The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side

by A. S. Thompson

  Alex continued gazing sensationally at the mess of blood and bodies. He had never killed a living man before, and he had wondered how it would feel. Maybe it was the alcohol, the infection, these particular bad guys who were going to execute him, the prospect of other bad guys who were going to kill his friends, or maybe homicide just wasn't as bad as he thought it might be, but whatever the reason, he was eerily fine with it.

  Then his nose caught a whiff of the vomit and urine saturating his clothing. "I really got to take a shower after this," he said, arming himself with the Guard's weapons.

  ***

  "I guess you can go now," Daytona said, finally allowing Shanna to join the others. "But call me if you miss me."

  “What happens now?”

  Daytona crouched down to wash his sticky hands. "Remember back at the bar, when I told you I was smarter than you, Gramps? Damn it feels good to be me."

  West hugged Shanna before shielding her behind him. "So I'm assuming you aren't going to let Shanna go, are you?"

  "Well, you still have the mission shit, so I am going to need that before-"

  "What?" Albert interjected, eyes darting upward. "After you returned from New Bedford you assured us you had destroyed the documents and the rest of the virus!"

  "I know what I said.”

  "Mother’s going to kill you."

  "Exactly why I didn't tell her, or you for that matter. You would have told her and she would have killed me.” Daytona spun back around to his adversary and continued, “But West assured me that he has the evidence and will trade that for her life. Isn’t that right, Gramps?"

  "Actually, I don't have them."

  Albert arched his eyebrow. "Surprise surprise, brother. Please tell me you weren’t naive enough to think he would actually hand them over to you this easily?”

  "Gramps," Daytona grunted, removing the pistol strapped to his leg.

  "Have them here, obviously," finished West.

  "Come on, brother, you know he's just stalling. Just shoot them one by one until he tells you and be done with it. I'm bored. Let’s go."

  Daytona stared down the Tritium night sights that lined up to West’s frontal lobe. “Last chance, Gramps.”

  Unafraid of the impending demise, West had one thing to say. "Funny. As much of a punk-ass, coward, piece of shit you are, I thought you'd at least be up for a rematch. Especially after I whooped your ass last time."

  After a long moment, Daytona cracked a smile and dropped his gun hand. "You know what? You're right. After all, we’re in an arena, why don't we have some fun?"

  "You can't be serious, brother. If you won't kill him, I will."

  Albert drew a sidearm from behind his back. He was a second away from firing before the gun was shot out of his hand.

  “Never interrupt me!” Daytona shouted. Then his head twitched causing him to grab it. Using his free hand, he made a move for the pill canister in his cargo pocket.

  Whatever that stuff is, he needs it. Taunt him, take his mind away from it, maybe it’ll give you an edge,West thought then said, “What’s the matter? Baby need his medication to fight? What a coward, you can’t even fight me straight up. Need pills to help make you better. Pathetic.”

  Daytona had half the canister out of his pocket, but let it slide back inside. “No,” he snorted. “It can wait. It won’t take that long to kill you.”

  "G-ah! You son of a bitch!" Albert exclaimed, massaging his hand. “I can’t believe you shot me!”

  "On that, we agree,” Daytona replied, half turning. “Mom is a bitch. But if you think you're going to take this moment away from me, pick up your gun and try. But I can say with one hundred percent certainty that you won't be leaving here with your cock attached to your body. Besides, I shot the gun, not you. Pussy."

  Daytona turned to Trevor and said, "Watch him. If he tries to pick up the gun, you have my permission to shoot his dick off.”

  “Roger that.”

  "Spitz," Daytona said, getting the attention of the Guard closest to West. "Give me your knife."

  The Guard with a scar covering the whole of his shaved head responded without hesitation. He slid out the carry clip from his waist and handed the knife to Daytona.

  Daytona popped up the four inch spring loaded blade. He examined the sleek design then tossed the knife in front of West. "Don't worry, I won't charge you."

  Still, West kept one eye on Daytona as he swashed around the murky water.

  "Craig, don't!"

