Rampage

by Naomi West

  Fucking Greg. Didn’t he learn his goddamn lesson? What sort of moron gets his ass kicked and then does something like this? It’s like he wants his ass kicked again; it’s like he wants worse. But right now he might have his fat slimy hands all over Marilee, doing whatever he wants to her, and I reckon there’s a lot that sick fuck wants from her. I should’ve ended him yesterday, bribed the cops, dealt with it the outlaw way. If he touches her . . .

  I dial Dagger when I reach my bike.

  “Hello, my worthy friend. What a fine morning it is.”

  “Cut the shit. We’re riding.”

  His voice lowers. “Where? When? For who?”

  I give him the details. “I’ll text you if the location changes. I’m chasing a goddamn rainbow map at the moment.”

  “I’ll get Lex and the big man.”

  “All right.”

  I race from the motel toward the bikini booth, my chest getting tighter and tighter as the seconds drag by. I never like it when my chest gets like this. It’ll happen sometimes when I get to thinking about Mom and Rick, about the snow-skull and the way the flakes spread across the room. Then I’ll get a drink or a woman and block it all out. But there’s no blocking it out now; reality has replaced nightmare. I try and stop myself from wondering if history is repeating, if in ten years I’ll be reliving this moment just as I relive the moment Mom died. It’s a sick thought, and I wish I could stop it, but it just keeps on coming, over and over. I see a thousand horrors; I hear a thousand screams, taste a thousand droplets of warm blood.

  I almost leap from my bike before stopping outside the coffee booth. I know something’s wrong straightaway. The booth is in disarray, the coffee machine spilling out of the window, granules scattered across the floor like gravel, teabags dangling from the ceiling. I run up to the window and peer into the booth. A woman lies on the floor, a small cut across her cheek, breathing shallowly. She wears a business suit, a big, strong-looking lady with a small, pensive mouth.

  I run into the booth and kneel down next to her, conscious that my life lately seems to be comprised of running up to ladies and kneeling down next to them. I shake her softly. I can’t shake her hard because she might be concussed, and that’s the last thing a concussed person needs. But she seems okay once she opens her eyes. “What happened?” she whispers.

  “That’s what I’m here to ask you, ma’am.”

  She leans up and lifts her arms, gesturing for me to help her. I help her to her feet and sit her down on the stool in the corner. She rubs her eyes and clicks her neck from side to side. She doesn’t look so different to one of the fellas after a boxing match. She looks up at me with a wan smile on my face. “I’d usually make some comment about what a big hunk of man you are,” she says. “But I don’t think I have it in me right now, hot stuff.”

  “Maybe we’ll save that for another day, then.” I get her a glass of water and make her drink it. “I need to know what happened here. You see, I’m looking for Marilee and her stepdad. He’s got her kid brother, and she’s gone after him. I’m guessing they came here.”

  She looks around as though seeing the mess for the first time. “I’m guessing they did, too. But my head is so groggy I can’t . . . But I don’t want her to get hurt. She’s a good girl. She’s smart and funny and fierce and she knows what’s what. She doesn’t deserve to get hurt.”

  “I agree. So, can you remember anything?”

  She furrows her eyebrows and half-closes her eyes, staring off into the middle distance with half her vision. “I think . . . Okay, let me just . . . Yes, I remember. I came by and I found the place closed up, which was strange because Marilee hasn’t been late once. I’m just about to open up when this man jumps out on me. He was one of those men. You know the type. He had that look in his eye. I’ve been around men like that before. They live to hurt women. It gets them off. So I tried to run into the booth and he chased me and tackled me. He kept me on the floor for a long time, and then he brought this kid in and . . . It’s wrong, it’s so wrong.”

  “What?” I ask, offering her a napkin, ’cause I don’t know what else to do.

  “He tried to make this little kid do things to me. He threatened the kid with a knife and told him if he didn’t do it, he’d slit his throat. But the kid wouldn’t. He didn’t even look scared. He looked faraway, like he wasn’t even there. He said he wouldn’t do it, and stayed strong even when the man went crazy, throwing stuff everywhere, kicking the walls. That’s when . . . yeah, I remember now . . . that’s when she showed up.”

  “Marilee?”

  “Yeah, Marilee. She came running up and screamed at him to get off, just get away from here, but then the man picked up the kid and brought the knife to his throat and told her that if she didn’t get in his car, he’d kill the kid right there. The kid told her not to do it. But what choice did she have? So she did it.”

  “Where did they go?” I ask, unable to hide the panic from my voice. “Do you know?”

