Damaged

by McCombs, Troy

  He pulled a jar out of his pocket and unscrewed the lid. Inside was a rag soaked in Chloroform. The smell of the stuff from three feet away was enough to make him dizzy. He took out the rag, put the cap back on, and wedged the jar back into his pocket.

  Looking back through the opening, he realized he had to use his flashlight. It was better than fumbling around in the dark, searching for a tainted human being who could break him. Then again, he thought he probably could have found his way to Pete just by following the stench his horrible body odor.

  As soon as Adam turned the light-head, the beam landed right on Pete's ugly, miserable face. He was lying on a mattress on the floor, mouth partially open, his tongue hanging out like a dog’s. The boy's face, in Adam's eyes, looked far kinder and far more disgusting in slumber. He didn't look like a roughneck now, but he sure as hell didn't look more attractive. He was already fast into Rapid Eye Movement sleep, as Adam could see by his moving eyelids, probably dreaming of beating him up.

  Not tonight.

  Adam took a deep breath, held it, and eased his left leg through the opening. His heel brushed against something hard and solid—a desk. He put his weight on it, slowly at first, to make sure it didn't fall apart like the rest of their crumbling house.

  Once stable, Adam slid under the arch, light still aimed at the pig-boy on the bed. Inch by inch, the assailant entered. Pete didn't move, but he twitched in his sleep. Adam held onto the light and Chloroform-soaked rag for his life.

  There was a sound.

  Adam didn't know what it was… someone who’d spotted him creeping in? Pete flying upright and pointing a finger? A bomb going off?

  It was him knocking over a cup of pencils on the desk.

  Adam clenched his teeth and looked over at Pete.

  But nothing had changed … except for a pencil rolling across the table pretty loudly. Adam reached for it in the dark, forgetting he had a flashlight. Instead of stopping the noisemaker, he knocked it off the desk, across the room, where it fell down into an air-vent.

  That's got to wake him.

  Pete actually snored louder after the fact.

  The pit bull upstairs, however, knew something was wrong. It could smell a foreign odor, could hear unfamiliar sounds. It started barking the way Muffy did whenever someone moseyed by the McNicols’ house.

  Adam wanted to get out of here A.S.A.P.

  Once he stepped onto the floor, he realized he had forgotten one crucial detail in tonight's mission:

  How in the fuck do I get this 168 pound stink-ball out to the wagon?

  Without stopping to analyze the question, he shoved the pungent rag doused in Chloroform over Pete's nose.

  Pete's struggle was far more potent than Erica's. He lashed at Adam like a wild animal, hitting him, poking him, pushing him in the mask-face with his rough hands. Adam was dazed once but fought back. He jumped on and straddled the bully and would not let go.

  "G—you mother—fuck—" Pete tried to say. "Get the—I'm gonna—" He swung at Adam's face, but the mask was so thick it absorbed the shock from most of the blows. He was strong. He almost upset Adam's balance twice.

  The dog upstairs went crazy now, turning the house into an uproar with its ferocious howls. Adam knew it was only a matter of time before someone would open the basement door and flip on the light.

  If only the Chloroform would work! Hurry!

  “You stup—I'll—You're—"

  Pete's flailing arms were losing power. His eyes started to roll, normalize, roll, normalize, roll. He was going back to sleep, whether he wanted to or not.

  The dog ran back and forth. Dust from the upper floorboards fell onto Adam's shoulders. Harder, heavier footfalls came from above. "I don't know what the fuck he's barking at. Shut up, mutt!" Pete's dad shouted from the upstairs. "All right, Charlie, shut up! I'm going to check it out! Fuck sakes, dog."

  More heavy footfalls…

  Adam turned his head turned toward the stairs. He was still smothering Pete, but did not know that Pete was even out by now. The victim had been out for several seconds. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were open and lifeless.

  Adam's second victim. He looked down at him, at it.

  The footfalls from above went back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes they got a little too close to the door at the top of the basement steps. The dog howled, barked, ran. Adam leaned over, situated Pete's limp, heavy body over his shoulder, and turned.