  "It's okay, Shanna, stay back with Travis," West replied, unstrapping his bullet resistant vest.

  “West,” Jones said softly, “He just ripped out a man’s throat. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Hey,” Daytona declared, capturing West’s attention. “Just so you know, there are no victory or consolation prizes. So take a good look at your friends…”

  West glanced back, doing his best to appear positive.

  "If I win. They die, painfully," Daytona continued, drawing his own blade. It was an eight inch hunting knife, serrated on the back, deadly sharp on the front, and rounded at the tip. "If you win, well you won't, but if you do, they still die, but I will give you the pleasure of making it quick. That is assuming you hand over what I’ve asked for."

  “Craig-”

  “I’ll be fine, Shanna,” he whispered. Then, using his body as a shield, he signed a quick message.

  It had been years since using sign language, but Shanna eventually interpreted the unspoken words. “Everything is going to be okay?” she mumbled, but her inquiry fell unanswered as West was dragged away.

  Keeping a watchful eye on Travis and Shanna, the Guardsmen circled around Daytona and West, cheering, hooting, and hollering.

  “You got this!”

  “Come on, boss!”

  “Fuck him up!”

  “Well here we are,” Daytona said, meeting West in center ice. “This is it, the final round. But before I end you, tell me something, Gramps...”

  Daytona spun the blade and changed grips with a sense of casual assurance.

  “You ready to bleed?”

  ***

  For his condition, Alex pedaled as fast as one could manage.

  Over the course of a year without being tending to, the bicycle’s tires had lost much inflation, but cycling was a better option than running across the overpass.

  "Damn, I really shouldn't have taken that last sip...fucking vodka.”

  Alex burped and vomit crept up his throat.

  “Ugh,” he grunted, spitting away the acidy saliva. "I’m coming guys. Please say it's not too late. Please say it’s not too late."

  ***

  Daytona rushed forward, using his speed and superior blade length to mount a vicious offensive. He slashed from side to side five times; the blade made “fuff-fuff” sounds as it literally cut air.

  West did all he could to evade the strikes, slapping, ducking and shifting from side to side, but despite his efforts, the last one caught him on the forearm, splitting the skin slightly.

  Just as Daytona followed with a spinning backhand strike, West somersaulted out of the way.

  Damn, that was fast, West thought, staying in a crouch.

  Daytona pivoted toward West, but rather than attack right away, he smiled. "Is that fear I sense? Bet I seem a little different from last time, don’t I?"

  Something is different, but don’t give him the satisfaction of saying so, Chucky.

  "Same kid, bigger ego," West replied, staying hunched over as he circled to the left. He maintained a hammer grip on the knife and kept his right arm up for defense.

  "My brother fixed me up good," Daytona said, flinching.

  The faux-attack caused West to hop back.

  "Damn, you are scared! All American Sergeant Major Craig West scared? Oh this is great!" Daytona opened up his free hand and displayed it to West. "Still got the scars from last time, but I'm good. Way better than good actually. I'm stronger, faster than before."

/>   West continued circling and slowly brought his free arm closer as to give the illusion that he was staying the same distance. When he came within range, West struck with a fast horizontal swipe.

  Daytona jumped out of the way. Had the blade been an inch longer it would have caused damage, but instead the tip cut through Daytona’s shirt, barely scratching the epidermis.

  "Come on, what was that? Are you gettin’ rusty, Gramps?"

  West backed off in preparation for either a secondary or counter attack depending on Daytona’s actions.

  “Here, will this help your confidence?" Daytona asked, standing still in the water.

  For some reason, one that West was unable to fathom, Daytona placed the tip of his blade on his stomach. He traced the same scratch that West caused, but pressed deeper into his skin.

  “G-ahhhh,” he moaned, finding masochistic pleasure in the self-mutilation.

  This kid is nuts! West thought, pausing, but keeping a boxer’s rhythm. Knowing that fighting was just as much mental as physical, he intended to keep up with the psychological game. “No need to give me an advantage. We both know what happened last time we went toe to toe.”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Daytona replied, dictating the pace with a clockwise movement. “So you might have taken the first round back in New Bedford, but not this one, not tonight, old man...”

