Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2)

by Ryan C. Thomas

  CHAPTER 9

  With the exception of some stridulating beetles in the eucalyptus trees, the backyard was quiet. Above our heads the gray rind of a moon fought to get its light through thick cloud cover. In the distance I could make out the halogen halos from streetlamps reflecting off some low fog. All in all it was pretty serene and warm. A nice night for offing two guys behind a house out in the eastern foothills.

  “Keep digging, dickheads,” Walt said. He stood behind us with his gun trained on our heads. He was wearing my Red Sox cap. Gabe and I exchanged looks as we dug our own graves with the shovel. The unspoken necessity to take out Walt hung between our eyes. He was going to kill us either way, and if we didn’t figure out how to get away he and his friends were going to kill Victoria. Or deliver her to someone who would. They’d made it clear they had kidnapped her for someone else. But who and why?

  Thinking about it made my already-pounding head feel worse. Gabe grunted in pain, his own head swimming with dizziness as he clawed more dirt out of the ground. In the condition we were in, this was going to take a while.

  “Put some backbone into it, Roger.”

  “What about if you dig, Walt, and we just jump in the hole when you’re done?” I shot him a sarcastic smile, but through my swollen eyes I could barely see his response.

  “I don’t do manual labor.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot us?” Gabe asked.

  “Honestly? Because I see this shit in movies all the time. Supposed to be psychologically terrifying to dig your own grave. I wanna see how it makes you feel. I’m all for life experience, you know. Hell, maybe I’ll really take a liking to it and start a new hobby.”

  I tossed another clump of dirt next to the hole we were digging.

  “Watch my shoes,” Walt said. “They’re new.”

  Gabe used his hands, throwing fistfuls of dirt into the air over his head. He was still looking at me, a thousand scenarios of death and escape swirling in his eyes. I frantically thought of a way out, but could think of nothing besides throwing the shovel at Walt and hoping he didn’t fire the gun before it hit him. Problem was he was being smart, standing a little ways back so we couldn’t get to him before he could get a shot off.

  The minutes passed more quickly than I would have liked, and every second that I didn’t come up with a plan was a second closer we came to death.

  “Okay, you know what . . .” Gabe sat down in the depression we’d made in the ground. “I’m done. I’m not digging anymore. You want me dead, just do it. But you’d better check the shadows every night because I swear to you I will come back and haunt—”

  BANG!

  The bright flash of the muzzle caught me off guard. I felt the bullet whiz by my head and heard it punch through something hard. Wetness struck the back of my neck. Trembling, I stopped digging and turned around. Gabe sat still, his eyes open and staring back at me, a giant red hole in the center of his throat. Then, slowly, blood gushed out and he fell forward, his hands reaching to the bullet wound. He tried desperately to keep breathing, the sound like someone walking through mud.

  I dropped the shovel and grabbed him. “Gabe! Hang on.”

  He was shaking, blood gushing out everywhere. “No. Victoria . . . I want to . . .”

  He trailed off, and though he didn’t die, he was certainly going into shock and would die very soon if something wasn’t done. If anything could even be done for that wound. Part of me figured that even if Superman and Batman showed up right now and saved us, Gabe would still die before we could ever get to a hospital.

  I spun around, teeth bared.

  “Don’t even think it.” Walt swung his gun back to me and aimed it at my chest. “I won’t end you so graciously. I’ll put it in your dick. The next one will go in your stomach. Your buddy may die fairly quickly but you’ll go slow as molasses. Now dig the fucking hole so I can have my fun and then get on with my night. Told you, I want to check this off my list.”

  “Where are you taking Victoria?”

  Gabe kicked, gurgled, went still. But I could still hear his breath making the blood bubble up. I turned away, sick to my stomach.

  “Um, I don’t remember saying I’d tell you a damn thing. Did I? Let me think back . . . something about digging your own grave, shooting your dick? Nope. Nothing about chitchatting about that whore in there. Now stick that shovel back in the dirt.” He aimed the gun at my dick now. “I’m counting to three. One. Two . . .”