  The basement door flung open. The shadow of a tall, thick, bearded man towered the steps like an evil king. He held a long, narrow solid object in his hand. Adam didn't know whether it was a gun, a baseball bat, or an ax.

  Not wanting to find out, he made way for the window. As he did, the figure began to descend the stairs. "Ey, Pete? Pete, ya doon hea? Pete, the damn dog was'a barkin—"

  The light came on. The man saw someone or something carrying away what he thought was his dead son. A split second before he could make out any details about the child abductor, Adam spun around so quickly, one of Pete's inanimate arms swung around and extinguished the only light bulb that lit the room.

  The man dropped the baseball bat and ran back upstairs and into his bedroom, where he yanked a shotgun off the wall. His nervous hands shoved a shell into one barrel and another shell into the other. His thumb cocked the hammer.

  Meanwhile, Adam climbed out through the window alone, then pulled Pete's body out behind him. He dragged the limp body across the messy lawn toward the wagon and manhole.

  "Call the cops, Mary!" Pete's father said to his wife. She did just that.

  A cock of the gun. A march toward the front door.

  Adam threw his things down into the sewer—even his wagon, which crashed off the ladder poles and slammed to the concrete below. Draping his heavy mortal enemy over his shoulder, Adam turned back to the house. All the lights inside were on now. He watched as a shadowy figure walked past the window toward the front door.

  Pete's father approached, reached, grabbed, pulled. Shotgun drawn, he met with wintery night. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Besides his dog Charlie, not a whimper could he hear for miles. Where the hell did they ...

  Adam climbed down the first few rungs, lost his balance, and fell the rest of the way. Pete's body fell on top of him. A heavy, soft weight.

  Uninjured but alarmed, Adam's gaze locked onto the closed manhole cover. He didn't know if the man had seen him come down here or not. Either way, he had to flee. This was too close a call.

  Both boys flew through the pipes, one awake and paranoid, the other dangling unconscious out of a toy wagon. Adam listened closely for any footfalls or “Hey, you's!” The place was as he'd left it—bare and black.

  Rats went one way while he went the other. The stench of shit filled his lungs. Pipes dinged like broken washers. Adam had an even harder time finding his way back. The flashlight beam was weakening. His home was half an hour away.

  Next time I'll mark my way.

  He stopped at every intersection and spent far too much time to decide which path to take. He was anything but calm. He could hear the blood flow throbbing in his ears. This place was a maze.

  "Fuck!" he said, looking right, left, back, forward. So many directions. Pete would not sleep forever, and he knew that. He just hoped the dirty fuck would have a terrible hangover and be unable to fight.

  "I love you, Adam!"

  Adam swung around, startled. It was Erin's voice.

  Was it real? Was she—no, can't be.

  "Adam, go to school, please," his mother said, from another direction.

  Adam turned. There was nobody. "You're hearing things,” he told himself.

  "Don't forget to—" his mother started to say.

  Adam clutched the wagon handle and took off in the direction away from the voices. Five paces in, he saw the landmark: a piece of broken videotape. He was now on the right path.

  Huffing and puffing, and his wagon bouncing noisily, he rounded the corners like he finally kn
ew where he was going. The flashlight beam was fading quickly, so he ran as fast as he could without tripping or upsetting the wagon. Pete was beginning to groan faintly, but Adam couldn't hear him. Pete’s mind was so foggy that he didn't realize anything was wrong yet.

  Adam picked up the pace. He wanted to torture the flashlight batteries now more than Pete. The darkness was winning, and Adam was afraid of it conquering his plan.

  If this light burns out, I'm stuck down here in absolute darkness with Pete. About a hundred more things could go wrong then.

  "What is going on?" Pete asked.

  Adam stopped and turned around.

  "What da fuck are you?" Pete mumbled, voice rocky, totally out of it.

  Adam did not speak. He did not want him to hear his voice, just in case he got away and could identify him.

  "It's fucking freaky and all that jazz."

