by Andrew Yake
“I do. You know she doesn’t make it easy.” I sigh and lower my gaze momentarily. I know that Hank always seemed to have a crush on my mom and for that matter I actually liked Hank. He would be good for her. At least, Hank would be better for her than the alcohol and depressive mood swings. I do like Hank, but I have often felt judged by him and did not believe that Hank had all of the information to make judgments about how I feel toward my mother or how I was raised. Then again, I would never air my dirty laundry with one of the neighbors, especially one that had romantic inclinations toward her. If I did, there would be hell to pay.
Every time mom got drunk and decided that I have made some sort of infraction on a “house rule” she would beat me. Let’s just say there were plenty of doctor visits and school meetings that I used the phrases, “I fell” or “I tripped and my face hit a doorknob”. You pick your afterschool cliché, I have probably used it as an excuse. I always took my lumps in stride. The bruises were easily hidden most of the time and I heal fast so there never seemed to be any need to rock the boat. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my mom even during these times and I feel sorry for her because we did used to have a good life before dad left us. Regardless, I always figured it was best to make sure that I stayed busy so that I did not incur the wrath of my mother.
Hank eyed me. “Uh-huh”
“Well, Hank I would love to stay and chat, but I do need to get going.” I wave and start walking away. Hank gives no response, save for another drag on his cigarette and a glance up to the apartment that my mother and I live in.
It is mid-November now and it is getting colder each day. The air is chilly, but that always seems to invigorate me. I have always loved the change of seasons and enjoyed seeing the leaves fall to the ground and hearing them crunch under my boots as I walk. I am very warm-blooded and the cool temperature never has bothered me. I look around me as I walk and take in the sights of my neighborhood.
I enjoy seeing the local characters that live in the neighborhood. I always have seemed to get along with those I encounter and I have always had a very easy time making friends. I know many of the shop owners and even some of the drug dealers and prostitutes. I did not use the services of the dealers and prostitutes, but there had been times where I had considered it. After all, I am a teenage boy with thoughts, urges, and the occasional longing to escape my home life. For this reason, I have been friendly with them and they were friendly with me. I do not judge them for trying to make a living and they have yet to bother me.
Then again, I do remember when we first moved here and they would occasionally make comments about the “white boy” and “his white bread momma”, but that was short lived and after about a week they all, and I do mean all, treated me with deference. I never feared walking these streets by myself late at night and to my surprise my mother was never bothered by them either. Personally, I think she was probably approached by one of them and she used her military training to scare the crap out of them and that is why we have never been bothered. It is nice to think that someone else could also have been on the receiving end of her ire.
I am about three blocks from school when I hear a disturbance down one of the alleys. I look around the corner of this alley and can tell that someone is being beat up behind a pile of garbage. The smell of garbage masks the scent of the person who is being beaten up. I, being the kind soul that I am, decide to go take a look and possibly lend a hand.
“Hey,” I say as I approach the sound, “What are you doing?!” The man that I see stands up straight and is almost the same height as me. He is probably in his mid-thirties with a scruffy unshaven look. He is wearing an old olive green military style jacket with the various patches ripped off. There is an unconscious person at his feet. She has ripped stockings and high heel shoes. It is obvious that she works the street. As I consider her the wind changes. I smell her scent over the garbage. I feel my blood boil. I do know this woman and she is important to me.
“Ain’t your business kid. Beat it.” He says to me as he shifts his position and spits on the ground off to my right.
“You need to leave now or you will get hurt.” I can feel my anger rising and I am being as kind as I can in the moment, but my voice has a tone that I have only heard from myself once before and that did not end well. I move my head to the right while keeping my eyes on him. This movement causes my neck to pop. I slide my bag off of my shoulder and onto the dirty ground. I brace myself for a fight and some part of me wants him to attack. Some part of me wants to hurt this man like he hurt my friend. More than anything I don’t want to find out that a person I know and care for deeply was killed because she was trying to make rent the only way that she knows to be effective in this place. I watch him move from where she is laying and I stiffen as I see him ball up his fists and stare me down.
“Last warning kid. Get lost!” I hear his knuckles crack as he makes a fist with his right hand tighter. Now I know that he is right handed. I eye his left side and I can tell that he has had some sort of injury that causes a slight limp in his gate. I know that when he undoubtedly attacks he will swing with his right arm and I can move to his left and hit his kidney and end the brawl very quickly. This would also put me in a position to shove him into the industrial metal trash container that had been obstructing my view of the beating previously. I smell something in the air. I cannot explain it. The smell brings to mind the idea of desperation and infection. This man is sick.
“You are sick and in no shape to fight with someone who can fight back. You can still just walk away.” I say this with a smile that has no kindness to it and continue to study his movement and face. There is a scar over his right eye that I hadn’t noticed before because his hair had been covering it. Then as if in slow motion I see him lunge at me with a right hook. I am pleased that I am free to release my anger on this man. The movement seems slow to me, but I can also tell that it will be a hard hit and that he is not holding back any of his strength. I raise my left arm as I had anticipated and strike out at his side. It is like poetry in motion. I do not hold back either. I could see the chinks in his proverbial armor. I know exactly how hard to hit and where to hit. It is like one fluid motion as I strike. I miss calculate my own strike force due to my anger. I block his punch, strike his kidney, and use both hands to shove him against the metal bin. I hear his ribs crack with the impact. Blood sprays out of his mouth and he crumples to the ground. I may have miscalculated, but it feels good. I had no intention of doing this much damage, but it is better than what had happened the last time someone messed with her and I caught them in the act. I check his pulse. He is alive, but unconscious. I turn my attention to my hooker friend. I speak to her softly.
