Junior spoke with a dry, nasal voice that had was too breathy to be deep.
There was a brief silence - broken by a wet, choking sound; frantic and fast like drowning. Fats must have woken up.
“Relax, relax. You’re okay.”
The Doctor spoke with barely any inflection, the words were mechanical and sounded distant.
“This fat fuck loves the ferals. Every fucking time. Trying to make friends. Like he’s the loneliest piece of shit in the city. It’s pathetic. And now you see what’s happened?”
The words were tense and guttural. Muscles sounded like he was pushing them between his teeth.
“He lets the feral escape; He gets his head jacked up; and now my boy is gone and the feral’s gone and we have no fucking idea…”
The words lost their venom and trailed off. He sounded weak and lost. I smiled into the darkness and snapped my fingers, fishing a celebratory blue from my pocket.
It was time.
I walked softly back to the meatbin and looked inside. It was empty. A trail of blood and dust lead to the backdoor - which had been left slightly ajar. I poised to run and stretched up to the bell, grasping the clapper between shaking fingers.
It was going to be a wild ride.
I rang the bell as hard as I could, over and over, watching for a flicker of life by the door. I couldn’t hear anything over the ringing but the light flickered for a moment and I threw myself around the corner; sliding in the mud; running back around the building and onto the street. I slowed to a jog and crept back to the front door.
The house was full of beautiful music.
“What the fuck is this you son of a bitch?!”
Muscles didn’t leave time for an answer. There was the sickening sound of bone on flesh and the Doctor cried out; metal and glass shattered against cement.
Junior and the Doctor were yelling at once - incomprehensible noise punctuated by groans and Muscles barking with violent satisfaction.
“Stop it! You’ll kill him!”
Junior’s voice rang out clear and impotent. I waited for a pause and kicked open the door. Their three faces jerked toward me in unison. The slab had been knocked over and the Doctor was twisted over the Kid’s body. He held his hands over his face but Muscles had him by the neck and his fists were fat and bloody.
Junior was in the doorway, legs braced and hands empty. I didn’t wait for an introduction.
Muscles dropped the Doctor and sprang to his feet. I drew the tyre iron, flipped it in my palm and wound my fist back slowly. He took two steps and I coiled my whole body behind the throw - my arm shot out like a spring and the tyre iron whipped through the air and cracked across the bridge of his nose.
His head jerked backward in a haze of red and he toppled over, his massive hands grasping for something to cling to - hooking Junior by the collar and pulling him down on top of him.
I leapt over the shuddering body of Fats and kicked Junior in the jaw as he struggled to stand, my boot caught him cleanly on the chin and his teeth cracked sickly together.
I stomped down on Muscles’ neck and scrambled over them and toward the slab. The Doctor was conscious but his face was a mess of blood. He looked up at me and gestured hopelessly - bubbles forming at the sides of his lips.
I was looking for his butcher bag. The room was a mess of rough and water and blood and broken glass. I felt hot air on my neck and threw myself to the side - narrowly missing a brutal sucker punch that threw Muscles off-balance. I kicked him in the back and he fell onto the Kid.
Junior was on all fours - blood pouring from his mouth, desperately trying to stay conscious. The cement floor was slick with blood.
The tyre iron was in the doorway and Muscles was struggling to stand. I jumped onto his back and hooked my fingers into his eyes. He bucked and gnashed his teeth - I tried to keep my hold on his skull but he threw me off and I fell backward over the slab.
Pots of boiling rough shook above me. I tried to stand but Muscles threw himself over the table and was on top of me.
He was heavy - so heavy. I could barely breathe. His face was pouring blood onto mine and his fingers searched for my throat. I closed my eyes and drove my skull into into his face. His nose cracked against my forehead, but he didn’t flinch. I tried to move my legs but I was pinned down.
His hands closed around my neck. They were slick with blood and his grip faltered. I jammed my thumb into his eye and rammed his head into the corner of the stove. The pots shook and an overflow of boiling water poured over us. He caught it all on his back and he screamed in pain. I scrambled out from below him and dove back over the slab.
I was drenched in blood and struggled to pull myself to my feet.
I looked from the Doctor to Junior.
And that was the end.
I looked along the barrel of the gun but it was deep and black and gave nothing away. Junior had propped himself against the door frame and had the pistol aimed right between my eyes. His mouth was twisted to the side, a steady stream of bright red blood worked its way onto his chin and down his chest.
I took a few slow steps to the side and put my back to the table; the black mouth of the pistol followed me - Muscles pulled himself to his feet, the Doctor folded himself into a seated position between the Kid and the wall.
The tyre iron was at Junior’s feet and there was no way I was getting my hands on it. Muscles started to laugh - a deep, convulsing laugh that threw droplets of water and blood from his chest and onto the floor.
I put my fists up but it was a futile gesture. Muscles’ face was masked with blood and his eye had swollen shut - a jagged black crack cut its way across the bridge of his nose and bisected his eyebrow.
“I’m just here to protect the Doctor.”
The words came out wet; mostly saliva and bile. I tried to swallow but my throat wouldn’t cooperate.