  Adam took out the bottle of Chloroform and opened it.

  "Hey, what's—" His eyes closed. He went back to snoring. Adam removed the soaked rag anyway and placed it over Pete’s face for a full minute, just to make sure.

  On he continued. He had to slow down a little, for the light was growing very dim, and he didn't want to stumble face-first into a concrete wall. The wagon was no longer visible. Hardly anything was visible anymore.

  Until he turned right, under a shaft of streetlight shining down through a sewer grate. This much needed light illuminated a sizable chunk of the tunnel, giving him a clear indication of where he was and how far he needed to go.

  I can see Mrs. Brimerly's station wagon up there!

  He was approximately one block shy from his lair. He didn't know it, but during his return, he'd taken a shortcut.

  ***

  He returned home three minutes later, sealed the wall-door, and pulled off his mask and his pillow out from under his shirt. Afterward, he tied Pete to an old chair in the basement and threw a bucket of cold water in his face.

  He woke up. He looked quite comfortable at first, like he was home with his friends and family. The Chloroform was still affecting him, in addition to the bottle of liquor he'd drunk at eight.

  "What's—wait a minute," he said, slowly starting to realize that something was out of place. Adam towered over him.

  "Do you know why you're here?" Adam asked.

  "What, when did—hey, I know you!"

  Adam snickered. "And I know you. I know where you live; I know that you're trailer trash. Dirtball. Idiot. Bully."

  Pete tugged at the twine wrapped around his bound wrists. "Hey, let me outta here, man. Come on. I don't like this—what are you doing? What the fuck's—where am I?"

  "You're in my basement. Do you know Erica Janson? From Blake High School? The one they found floating without skin in the river?"

  Pete finally caught on. "You're the one? It was you who—?"

  Adam nodded. "And tonight, your waste of a corpse is going to be floating away like a piece of shit. I'll give you a few minutes to prepare yourself, and then I got to return the favor." Adam didn't want him to prepare for death; he wanted to watch him react to the brutal fact that he knew he was going to die. Suffer, then die.

  "You're fuckin’ crazy."

  "No. I'm just. I'm making the world fair. People like you make me sick. I've never done a wrong thing to you, and since middle school, what have you done?"

  "Come on, I was just fucking around—"

  "And I'm fucking serious! There are two types of people in school—those that treat others like shit and those that absorb the punishment. When people like you—the bullies—get out of school, you move on in life. People like me don't. We're haunted till the day we die because of the pain you put into us. Some victims drink themselves stupid for the rest of their lives, do drugs, kill ourselves, or reflect on everything wrong. Most of us don't know it, but our pain is the result of leftover abuse from people like you. We walk blindly through life in agony, trying to fix the hole in our heart. All of us die sad, clueless, alone, and people like you live life any fucking way you want to. It's true—you rule the world and yet you destroy it."

  "This is a big fuckin’ joke, ain't it? Come on out, guys, this isn't funny anymore." Pete laughed.

  Adam didn’t. "It was never meant to be. You see that electric drill over there?" Adam pointed to the drill lying on the concrete ledge. There was a quarter-inch bit sticking out of the drill. "That drill is going to puncture your skin, make you bleed, and make you scream."

  "Come on out, guys!" Pete said, more seriously.

  "Nobody's coming for you. Nobody knows where you are. Do you know how I get away without being seen? I got a path to the sewer system, and I got disguises. I could do this till I'm ninety and not be caught. You simply disappear. Then you're found dead."

  "Come on, guys, come out!"

  "Stop it."

  "I know this is a gag!" Pete said, voice quivering.

  "You want me to prove this to you? ‘Cause I'll do it now!" Adam raised his voice. "Y'know, I can get the show on the road, if you want, jerk off. But you know what? I like that twinkle of fear in your eyes, that desperation in your voice. It makes me know that you feel what you made me feel. I never wanted to cry every day since the sixth grade, or cut up my arm because I hated who I was. I'm sure you don't want to die, but it's really your own fault. All you ever had to do was treat me with respect. That's it. You could have even ignored me and you wouldn't be here right now."