“Hailey?” She goes by the street name Cookie, but we had become friends from the many nights I had come back after working late or snuck out of my apartment to get away from my mom. I would talk to her while she was not busy “conducting business” and she and I hit it off. She told me her real name and her life story over the past year. “Hailey?” I say again as I gently touch her bloodied face. Her left eye socket is now purple and drastically damaged. Her eye is swollen shut and it looks as if her nose is broken. “This guy did a real number on you.” She is beautiful. She is close to my age, but she looks like she is in her mid-twenties. Right now, she looks like she is near death. I have studied many anatomy books and have a very good understanding of medicine, but not good enough.
I know she needs more medical attention than I can offer, especially because we are in an alley with no medical equipment. I am one of the few kids that do not have a cell phone so I have no way of calling for help. I check her neck and find no trauma there. It seems to be localized to her face and upper torso, but I’m just guessing. I decide to risk picking her up because the risk of death seems greater if I leave her to get help. I do not feel confident that I can pick her up without doing more damage, but at this point it is a risk I have to take.
I put my book bag back on m
y shoulder before I pick her up. I only give a momentary thought to getting help for the man who I put on the ground. I decide that he can be left to his own fate and leave him. I put her limp arm over my shoulder and lift her like cradling a small child. Only this is not a small child and her limp body is like a dead weight. My back is strong and it is not the first time I have had to lift a person who is unconscious. My mother saw to that training by her many drunken episodes. However, this is different I am filled with a sense of concern for Hailey as I quicken my pace. Her breathing is ragged and shallow. I fear that she has internal bleeding. I make it to the street and get a cab to stop. I open the door carefully.
“Hey kid where ya…” the man looks back as I scoot in while I hold the unconscious and bloody body of my hooker friend. “What the hell kid!? You can’t bring her in here.” The cabbie seems flustered and concerned only with his own cab and possibly his own safety. He shifts his glance from me to her to the street to see if there was anyone else around that he should be on the lookout for.
Hailey’s blood was now smeared on my neck, hands, and white shirt. I shift my grip so that I could continue cradling her neck and head while reaching around to grab my wallet. I pull out a fifty-dollar bill. “Mount Sinai.” I say with urgency as I hand him the money. “Cabs are quicker than waiting for an ambulance. Please just start driving!” My eyes meet his gaze. He seems to consider me for only a moment before he takes the money and pulls out into traffic.
4
Jane: Into the dark
I strain to open the stubborn door. It creaks and groans under the force of my waning strength. I get it open an inch and then a gust of wind takes hold of the opening like a drunk man at last call trying to get one last drink. The door swings violently outward and slams into the side of the building with a resounding metal on metal BANG. The force of the door being jerked open slings me to the ground. I hear the crutches clatter on the ground next to me as I land. I feel pain, cold and bright as buffed steel, slam into me. “AHHH!” I scream as my hand reaches down to instinctively put pressure over my gunshot. I involuntarily start to tear up. So much for stealth. Orion is immediately by my side and nuzzling me as if to try to take my pain. He is a big dog, possibly over 100 pounds. He maneuvers his massive head under my free arm and helps me get to a sitting position. I reorient myself and reach for my crutches.
“Hey boy.” I wipe my tears away and scratch behind Orion’s ears. He licks my face. I feel the warmth of his tongue and realize that he must be trying to clean away something from my face. I must be in worse shape than I thought. No time to worry about that right now. Orion continues to care for me in his way. I force myself to get back on my feet. I look around. The moon is up. My best guess is that it is late at night right now. I do not know exactly how long it will be before first light. I get back to the door and close it. I feel weak from the ordeal, but I will myself to keep going. I am cold now. The wind feels like it is going right through me. I know that it is cold, but not cold enough to chill me in the way that I feel. Shock. My body is going into shock. I look around and notice other buildings in the distance. It looks like a decommissioned military base. There is another hanger not too far away. I start making my way toward it. Orion stays by my side the entire way, silently watching and sniffing the air. He does not seem to be on guard and that gives me hope.
After what seems like an eternity, I make it to the next building. I open the door. This one opens easier and Orion enters first then sits waiting for me to enter. I am fighting the urge to pass out. I cannot tell if my vision is getting darker, but I am seeing spots. My throat is parched and my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. I know that I am dehydrated even with the recent consumption of water. Let’s see what is behind door number 2. I remember the popular phrase, but I cannot place why or from where I got it. It just feels like the perfect quippy thing to think right now. I enter the building and close the door behind me. There are several vehicles here and there is more illumination from the moon light streaming in from what seem to be openings in the roof above me. These vehicles are covered in dust. There is one at the far-right corner of the building that seems to have less dust. These vehicles are the M35 Deuce and half and each has a covered back cargo area. I have no idea how I know this, but I instinctively know that is what they are. I make it to the one that looks the least dirty because I figure it will be the most likely to actually run. I look in the back and see two green wooden crates. I do not have the strength to get up into the back of the truck to inspect them, but it looks as if they would hold the unit’s rifles and flack vests. Why would I know that? I wonder if I am military. All of this stuff feels right and I seem to know my ordinance. Hell, I say things like ordinance.
