No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  The Ox smiled and advanced again, his beady eyes shifting, gauging the distance, trying to drive Shaw up against the wall. Shaw sidestepped and the Ox mirrored the movement, nimble and agile, deceptive for his size.

  The man came at Shaw again, low and hunkered, all spittle and froth like a Rottweiler with rabies, beyond anger, beyond rage, beyond human.

  Shaw moved, fast and low, towards the Ox not away. Shaw drove at him head on, meeting the Ox before he could react, closing the gap in a split second. Shaw realized his best form of defense was attack and he collided with the Ox, driving his shoulder and head straight into his midsection, aiming for the solar plexus just below the rib cage, a complex web of nerve endings around the diaphragm.

  The Ox grunted as the air rushed out of his lungs, but he didn’t go down, just staggered backwards, pulling Shaw with him, his hands digging into Shaw’s sides. He lifted Shaw almost vertical, head down, feet up and threw him sideways into the wall.

  Shaw hit the wall hard in a tangle of arms and legs, then bounced off and he fell in a heap in the dirt.

  The crowd cheered in appreciation. Finally they were starting to see some violence.

  Billy Morgan looked down from the edge and smiled. The twisted body of Shaw lay unmoving and Billy was relishing the pain and suffering the Ox was inflicting on Shaw. Billy wanted it to be slow and drawn out, not a quick kill. Beat the man senseless, take him to the edge of death then pull him back from the abyss, allow him to recover just a bit then go again. Beat, recover, repeat. Billy liked that. Slowly break every limb one at a time and then finally crush his skull, but only when Billy gave the nod. These were the instructions he had whispered into the Ox’s ear while they stood waiting for Shaw to descend into the Pit.

  Shaw still hadn’t moved, but Billy could see he was still breathing.

  Good. Don’t die yet on me. I have plans for you.

  Billy looked around. People were cheering and engrossed in the fight, and he felt a tinge of pride. These were his people, his community, his gathering. He had formed strong ties with most of the influential people here, paving the way for when he would take over the family business.

  He looked over at his father. Jim Morgan was deep in conversion with a senior county official and the Chief of Police. Soon it would be Billy talking in their ear, getting them to bend to his will, not his father's. All in good time. His father was a good businessman and Billy had been a good student, but being the next in line had made him restless. He wanted it now, he wanted the power. His father was soft though, too soft. Billy would make sure as head of the family he would be more ruthless.

  Jim Morgan caught his son looking at him across the expanse of the Pit. He raised his glass and Billy nodded, and smiled back. Soon, very soon. He would put his father into the Pit with the Ox. Now that would make good viewing. He could sell tickets to that event when it happened.

  Billy clapped his hands and joined with the others yelling abuse at the slumped shape of Shaw. “Get up! Get up and fight like a man!” he screamed at the top of his voice.

  No one yet had fallen into the Pit by accident, but looking around Billy was keen to push a few of the people he saw off the edge. Maybe when his dogs were in the Pit.

  Once, when his father was away on business, Billy and his brothers had picked up two girls hitchhiking just outside of Hays. After plying them with booze and drugs they took them to the old tin shed. The Morgan brothers called it “dessert.” As like all the others they had taken there, the entire event had been recorded for future private distribution amongst Billy’s network of friends, people who appreciated such art and had a taste for such pleasures. After Billy, Jed and Rory had taken multiple turns, the girls were thrown unconscious into the back of the pickup truck, covered and driven back to the Morgan compound. The girls awoke in the Pit and were confronted by two of Billy’s attack dogs, a vicious breed of Italian Mastiff called the Cane Corso. The dogs were specially bred by Billy. They had a sleek muscular body, a large aggressive head and powerful jaws that could chew through a human leg in seconds. Each dog weighed over 110 pounds of muscle, gristle and teeth, the perfect four-legged killing machine. Illegal in most states, but Billy had six of them, and had put two in the Pit with the girls. That was a special video they filmed that night in the Pit, the Morgan brothers never shared it with anyone else.

  “Get up!” Billy screamed again. He could see Shaw starting to move.

  The Ox was standing back waiting.

  Good.