  I bent down and picked up the shovel again. At my feet, Gabe was bleeding out, his throat torn open. I was pretty sure there was no hope for him now. And what was worse, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him in his last moments. Here he was, dying, knowing his true love had just been raped and was getting taken somewhere for who knew what, and I couldn’t say a damn thing to make it better. All I could do was tell myself it wasn’t fair.

  “Dig! Now!”

  I jammed the shovel back into the earth and tossed more dirt over my shoulder. Maybe if I dug slowly enough I could think of a way to get out of this.

  Bob came walking out of the garage a second later, stabbing a finger at his watch. “Yo, Walt, it’s getting late. What the hell is taking you? We’re supposed to get her there in twenty minutes. It’s gonna take longer than that just to drive there.” He stooped and looked at the scene. “What’s with the digging? Is that guy dead? Just shoot them both for fuck’s sake.”

  “Making them dig their own graves. Like in the movies.”

  Bob shook his head. “Really? Well, that’s cool and all but I don’t wanna get gypped on my money. Time is money, right?”

  “So then take her. I’ll finish these two . . . er, one . . . and meet up with you. I’ll take Roger’s car. I wanna do this.”

  “You sure? You got this under control?”

  “Does it look like I don’t? I wanna see his dying face looking back at me when I start burying him. I’m feeling sick tonight.”

  “Actually, that’s some cold shit. I wanna see that, too. Maybe I’ll stay and get a front row seat.”

  “No! Get that bitch delivered and get my share if they dole it out. I’ll be there soon enough. And don’t even think about skimming from my cash.”

  Bob studied Gabe as he lay dying in the dirt. A smile crossed his face, like someone had just told him a real funny story. “Okay, but what about lighting the house up? I was gonna do it right now. The gas and rags are all set and everything. The usual MO. We gotta do it”

  “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about anything. That one’s almost dead there” --he pointed to Gabe-- “and Roger here is a fast digger, ain’t you, Roger? I’ll set the house burning and only be a few minutes behind. Now get going already. You’re ruining my mood.”

  “Fine. But I want that hat.” He plucked the Red Sox cap off Walt’s head, put it on, and walked back to the garage. A minute later I heard the SUV pulling onto the street and driving toward the highway.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Roger, if I wanted to hear your voice I’d beat you with my cock and listen to you beg for mercy. Keep digging!”

  I thought about ways to escape for the next couple of minutes, but nothing good came to me. I thought about how I’d gotten out of the cuffs in Skinny Man’s basement, about how I’d swung that ax into his forehead and freed myself from captivity, but it wasn’t really giving me any ideas. I wasn’t alone and there wasn’t any ax nearby. Again, I figured I could throw the shovel, but I’d have to bet on him being a lousy shot . . . which I already knew he wasn’t from the way he’d taken out Gabe. All I could think of was I had to keep him talking.

  “You’re gonna kill me anyway, so just tell me where you’re taking her.”

  “You sound like your friend there. You fags rehearse this speech?”

  “Think about it. If you’re gonna do something bad to her, wouldn’t you want me to die knowing what you’re doing. It would make me crazy. It would hurt me. That’s your style, right?�
��

  Walt chuckled and waved away a mosquito with the gun. “Oh yeah, like I’m just gonna tell you where she’s going. Let me explain something about this business I’m in. Rule number one: don’t talk. Rule number two: don’t fucking talk. Rule number three: don’t. Fucking. Talk.”

  “What was rule number two again?”

  He snickered. “I think that was the one where if you talk again I shoot you in the fucking teeth.”

  “You’re taking her to someone? Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  “You’re a long way from my mom’s house.”

  “Loose lips sink ships. You ever hear that? I don’t need to know where she ends up or what happens to her. I don’t really fucking care. I already got what I wanted from her. Now I get paid to deliver her. That’s it. If you ask another question, I’m gonna fire another round. Capiche?”