I smile at this thought and make my way to the front of the vehicle and open the door. I toss my crutches up into the cab while holding onto the side. Orion takes a look at me and then trots over to a dark corner and returns with a wired box with 3 buttons. The wire runs to the corner where Orion had gone to. I see the words etched into the big buttons, “Open. Close. Stop.” I pet Orion’s head as I take the box out of his mouth. “Holy crap. You are one smart pup.” I say quietly and watch Orion’s tail start to wag. I study my dog. It seems as if he is endowed with intelligence that would be unexpected from most college students. Then again, I am biased.
I press the “Open” button. Orion jumps up into the cab of the Deuce and a half. I lower the box to the ground using the wire that it is attached to. I climb up into the cab and start to see spots again, but on the upside, I feel less pain right now. I know that this could be more of a problem than feeling the pain. There is no key to turn just a red button for a push start. I press the button. Please, please, please. The engine turns over, but does not start. I try one more time. The truck sputters to life and a dark plume of exhaust appears from the pipe next to the door.
I push down on the clutch with my bad leg and grit my teeth as I put it into first gear. I feel the truck start to move as I push down on the gas and release the clutch at the same time. The truck lurches forward and I bounce from the springs under the seats as I move forward out of the building. I turn toward a roadway that I had noticed on my way to the hangar. It seems to go deeper into the base and my intuition pushes me to believe that I will be able to find help or at the very least a medical building in this direction. The thrum of the old engine is like an audible salve for my mind. There is something comforting about being surrounded with this much metal and being on the move. I shift into second gear and watch as Orion keeps his focus outside the passenger window. We start to move a bit faster now. I return my focus to the road. It has grass working its way through the pavement. The over growth is amazing. It seems as if nature has been trying to reclaim a small city and is now succeeding. The broken-up asphalt makes for a bumpy ride.
As I look at the many delipidated buildings, I hear Orion start to produce a very low growl. The hair on the back of my neck immediately starts to stand on end and I look over. For a moment, I swear that I can see a figure sneaking around the edge of a building as we drive past. I decide to quicken my pace and slam the truck into third gear. My body screams at me for the sudden movement, but I ignore the pain as a new rush of adrenalin kicks in. As I drive, I make sure that my gun is easily accessible. I glance at my side mirrors and see nothing.
Orion glances over to me only for a moment before shifting his gaze to my side of the vehicle and bearing his teeth while growling again. I do not hesitate. I simply grab my gun and point it out my window as I push the gas pedal down, hard. I dare to look out to see something moving fast toward the truck. I look back at the speedometer as I press my foot down further. Forty miles per hour. How the hell is that possible? I look back and see the being keeping pace with me and closing in on the truck. I adjust my aim slightly and fire once. The sound is deafening. I see the head of the fast moving being snap back. I hit it. No person could move that fast, but what I saw looked like a man that had been run
ning at me. Then, he is gone just as quickly as he had appeared. My ears are ringing and my eyes involuntarily water from the sudden shock of the noise. Thirteen rounds left. I take mental stock of my ammunition situation and realize that I may need to inspect the boxes in the back of this truck and hope for some weaponry.
We continue on for a few more minutes, going down the twisting road and blowing through old four-way stop signs that seem to have no meaning in this place. The truck bounces and moves at an accelerated pace. I ease up on the gas pedal only slightly as I push myself to stay on the roadway and scan the buildings for any more signs of life while also looking for any signs of a medical facility. Then I see it in the distance, a building that seems a bit more cared for and the foliage seems to be less grown over. I slow the truck down and grit my teeth again as I down shift twice. I take the truck out of gear completely and used the break to come to a complete stop.
The building seems a bit newer than the other structures and most likely has been used this year at some point, but I have my doubts that the use came from any military personnel. There is graffiti along one of the walls and across the entrance to the building. The medical cross symbol above the door has words spray painted over the front. I read the words scrawled above the door and find it darkly humorous, “Abandon hope all ye who enter”. Fitting I suppose, but I have hope enough to enter. The doors are chained and padlocked shut. I grimace at the task of breaking into the building, but I know that if I am to go on breathing I must get it done.
I realize that stealth is no longer on the table and consider my options. I could bash the door with the truck or connect the cable from the front to the chain and rip it out. This may be problematic if I need to barricade myself in the building. I decide against these options. Instead, I take my gun and point it at the padlock and fire. Twelve rounds left. The sound echoes through the seemingly abandoned area. The lock explodes and is no longer functional. I easily manipulate the lock so that it falls to the ground and then unwrap the chain from the handles of the door. I hobble inside with Orion at my side.