  He may be a half-wit, but he listened to instructions very well.

  To his right, Billy could see his brother hunched behind the camera tripod, his eye behind the viewfinder, his mouth spread in a wide grin just below the camera.

  This was a far better spectacle than using the girl they had locked up for this. She would have been no sport for the Ox and the guests would have been disappointed. But Billy had other plans for her after this. Once they cleaned up the mess of what was left of Shaw, Billy and his two other brothers were going for a little dessert to conclude the evening’s entertainment. And what a sweet little piece of dessert she was, locked away ready and waiting.

  Blood dribbled down from a cut above Shaw’s eye and his nose was bleeding, thick velvety drops fell to the dirt. He slowly got to one knee and looked up. At the sight of his bloody face the audience broke into a frenzy, a crescendo of manic screams and blood-lust cries. Grown men and women, adults, people in positions of public office and civic responsibility, reduced to a guttural mob craving senseless violence.

  The Ox stood his ground, he didn’t move, waiting, watching Shaw, allowing him to regain his senses and slowly get to his feet.

  Shaw was shaky at first, his legs like jelly, his vision out of focus, the scene tilting left then right. Slowly his vision cleared, he expected the Ox to be on him. But the giant just stood there, ten feet away, just watching him.

  It was then Shaw understood. His was to be a slow and excruciating death at the hands of the sloth, a deliberately long and drawn out exhibition to thrill the crowd and more importantly, appease the Morgan family for the intrusion he had brought upon them.

  41

  The air was brittle and cold. Clouds rolled above, scattering then reforming across the face of the moon, threatening more rain. Lighting arced in the distance, in the direction where Daisy was heading.

  She had hit Giles across the jaw with the butt of her Winchester, knocking him out cold. Then she checked the handcuffs were secure, reapplied a fresh strip of duct tape to his mouth and locked the basement door. She quickly secured the homestead, but left all the lights blazing. She thought about saddling up Jazz for the journey, but in the dark and with the recent deluge of rain the ground would be treacherous, and she didn’t want her horse to sprain a leg or, worse still, break a bone.

  She donned a heavy, waterproof hooded anorak, grabbed a flashlight and with her Winchester set off down the road past the barn and along the shared boundary fence. She had never shot anything at night, but she knew she needed a weapon. Her phone was in her back pocket and she still hadn’t heard back from Callie.

  Her mind swirled as she hurried along the road, the comforting lights of the homestead shrinking in the distance behind her, the dark and unknown in front of her.

  She was in a foul mood as she trudged along the road, her flashlight sweeping low, her mood worse than the storms brewing again in the distance. She knew where the old access gate was, but she was seething that the Morgans were using it to drive on to her property like they owned the place. First spying on her with their drone and now this. God knows what they had done while she was away in town or at night when she was asleep.

  She soon came to the old gate and immediately regretted not having chained and locked it before. At least then, if it had been removed or tampered with, she would have known. She slid through the rails and took her bearings. She needed to follow a straight line about a mile or so out from the gate and the shed should be on her right. That�
��s what Giles had said.

  The clouds cleared for a moment and the moon cast a watery glow across the terrain. In the distance the faint outline of low hills cut across the horizon. Beyond them lay the Morgan compound.

  Daisy set off, trudging across the sodden ground that was rutted with pools of water and muddy from the downpour. She pulled her jacket around her and found comfort in the feel of her rifle in her hand.

  A few times she lost her footing when her feet sunk unexpectedly into a large puddle, but she kept going, sloshing through until she reached solid ground. She paused and took her bearings again. She couldn’t see the fence line behind her, but she could just make out the lights of her homestead. It looked infinitely small and distant, and she suddenly felt so alone in the dark.

  She turned and pressed on, determined to find Callie and put an end to this madness.

  * * *

  The Ox still hadn’t moved and Shaw used a few more precious seconds to shake off the mild concussion he suffered and assess his injuries. His shoulder ached deep to the bone. It had taken the full impact when he hit the wall, but thankfully there were no broken bones, yet. The feeling was returning to his wrist and he massaged it as he carefully watched the Ox.