  Somewhere in my mind I could hear Tooth giving me a hard time for not trying to fight this guy. He’s a pussy, Roger, he uses a gun. Without that gun he’s nothing.

  Beside me, Gabe gurgled and I could hear him taking a piss. Human’s let out their bowels and bladders when they die, but I tried not to think about it. Somewhere out near the foothills I heard a coyote cry out. It was like a primeval siren in the desert night, some kind of battle cry that stood my hairs on end. For a second my brain was able to grasp the severity of my situation, how I was going to die out here in this bleak desert where my parents would never find me. Victoria, who’d already been violated in the worst way possible, would probably end up in a similar situation. And for what? I still had no idea. I needed to keep him talking, wait for a moment that would give me an upper hand. I couldn’t believe--wouldn’t believe--that after all I’d been through, after surviving Skinny Man, I’d get killed by a scumbag like Walt.

  At least not like this. I mean, I could understand getting mugged by a guy like Walt in a dark alley, but to succumb to another round of torture first from a moron as unimaginative as him…come on, world, where’s your sense of respect?

  “You want to know something about your friend, about that girlie in there? I think she came. Yeah, I think she liked it. Ain’t that a killer?”

  It was all I could do to keep digging and not rush at him. My hand gripped the shaft of the shovel so tightly I could see the whites of my knuckles in the darkness.

  “That’s right,” he continued. “Funny how bitches have them rape fantasies. They all like it, like to be forced into it. Want you to shove yourself into them as they scream and hit you and say no no no. But they like it, oh yes they do. Fuck a bitch enough times she’ll tell you eventually how she wants to be taken by force. I’d recommend you try yourself some rape, but shit, only thing you’re gonna shove your meat into is worms. Now don’t you look at me like that. Keep that shovel moving.”

  I wouldn’t know anything about rough sex, not having slept with many girls, but I sure as shit knew Walt had a skewed view of how women work. Tooth used to tell me that some girls liked to engage in weird fantasies where some strange man would have his way with them, but the thing is, it was all done in the midst of fun and respect and trust. What had been done to Victoria was evil. The result of a sickness that too many men in this world take pride in, a disconnect that they use to give themselves power over a gender they perceive as weak. That’s all it is in the end: a pathetic and weak display of cowardice for a cheap thrill. I hoped Walt and his idiot friends burned in Hell for it.

  “How far down is that,” he asked me, “four feet? That’s good enough, it’ll cover over. Drop the shovel.”

  I looked up at Walt, saw the moon in the sky behind him, like a rind of rotted cantaloupe keeping watch over us. Is this it? I wondered. I’ll hear a loud bang and then black will overtake me?

  “Was it good for you?” I asked.

  “Nah. I’m impatient, and you took a bit longer than I expected.”

  “You said I was a good digger.”

  “I say a lot of shit. Don’t mean I always agree with it. You dig like my grandma taking a shit--slow and hopeful, and in the end all you expel is hot air.”

  “She must have been a lovely lady.”

  “Best pork ribs this side of Texas. But you tell me . . . how’s it feel to be standing in your own grave?”

  “Don’t suppose you’d take money or anything? Forget about everything that happened here tonight. What’s your price?”

  “Now that is a sad sight, a man begging for his life with money he can’t possibly have. My price? There’s more zeros in my price than even I’m able count.”

  “Then that’s works in my favor since I’m betting you can’t count beyond two.”

  He paused. Then: “You know, I’ve killed a dozen men in my day, and only two had the balls you got, kid. But what amazes me about having balls is that it brings out the comedian in people. It’s pretty damn cheap and erases any sense of bravado you could show me in your final seconds. I mean, if you wanted me to feel like you were truly tough, spitting at me or giving me the finger would go a lot further. But bad jokes just get lost on the wind.”

  “So I’ll take that as yes, you can’t count.”