  Tears filled Pete’s eyes. He was completely still for a moment. "You can't do this to me! If my dad finds out, he'll blow your head off."

  "I want to know something. Why did you treat me the way you did?"

  "He'll find you sometime, eventually, and you'll be sorry. I swear to God."

  "Why do you hate me? Why did you do what you did to me in middle school and high school?"

  Pete looked down, then up again. "I'm sorry. I was—"

  Adam interrupted, "I don't want to hear you apologize! I want to know the reason!"

  "I don't know why. I don't."

  "Bullshit. There were other kids in school, and you picked on me the most."

  Pete was perspiring like a greased pig. Adam could smell him. Gross.

  "Well, anyway, since America's law system is screwed up to high hell and lets people go free after they tease and torment someone like me—I think we're ready." Adam walked over to the ledge by an old wheelbarrow, picked up the power drill, and plugged it in. Pete watched him the whole time.

  "What are you doing with that, man?"

  "You sound like you want to be my friend now. Friends?" Adam walked over to him and extended his hand for a shake. "Oh, that's right, your hands are tied up!" Adam laughed, then spat right in Pete's face. "We'll never be friends, you dirty redneck. All would have been different if you weren't a mistake."

  "Let me go, man. Come on!" Pete bounced around in the chair like Chunk in The Goonies.

  Adam held up the drill, smiled, and pressed the button. The shiny bit rolled. Pete's eyes were equally as shiny. Petrified, he urinated in his pants. Adam immediately smelled it. "Oh, God, you got to be kidding me. And I thought you were a hardass! My first victim went number two, and my second victim went number one!" He laughed. "Well, enough dicking around."

  A single tear rolled down Pete's cheek. That drill looked far too menacing.

  "Tonight, on Thursday night, at 2:44 A.M., Pete North will be put to death for the sins of abuse. Have you anything to say?"

  Pete could not utter a groan.

  Adam said, "Do you remember the first time I saw you? Or you saw me? Sixth grade playground. I was standing alone by the bleachers, drinking a chocolate milk. You snuck up behind me, knocked the milk out of my hand, smacked me upside the head, and punched me pretty damn hard in the arm, which caused a bruise the next day… then you walked away with your 'cool' friends, laughing?"

  "I am sorry."

  "Do you remember?"

  "I am so sorry, man."

  "I asked you if you reme
mbered! I didn't ask how you felt!"

  Pete never looked away from the pointy drill bit. Is he really going to kill me?

  "No, I don't remember."

  "Well I do. It happened. It made me feel like shit." Adam pushed and held in the button. The growl of the motor filled the basement. The spiraling bit rolled over at top speed. Adam slowly brought it toward Pete's horrified face.

  "No. No. No!"

  "Yes!"

  It came closer, closer… until it was an inch from his eye. Pete tilted his head back as far as it would go. Adam's finger came off the trigger and the drill silenced. He burst out laughing.

  Pete stared at him, unsure… then he smiled and laughed with Adam. "I knew it was a joke! I knew it! Come on out, guys, joke's over."

  Pete continued laughing, but Adam stopped, stabbed the button, and shoved the screaming bit into Pete's right shoulder—the same spot where he'd punched Adam three years ago. The victim’s laughs switched to screams. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Like being pinched by a power-lifter with stone-hard fingers dipped in molten metal.

  "Mothafucka!"

  Adam immediately stopped the torture. Pete’s outcry was far too loud, so he let go of the power-drill and went for the Duct tape. The drill dangled heavily out of Pete's arm.

  "Please, somebody, help me! Please!"

  The appalling sound of tape stretching… then the terrifying sight of a maniac coming forward with a makeshift muzzle….

  "No! No! No! Noooo!"

  Adam wrapped the tape around his head numerous times, cutting off some of Pete's circulation. "Shut the fuck up, pussy!" Adam demanded. "How's it feel? I said how's it feel!"