  Then the Ox hunkered down again and rushed at Shaw, his face wild, hands balled, bone-hard knuckles. Shaw waited until the last moment then pivoted hard, just managing to avoid the freight-train as it swept past him.

  The crowd cheered, enjoying the bullfighters move.

  The Ox skidded and turned as Shaw leapt up and forward, throwing a flying elbow at his face, catching a cheekbone and opening up a deep gash. Crimson poured down, hot and wet.

  The Ox lashed out in anger, a wild swing. Shaw stepped inside, brought his arm up, stopping the bone-jarring blow before it reached its full momentum. Pain bloomed in Shaw’s forearm, the blow almost breaking it. He quickly retreated away from the giant. But Shaw had to keep going, moving and delivering strikes as best he could, letting his adrenaline and his own fear numb the pain.

  When your opponent outweighs you, is bigger and stronger, the anatomical weak points become your only hope: the eyes, throat, groin, joints of the limbs, those soft tissue areas where nerve-endings bunch together.

  Shaw stepped back in, bringing his knee up aiming for the groin, praying it would connect. He extended his hip and drove it straight up between the Ox’s legs and deep into the pelvic bone.

  The Ox screamed, an inhuman shriek, and collapsed forward on top of Shaw, driving him downwards under his own massive weight into the dirt. His hands grasped Shaw around his neck for balance then started to squeeze.

  He had Shaw’s throat in a vice and was slowly squeezing the life out of him. The Ox got to his feet, lifting Shaw off the ground by his throat, his feet dangling. Shaw clawed desperately at the Ox's hands, but they were iron-clamped.

  The Ox looked up at Billy Morgan, who gave a subtle shake of his head.

  The Ox turned in rage and flung Shaw through the air.

  Shaw cart-wheeled then clipped the edge of the bonfire, before tumbling across the dirt, a plume of cinders and a scatter of burning logs in his wake. Shaw fell awkwardly on his ankle and a twist of sharp pain shot up his shin and leg.

  The Ox grunted and slowly lumbered towards him. Shaw struggled to his feet, his ankle screaming in agony as soon as he placed weight on it. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain as he hobbled backwards. He picked up a small half-burning log in his hand, one end glowed orange, the embers crackling and hissing.

  The crowd roared, the end was coming, money at minimal odds would be won.

  The Ox pushed forward, closing the gap, forcing Shaw closer to the wall, cutting off his angles of escape. In desperation Shaw lunged forward, swinging the burning end of the log at the Ox’s head. The Ox easily battered it away with a meaty hand, and the log burst into charred smoking fragments.

  Shaw limped backwards and felt the wall behind him.

  The Ox loomed in his vision, blocking out everything, hands extended, drooling face grinning.

  Shaw tried to slide along the wall, dragging his ankle through the dirt, but the Ox cut off his movement. Shaw threw another punch, sluggish and obvious. It was feeble and he knew it.

  The Ox caught Shaw’s fist in midair, swallowing it up in his massive hand like a catcher's mitt, fingers closed around it, and he began to crush Shaw’s hand.

  The pain was immense and Shaw dropped to one knee, struggling to pull his hand out The Ox leaned over him, his head inches from his face. Shaw made a fist with his free hand and swung a hook into the side of the Ox’s head repeatedly hitting it, but the Ox just kept smiling, and squeezed harder. Each successive punch from Shaw faded in intensity until it was reduced to a pitiful slap.

  The Ox drew his other hand back, his fist a mass of hardened bone, calloused knuckle and scarred flesh.

  Shaw struggled to break free. He was about to get punched by a human pile driver, a one-punch kill. Helpless, he brought his arm up across his face, protecting his head, but he knew even if he could block the first punch, his forearm would surely shatter and the second punch would find its mark.

  The punch drove through the air straight into Shaw’s shoulder, not his face, dislocating it. Shaw collapsed onto his back in pain, his shoulder hideously deformed by the dislocation.

  The Ox looked down at the crippled man and felt no remorse. He wished he could have killed him the other night in the parking lot, except the woman with the gun had turned up. She had spoilt everything. But Billy had told him that if he followed exactly his instructions tonight, then he would get a treat, a special reward. He had pulled him aside before he went into the Pit and said that he had a woman for him, a nice woman that he would like. Billy said he could have her all to himself.