  “I’m getting paid well for this. More than you can give me. You know every time Bob grunted when he fucked that bitch in there? Imagine a thousand dollars for every one. I stopped counting after one hundred. Besides,” he patted his jacket pocket and I heard keys jingle, “I got your car now, so I’ll consider that your payment.”

  I debated telling him about the stupidity of driving around in a pinstriped Camaro that would sooner or later be reported missing by either my parents or Barry or someone, but realized it might be the only way he ever got caught.

  “Now,” he said, “since you’re such a funny guy, I’m changing how we do this.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I’m not gonna shoot you. See, not only have I never seen a man dig his own grave, but I ain’t never seen one get buried alive either. I want you totally conscious when I do this.” He gave one of those smirks that’s supposed to convey his cleverness but really just made him look like an imbecile. “So do me a kindness and toss the shovel to the side. Then get on your stomach.”

  My mind was racing, my eyes scanning my surroundings. I couldn’t think of any way out of this short of just rushing him and taking a bullet in the stomach. Probably wouldn’t kill me, but at least I wouldn’t be focused on suffocating under four feet of dirt.

  Now would be a good time for some help, Tooth, I thought. If you’re up there looking down and haven’t pissed off the Big Guy, I could use a distraction.

  “Hey, there’s no invite coming. Toss the shovel down or I shoot your kneecaps.”

  “But you just said--”

  “Forget what I say, just do as I say!”

  “Well that makes sense. Don’t I get any last words?”

  “No. Lay down.” He held his free hand out and motioned for me to lay the shovel down.

  That mosquito that had been flittering around Walt’s head landed on his nose.

  It sat like a witch’s mole on the bulbous flesh.

  I slid my hand around the top of the shovel’s shaft. “Fine. Here.”

  C’mon, bite him, I thought.

  It was a subconscious move on his part. A meaningless little swipe at the pest trying to suck his blood. But like last time, he used the gun to wave it away.

  I launched the shovel at him.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as he tried to dodge it.

  It hit him in square in the face. He staggered back and raised the gun.

  I was out of the hole and charging. There was a loud bang and something whizzed by my ear. I slid into his legs like someone stealing bases.

  He came down on top of me and I wrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed for all I was worth.

  He kicked and tried to get the gun around to my body, but I caught his wrist and jammed my thumb into the tender spot between his tendons. He lost the grip on the gun and let it d
angle on his finger by the trigger guard. “Motherfucker!”

  My arms blazed with pain as I tightened my grip around his windpipe.

  The gun came up handle-first and struck me in my broken nose, making my eyes tear up. It was such an intense pain I almost let go of him to roll over and wail. But I kept squeezing, kept telling myself it was either that or die.

  Walt was bigger than me by at least sixty pounds, so he finally stood up, taking me with him. I wrapped my legs around him and kicked him in the groin, hanging on like a kid getting a piggyback ride.

  With a mighty grunt he threw himself down on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs.

  When we landed he dropped the gun. I reached out and grabbed it, gasping for breath, just as his size–twelve boot caught me in the ribs and rolled me back several feet.

  With no breath in my lungs, blurred vision, and what felt like a cracked rib, I raised the gun and fired.

  His body ran right into me and knocked the gun from my hand. Sent me backwards again. But the bullet had found its target.

  Right through his left eye.

  He stopped moving, stood still, teetering, his one good eye staring at me. A mosquito--maybe the same one--swooped in and landed in the bloody mess where his eyeball had been.

  Somehow, he managed to bend over and pick up the gun. I’d heard of people getting shot in the head and living but never figured they be lucid enough to keep fighting. My jaw dropped.

  He pointed the gun at me. A line of drool slipped from his mouth and hung in a silky ribbon from his lower lip.

  My last thought was, Victoria.

  BANG!

  I flinched. My heart just about ripped from my chest. But I felt no pain.

  Instead, I watched as the back of Walt’s head blew out in a dark, shadowy bloom. He fell straight back into the four-foot-deep grave I’d dug and went still.