  Daytona matched West’s steps but inched closer and closer, pushing West back to the barrier of Guardsmen.

  He’s pinning you back to force you to move. Watch the flinch and real strike. Wait for the attack and counter with a side kick to the-

  Suddenly, Daytona thrust his blade in a direct line to West's shoulder.

  West went to deflect, but that was just as Daytona hoped.

  That wasn't the real strike.

  And it wasn't the only one.

  The intended attack followed as Daytona dropped the blade down and right, slashing West's extended right quadriceps. And as Daytona’s body came down with the blood-tipped knife, it retracted like a rubber band, rising back to the left where his free hand delivered a back fist to West's cheek.

  The gash on West’s leg caused him to yelp in pain, but only for a second as his face took the impact of Daytona's knuckles. Fortunately, West shuffled back onto his left leg and away from a follow up blade strike that narrowly missed his throat.

  "Remember that move?" Daytona said, pivoting around to watch West limp away. “Except I added a little extra to it. Hurts, don’t it?”

  Damn, didn’t expect that, West started to think, but a searing pain resonating in his leg impeded temporary thought.

  Forced to limp, West tracked the line of Guardsmen to distance himself from Daytona.

  Assessment, Chucky. Right leg, mobile, but limited motion and ability. Forearm, not life-threatening. Head, minor concussion, vision coming back. Not great, Chucky, you need to do some damage.

  “I’ve had worse, sad if that’s all you got.”

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty more for you.” Daytona smiled, making a straight line toward West. His boots splashed through the water and right before he attacked, Daytona kicked up water into West’s face.

  Using his knife hand, West shielded his eyes which saved his life; if only for the moment.

  Behind his fingers, West saw the impending strike to his neck, and he ducked out of the way as the horizontal blade wisped over his afro.

  In his limited crouch, West found an opportunity. His jabbed his four inches of steel forward, but missed Daytona’s femoral artery as the Navy SEAL rocked back.

  Then came a quick counterattack.

  Daytona thrust his knee upward, connecting with West’s wrist.

  The force expelled the spring-loaded blade from his grip, and West was fairly certain at least one bone was broken.

  Forget about the knife, use what you have. Move, now! his mind screamed as Daytona’s eight inches of cold, hard steel came bearing down over his head.

  Employing a risky, defensive maneuver, West lunged into Daytona, and used his elbow to wing-block the attack, cutting it off at the crease in Daytona’s elbow.

  Immediately following the parry, West dragged his same elbow along Daytona’s shoulder, and delivered a hard blow to Daytona’s ear. At the same time, he slid his left hand down Daytona’s knife arm and held it securely at the wrist, and using his right fist like a hammer, he bashed the side of Daytona’s hand. The particular area caused a nerve ending to flare, and subsequently, Daytona released his knife.

  At this point, both men pushed away like boxers, and like boxers they would continue as the fight now de-escalated to personal body weapons.

  “Come on, West!” Travis shouted in support.

  “Come on, Craig!” followed Shanna.

  West spared a glance to his corner, finding a temporary painkiller and increased motivation in the form of Shanna’s presence. He turned back to Daytona who was growling in frustration.

  New plan, Chucky. Evade attacks. Rely on counters. Go for weak spots. Knee caps, groin, and throat. Move, Chucky, move!

  But West’s intended plans never came to fruition.

  Daytona bull-rushed West, throwing his entire two-hundred and twenty pound frame into West’s midsection. The impact knocked the air from West’s lungs and the ground from his feet. The small layer of water did act as a cushion, but not much. On his back, West dodged two follow-up punches but took a third to the eye.

  When Daytona curled his fist back for a fourth punch, West used Daytona’s own momentum and threw him forward, over his body. West scrambled to his feet and shuffled back, unknowingly into a pair of Guardsmen.