Muscles squared up and took a wide step toward me, fat fists balled by his sides. Junior turned the gun on him and spat on the floor.
“Stop.”
I looked at the Doctor. He was out of the game. His eyes were glazed and he stared into my face with no sign of recognition. I turned back to Junior.
“The Doctor is hurt. He looks hurt… badly. You need to help him.”
Junior nodded slowly and turned the pistol back to me.
“We’re all hurt. We all need help.”
I opened my hands slowly and held my empty palms toward him.
“This got out of hand. I don’t know why you’re here or why you attacked the Doctor - but you all have to calm down.”
Muscles dropped his hands to his side and his shoulders slumped. He was folding fast. His bloodshot eyes ran over the Kid’s body. Two thin streams cut clean paths down his cheeks.
Junior watched his friend and turned back to me.
“It seems like every time there’s trouble - you’re there.”
I shrugged and smiled.
“It just seems that way.”
He pulled the hammer back and the pistol clicked. The sound shot through me. I felt a searing pain in my gut that seemed to shatter my spine. I flinched and my hands went to my stomach.
“I’m not worth a bullet. Look at me. I’m pretty much dead.”
I couldn’t read his face. His teeth had punched through his lip and his mouth hung open. His jaw looked broken. He didn’t reply. The gun never wavered. The barrel seemed to swallow the room.
Muscles slowly collapsed to his knees and crawled to the Doctor. I kept my eye on Junior.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”
Muscles repeated the words pathetically, sputtering and pulling the Doctor’s face to his bloody chest. The Doctor gave no reaction, his eyes were glazed and a black vein of blood ran down his temple.
They sat in a saturated knot on top of the Kid.
Junior backed against the wall and slowly lowered himself to the floor.
I looked at the gun. My stomach twisted painfully.
&nb
sp; I shook my head and raised my hands - walking slowly and openly to the door.
The pistol followed me; Junior watched with tired caution.
I kicked the tyre iron into the living room and scooped it up. Fats was breathing normally but hadn’t rolled over. I stood at the front door and looked back across the room.
Muscles and the Doctor were locked in a wet embrace on the corpse of his lover. Junior was sitting against the wall and the pistol cut across the doorway.
Fats was deflating on the floor.
“I’ll see you all real soon.”
I slammed the door with both hands. The front of the building shook.
I was numb. I had no idea how badly I’d been hurt. My whole body felt like it was coagulating. My skin crackled as I flexed my muscles. My fingers were stuck together.
The sky was turning orange. The tar was starting to boil. Already the air was growing black and hazy.
I held my sleeve over my mouth and cut across the street. The smoke burned my skin and my wounds started to sing. I cut into a building and tried to pick out a safe path back to the Animal Hospital.
I had to find the Tarboy. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t worth the shine I’d paid him.
I found him one block from the Animal Hospital. He’d dragged himself under a rotting piece of wood and the tar was boiling around him. He had left a long trench in the dust; he must have been crawling for a while. The air was thick and black; my eyes watered and I wrapped my jacket around my face.
I took him by the ankles and dragged him through the window and into the foyer of an abandoned store. The floorboards had long since decayed and the dirt below them was hard but dry. I unwound my jacket and threw it on the floor. The Tarboy was unconscious. His face was purple and both eyes were swollen closed. The skin on his left arm was tar-burnt and withered.
His chest was spattered with blood. It had long since dried but it was bright red against his blue-grey skin.
I chewed on my cheek and turned his face to mine. I pushed a blue into his mouth and washed it down with my saliva. His heart was still beating strong - I could feel his pulse through his jaw.
“Wake up, Tarboy.”
I hit him sharply with an open palm. He didn’t move.
“Wake up.”
I hit him again. Still nothing. I put my hand over his mouth and pinched his nostrils shut.
“Don’t make me hurt you, boy. You’ve got to get up.”
His eyes twitched open and he surprised me with an instinctive hook that caught me cleanly in the jaw. I was too tired to process the pain. I rolled to the side and lay in the dirt.
He sat up and turned to me, disoriented.
“I don’t know man. I found you on the street.”
He lay down beside me. I stared at the ceiling.
“What happened?”
He choked and turned to the side, coughing violently. A tar-black clot of mud rolled down his chin.
I waited for it to pass.
“The big guy got me. He must have seen me through the window. He just…”
He took a few shallow breaths.
“…snuck up behind me and beat my head against the wall. He kept calling me a feral. He must have dropped me off the ledge… Two stories. I woke up in the alley and… don’t remember what else.”
I nodded. I was tired. Too tired to be angry. I pushed two blues into my mouth and chewed them into mud. I reached out blindly and put my hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry man… I’ll get him for you. I already messed him up pretty badly.”
We lay in silence. His breath was ragged.
“I don’t really care.”
He sat up and rolled his trousers to the knee. His calves were bisected by dark blue lines; his shins were curved and there were sharp, swollen lumps from his kneecaps to his ankles. He kneaded the skin with his thumbs.
“I’ll be fine in an hour or so.”