  The Ox never had a woman before.

  Never.

  He had seen the videos though that Billy and his brothers had shown him, so he knew what to do. He was happy they had shown him the videos. Now he knew what to do once they gave him the woman, how to treat her right, just like how Billy and his brothers had treated the girls on the videos.

  Billy also said that he and his brothers were going to get her from the big metal box and take her to that special place after he killed the man. They would take him there too. Then he would star in his own video, just like Billy.

  He liked that a lot. Maybe even more than killing this man now.

  The Ox raised his arms and yelled.

  The crowd yelled back.

  He glanced up at Billy again.

  Billy smiled, but this time gave a tiny nod.

  Now.

  42

  The Ox grabbed Shaw by the ankle, the injured one, and dragged him towards the bonfire. He was going to crush his spine first then throw him into the bonfire to slowly burn. What a sight it would be. It was a special request from Billy and the Ox didn’t want to disappoint Billy. The Ox wanted his treat.

  Letting go of the ankle, he grabbed Shaw under the arms in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground, his body limp and lifeless, and began to squeeze him.

  Shaw couldn’t breathe. Pain tore across his chest and back. His lungs burned, starved of air. He could feel acute pain pierce his vertebrae like metal spears being inserted.

  Kill him. Kill him now! Voices screamed at Shaw, his vision started to fray at the edges, darken then collapse inwards. The pain was devouring him, he could feel his spine bending.

  Kill him! The voice again. His voice, telling him what to do, the only option available.

  Shaw gritted his teeth, swallowing the pain and brought his hands up. He grabbed each side of the massive head in front of him and drove his thumbs as hard and as deep as he could into each eye socket.

  The Ox shook his head violently, but Shaw held on, driving his thumbs harder, deeper into the eye sockets, in and behind the orbs. The iron grip around Shaw’s chest faltered, and Shaw gulped in a breath of air, and poured on what strength he had left, puncturing the s
oft gelatinous orb of each eyeball until they popped out in a vitreous dribble of fluid, membrane and a ribbon of optic nerve.

  The Ox screamed and let go of Shaw. He clutched his empty eye sockets, each eye a saggy mush in the dirt at his feet, two hollow pits in his face, blood streaming down his cheeks.

  Shaw staggered to his feet, heaving precious air into his lungs.

  The Ox teetered in front of him. Blind and in agony, clawing at the hollow pits where his eyes had been. Shaw crouched and sprung forward off his good leg, driving his head into the giant’s gut. The Ox stumbled backwards and lost his footing, his heels catching on the loose logs near the edge of the bonfire, and he tumbled into the thermal of flames and red-hot embers.

  The crowd went silent, stunned, confused, in disbelief.

  Shaw staggered back and watched as the flames engulfed the man thrashing about, his struggles burying him deeper under the mass of burning logs, his body catching fire like a human torch. Flames rippled across his flesh, melting his shape, his struggles lessening as the fire consumed him.

  Then all movement stopped, and black smoke billowed from the charred, frozen shape in the center of the bonfire.

  Then cheers went up, slowly at first, then growing into one roar from the guests.

  It was an unfair fight, the guests knew that, but what they loved more was an underdog. And Shaw was the underdog. He had won the crowd.

  He raised his good arm acknowledging them, like a gladiator, they cheered even louder. He needed them, if he was going to live the next five minutes.

  Shaw looked at Billy Morgan above, his face cold in silent loathing. Billy returned Shaw’s look of hatred with a faint smile, the smile told Shaw his victory was going to be short-lived.

  Shaw looked back at the bonfire, a blackened and twisted shape at its center, a husk of carbon and bone.

  A ladder was lowered, Shaw hobbled towards it. He gripped the first rung with his good hand and slowly hauled himself up, one painful step at a time, leaving behind the hellish nightmare of the Pit. Two arms pulled him up when he reached the final rung and they dragged him onto the concrete edge. Two security guards held him upright, taking his weight as the crowd pressed around him, hands on him, patting his back, his arms, his head, shouts of praise, garish smiles.