  Both men shoved West forward, and into the worst possible location; Daytona’s fist. The knuckles contacted West on the upper lip, busting his nose open. Then came a quick jab to West’s stomach, followed by a second, taking the breath from him.

  Hunched over, West blocked a hard knee, and as he attempted to roll around Daytona, the Navy SEAL shuffled his steps, impeding West’s escape.

  “Na-ah, Gramps. Now comes the real pain,” Daytona said, unleashing a fury of punches and elbows.

  Not all connected but most did. West attempted to block them, but his arms struggled to keep up with the defensive punishment. Soon, he found his hands lowering to an unsafe level, thereafter Daytona took full advantage. West sustained three successive punches to the face and a powerful uppercut which sent him flying onto his back.

  West spat up a mixture of blood, saliva and dirty rink water. He rolled over slowly as Daytona raised his fists and not-so-graciously accepted the chants and praise from his men.

  On his knees, West crawled away, but Daytona kicked him in the buttocks.

  Completely weakened and drained, West collapsed to his face.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like we know who the superior warrior is,” Daytona gloated. He followed the shimmering in the water to his hunting knife, and after retrieving the blade, he picked West up by the shirt and dragged him closer to Shanna. “Look at her.”

  Blood dripped from West’s face. His left eye was swelling up and nearly closed. Struggling to focus, he mumbled, “Shanna.”

  You’re not out of the fight yet, Chucky. Options...options? Go for a cheap strike. Grab a hold of his nuts and squeeze!

  Daytona easily intercepted West’s lackluster attempt and grabbed his hand, saying, “Resorting to moves like that? Now I know you’re done...”

  He twisted West’s wrist almost one hundred and eighty degrees, bent it and lifted upward, causing searing pain to shoot through West’s entire arm. He laughed loudly and obnoxiously, then looked to his men.

  “Hey, I got another bet. How many people do you guys think this hand has killed? Closest gets a hundred...”

  Around the rink, each Guardsman threw out a number.

  “I know you’ve kept track, Gramps, we all do. It’s one of our dirty little secrets. So come on, tell us, what’s your number?”

  Fight Chucky! Push yourself up
and use your other hand! Break free from the wrist lock and attack!

  “Aw, don’t want to answer? Maybe this will help jog the memory.”

  Then Daytona lowered and locked West’s arm out parallel with the water. Without another word, he lifted his leg and stomped on West’s wrist. Distinct popping sounds were heard, as both the radius and ulna bones were broken on impact.

  “Ye-ah!” West yelped, unable to reach his hand. Quarter sized bumps began to cover the surface of the broken bones.

  “Congratulations,” Albert called out, clapping his hands slowly, unimpressed. “Would you just get the damned evidence so we can get the hell out of here? I’m finding this savagery boring.”

  Daytona ignored his brother. He was far too busy relishing the victory.

  “I told you this would happen, West! Hah! Whoa, stay with me, Gramps,” he said, noticing West sway and sink into unconsciousness. He placed the serrated side of his blade against West’s throat and lifted. “But oh no, I’m not gonna kill you yet. I want you to look at her. I want her death to be the last thing you see before I bleed you out, very slowly and very painfully. She’s going to die, that much I can assure you...but back to my proposal. All you have to do is give me what I want and she dies quick. Operator’s word.”

  West’s one good eye gazed at Shanna’s despondent expression.I’m so sorry. I let you down, Shanna. I let everyone down...

  “Fine...it’s, it’s with a friend in,” he said out of breath, barely able to speak.

  “It’s where?” Daytona asked, leaning closer.

  Then came the unexpected.

  “Daytona, Daytona, Daytona,” came a voice crackling through each Guardsman’s radio. “Helllloooo, Daytona, I’m looking for a douchebag named Daytona. By the way, what kind of stupid ass name is that? Unless your mom is Danica Patrick, which would be hot by the way, that is a stupid fucking name."

  Daytona dropped West into the water and reached his hand out. “Trevor, your radio, now.”

  The Guardsmen shined their lights and lasers around the arena.

  “Who is this?”