He scooped the rogue rivulet of tar, from his chin, chewing his fingers and breathing deep, eyes clamped shut.
The air outside was black with smoke. The boiling of the tar sounded like rain. I left the Tarboy propped up in the dust and worked my way to the roof.
There were still a few pockets of ferals who had refused to climb down from their apartments. I’d left them alone; they reminded me too much of the old city and they were so passive that they barely existed. There would be no joy in beating them.
The Insect watched over them - took them brown water and rough and kept them clean with swabs of shine. She toured the apartments every morning. Some of them kept the door firmly bolted, nobody had seen their faces - but the Insect left the rough on the doorstep and it was inevitably gone the next day.
I understood what she was doing. I almost empathized. I had a pet cat before the curtain fell. I loved that cat - in the most artificial, rhetorical way possible; and somehow that seemed more legitimate than chemical emotions. The choice to Love over the drive to Love.
The last of the tar had boiled away. High overhead the black clouds were dissipating and the bright, golden sky shone through.
The building was three storeys tall and built with grey cinderblocks that had been rendered with orange cement. The rendering had mostly crumbled away and the building looked like it was covered in tumors.
I crouched on the roof, masking my silhouette by leaning up against a half-crumbled wall. Along the alley below I could see the Insect and three ferals. They looked well-fed and well-dressed, by feral standards. One of them carried a crate of rough, and two others carried trays of jars.
The clear rattle of glass on glass had a nostalgic, old world feel.
The Insect’s needles hung from her belt and shone obscenely in the quickly-growing light. The feral to her right carried a length of wood - tapered at the handle and swelling out to twice the size at the business end. It was about the length of my forearm and looked heavy.
The stairs I climbed to get to the roof were mostly intact. I had stuck to the foundations and avoided putting my weight in the middle of the boards.
I pushed my shoulder into the brick wall overlooking the street and it shook a little before righting itself. It was ten feet long and looked out over the street.
The Insect and her companions were two doors down. I moved behind the wall and put my palms to it; straining to hear the footsteps below.
The voices were low and had a thick feral inflection. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but the sound resonated between the walls of the alley.
I started to rock the wall - gently at first; as the voices grew I pushed harder and harder - the mortar at the base of the wall coughed dust at my feet.
The volume peaked - I braced my legs and put weight behind my shoulders - the cement floor cracked and the wall gave way - falling out over the alley.
The cinder blocks were old and stained by tar - but they were heavy and the core of the wall was bright like new cement. They hung in the air like urban snow before crashing to the ground in dull, sedimentary waves.
I looked down into the alley and saw the confused, upturned faces - the whites of their eyes cut through the cloud of dust and stone and reflected the burning sky.
The timing was near perfect. I threw myself down the stairwell and tumbled to the ground floor. Through the empty windows I could see the Insect and her ferals struggling to process what had happened. She stooped down to shift the cinder blocks.
I tore the stair banister from the wall. It came out two feet long; sharp at the end and heavy. They didn’t react to the noise. The feral with the club was upright and had his back to me - his arms swung uselessly by his sides. The other crouched down to help the Insect.
The door was boarded with thin wood and some long-decayed plaster. I pulled my shoulder up to my ear and threw myself through the barricade; bursting into the alley in a cloud of rotten wood.
I slid to a stop - my boots dug into the thick dust; and spun toward the feral with the club. He turned but didn’t h
ave time to raise his hands.
I twisted my shoulders toward him and broke the banister across his head - the wood exploded into sharp fragments and I jammed the splintered handle into his neck.
He dropped the club and pulled the wood from his neck. There was barely any blood - just a yawning, black hole that writhed with tendons.
His mouth opened and closed and he collapsed to his knees.
The Insect was nearly upright, fingers splayed out - reaching for her needles. I took two broad strides and threw a sweeping kick at her legs. My boot caught her in the knee and her feet shot out from below her; she hit the rubble and struggled to find her feet.
I jumped back toward the building - scooping up a broken chunk of cinder-block. The remaining feral was on her feet and looked afraid - her hands were empty, she crouched down like a fighter and looked compulsively between the Insect and me.
I feigned to the right and jumped to the left; lashing my arm out wide and crushing the cinder-block against her temple. It shattered into gravel and she went limp, falling over the Insect.
I took a few cautious steps backward and brushed my hands on my thighs, slowly drawing the tyre iron, weighing it in my hand. My palm was tender and slowly oozed blood. I flipped the iron and it smacked against the skin painfully. My grip was still strong.
I waited for the Insect to stand. The ferals didn’t move. The ground was slowly turning black and the air smelled like meat.
Her face was impassive - her eyes were in shadow and she spat at my feet. She drew a needle in each hand and took a low, cautious stance.
“You stabbed me. Do you remember this? At your sister’s house.”
She didn’t reply. She moved cautiously from side to side.
“I guess you can call this revenge. The smoothie’s revenge.”
She took a step backward and spread her fists wide. The needles caught the light; the reflection was cold and pricked my eyes.
“Or if you manage to kill me and you want a better spin… you can call it the feral’s revenge.”
Blue Meat Blues Page 12