us. Dragon Riders, Harmony’s face, Candy the waitress, and a bunch of people I didn’t know. Marshal Dimmock and the robotic Highway Patrolman were part of the audience too. I couldn’t see Skeeter – maybe he was still keeping a low profile. The police sirens were much closer now but I couldn’t see anything beyond the circular wall of people.
I backed away from Mother. The crowd shifted around us as we moved. A quick glance behind showed me I was close to the line of parked motorcycles. I couldn’t retreat any further. But the sight of a full-face helmet hanging from the handlebars of the nearest bike gave me an idea. Actually, my first idea was to put it on to protect my head – but I knew this would seriously impact my peripheral vision. But I could use it as a weapon.
I grabbed the helmet and held it in front of me. It felt about the same size as a basketball and I wondered if it would bounce like one. Using both hands I thrust it away from me as if I was making a cross-court pass. The helmet hit Mother’s forehead with a hollow thok! and bounced off. I caught it and faked another throw towards his head. He ducked and raised his arm. I didn’t release the helmet – just grinned at him.
If I held onto the helmet by the chin-guard and swung it, it would increase my reach by a good few inches. And it would be like wearing a big boxing glove. One for each hand would be even better. I grabbed another helmet. I bashed the two of them together in front of me like a boxer trying to psyche out his opponent.
I moved in quickly, faking a couple of jabs with one helmet towards Mother’s head. He backed away, raising his fists to defend his face. This left his stomach exposed and I whacked the second helmet into it. Oof! The air whooshed out of him and he staggered back, gasping.
I swung the two helmets back and forth in front of me, grinning at my opponent. I could taste blood and thought that my teeth must be red with it. I imagined that I looked like a gladiator in an arena or the hero of a martial arts movie. In reality, I probably looked more like roadkill. That’s about what Mother looked like too.
He had evidently seen enough of my showing off. He marched forwards and swatted the two helmets aside. I lost my grip on one of them and it sailed away over the heads of the crowd. Before I could swing the other one at him, Mother headbutted me, our foreheads connecting with a loud crack! I felt pain at the front of my head and at the sides it felt like my eardrums had exploded.
I swung the helmet with both hands and hit him in the groin. The impact jarred the helmet out of my fingers and it bounced away across the cement. We’d been slugging away at each other for what seemed like hours now. Both of us were weary, staggering and remaining upright through sheer willpower alone.
While Mother was still doubled over, I jumped up onto his back. I thought my weight would be enough to knock him down to the ground. But I was wrong. He tried to straighten, spinning around and around in an attempt to throw me off. I clung on, wrapping my left arm tightly around his throat and punching at his head with my free hand.
Mother lurched to the left as the flow of oxygen to his brain was cut off, slowing him down. The crowd backed away, breaking the circle. In a final desperate attempt to dislodge me, he ran backwards into the wall, crushing me against the faded wooden siding. I couldn’t hold on any longer and we both collapsed and fell.
Mother and I were on the ground, gasping for breath. A wave of tiredness washed over me. I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. I didn’t want to. We lay side by side on our backs staring at the sky.
“Do we... Do we call it a draw?” Mother said.
“We could ask the judges to decide it based on points,” I said.
“It’s either that or a rematch,” he said.
“Let’s call it a draw,” I said.
Only slowly did our breathing return to anything like normal.
“I can’t believe you hit me with a wet mop,” Mother said.
“This lump is sticking out like a rhino horn,” I said, touching my forehead gently.
“I’m too old for this squit,” Mother said.
“You did okay for an old-timer,” I said, patting his arm.
“Local police are here,” he said, looking through the legs of the people to the right of him.
“Are we going to go quietly?” I asked.
“We’ll just let them scrape us off the road,” Mother said. He closed his eyes.
The arrival of the local police spurred Marshal Dimmock into action. He stood over Mother and me and tried to arrest us. Neither of us was listening to him. But the people around us, especially the Dragon Riders, took exception to his actions. There was some pushing and shoving and the Marshal looked around him nervously. He backed away as the situation developed into a full-on street brawl.
I didn’t see all of it – just a collection of brief images. Edited highlights. Mother and I sat leaning back against the wall and watched. Candy brought us a couple of cold beers in long-necked bottles. I suppose she didn’t want to risk losing any more glasses. Me and Mother clinked our bottles together and drank.
I saw two of the local cops punch the same biker in the head at the same time. The biker seemed totally unaffected by this. He reached out and knocked his two attackers’ heads together. They staggered drunkenly away, trying to stay on their feet.
Someone flew through the air at about head height. I knew from experience that the flying part was easy. But the landing was a bitch.
A policeman grabbed Harmony’s arm. Somebody should have warned him.
“I’ve never arrested anyone as pretty as you,” he said, grinning.
“Excuse me, miss,” I called, “is that guy bothering you?”
Harmony took hold of his arm, twisted it and forced him down onto the ground. She put her foot on his chest.
“Do you know you’ve got something on your shoe?” I asked.
Harmony looked down at the policeman. “Stay down?” she said. He nodded and she took her foot off him.
/> “Do you want me to hold your drink so you can join in?” Harmony asked.
“I think you’ve got it covered,” I said. “Carry on.”
Harmony grinned. I think she was enjoying this.
Behind her, two of the Dragon Riders were holding one of their own like a battering ram and slamming his helmeted head into the gut of a policeman.
One of the cops was holding a biker in some sort of nelson – half- or full- who knows the difference? – and using him as a shield to block the punches of another Dragon Rider.
Towering over everyone was the highway patrolman. He remained motionless as the fight went on around him. Marshal Dimmock stomped over to him and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t just stand there – hit someone!” The robot turned and looked at him. “Not me, you dipstick, one of the outlaws.”
Harmony seemed to be fighting two of the policemen at the same time, alternating her punches between them. She hit one of them with a spectacular right-hook and his head shot backwards and smacked into the nose of the cop that stood behind him. Both men went down. Harmony turned her full attention on the second of her opponents and a couple of punches had him joining his comrades on the ground.
A shadow fell across us and I looked up. The highway patrolman was standing over us. He was pointing a gun at my head. I guess no one had told him about the no guns at a fist-fight rule.
“Quincy Randall, you are under arrest.” His voice didn’t sound quite right – it was scratchy and distorted. The speaker must have been damaged during our previous encounter. “You have the right to remain silent...”
He didn’t get any further than that. His body arched backwards and his mouth fell open. Blue lightning arced between his teeth. Sparks and a small amount of smoke. He staggered backwards and his gesture of surprise was a very human.
Road Rage Page 28