  She purses her lips. “I . . . He said something. I . . . I need some more water.”

  I repress my impatience and pour her another glass of water. I help her to drink it and then watch her calmly, waiting. I know from experience that sometimes folks can’t be rushed, no matter how badly you want to rush them. I kneel down and rest my elbows on my knees and stare at her.

  Finally, she says, “He said—let me remember it right—he said: ‘I’m going to fuck your cunt hole in your cunt bedroom.’” She shivers. “What a sick man.”

  “All right. Thank you, ma’am.”

  I jump to my feet and run outside to my bike, stopping only to text Dagger Marilee’s address. I get onto my bike and ride away from the booth, insides twisting with everything I just learned. He’s clearly amped-up; he clearly means what he’s saying. Sometimes men are just blowing steam and sometimes they really cross the line. Greg strikes me as the sort of fella who’s been psyching himself up for this or something like this for a long time, and now I’ve given him the motivation he needs to take it all the way. I shouldn’t have kicked his ass, or if I did, I should’ve finished the job. Leaving a wild animal wounded is never a good idea. I ride faster and harder, Marilee superimposed on the inside of my helmet like one of those fancy virtual reality machines.

  “Save me. Please, save me. I thought you were going to protect us, Dusty. I thought you were going to keep us safe. You’re letting him hurt us. You’re letting him kill us. Our little baby is never going to grow up and be happy because of you, because you were too slow, because you were too weak. What’s the use in being an outlaw if you can’t even protect your woman? What’s the use of being a killer if you can’t even save your child? You’re a joke.” Her lips twist, face becoming meaner than I’ve ever seen it. Her voice is acid. “You’re a fucking loser and you’ll always be a fucking loser. Your mom wanted to die because at least then she didn’t have to put up with you. You know what? Let Greg kill me. It’ll be for the best. It means I don’t have to put up with your shit anymore.”

  I block out the words and keep riding, ignoring everything but the growl of the engine and the rubber on the road. But I can’t fight the feeling that this is all a big joke, that trying to be a different man is backfiring on me and one day I’ll look back on this moment as the time when everything fell apart.

  Chapter Twenty

  Marilee

  “If you hurt her,” Travis says, “I’ll hurt you. I promise I’ll hurt you!”

  “This kid ought to join the army or something when he’s older. He’s got stones of steel! Ha! Stones of steel!” Greg grips the knife as he turns the steering wheel, a three-inch blade that he’ll use at the drop of a hat. He’s drunk, eyes reflective, they’re so watery, dribbling a little down his chin. He turns the corner toward the house so violently that Travis and I are slammed against the window.

  “Hush,” I tell Travis, stroking his hair.

  I cradle him to my chest in the back seat, my only goal to keep him as safe a
s I possibly can. That’s my world now: protect Travis and protect my baby. But I also can’t stop the fear which rises in me like overflowing lava, scorching every part of me. A strange thought occurs to me: feelings are not all that different. Dusty’s lust filled me up like lava and now Greg’s terror does the same; it’s only the shade of the fire that matters. Then I realize that I’m doing mental backflips to try and justify the dread which has an iron grip on my belly. Hell awaits me at the house, a hell I’ll have to participate in if I don’t want Greg to bury that blade in my stomach.

  “Never let women tell you how to live your life.” Greg glances at Travis in the rear-view mirror. “They will. They get a thrill from it. You see it all the time, some fat fucking pig of a woman telling a man he’s got to do this and that and can’t follow his dreams. He’s got to paint the kitchen so he can’t go to the library and read up on advanced engineering, because apparently it’s the kid’s fault that this fat fucking slob lost her husband. It’s the kid’s fault that this bitch can’t stop stuffing food into her fat ugly mouth. It’s this kid’s fault that his mother is ugly and mean and bitter. Don’t listen to them, Travis. You’ve got to be a man.”

  “I don’t think you’re being a man,” Travis says. Greg is right, I reflect; Travis is ice cold. “In fact, I think you’re being a coward, a big coward who acts tough because you have a knife. But I saw what Marilee’s friend did to you. I saw it with my own eyes and you can’t tell me I didn’t.”

  “He sucker punched me,” Greg says, pulling into our house. He stops the car too suddenly. I grab Travis just in time to stop him from being throttled by his seatbelt. “All right, kid? Do you know what a sucker punch is? It’s when a coward hits a man when he isn’t ready. There’s nothing lower than that. You’ll understand when you get older. Now, I’m gonna get out of this car and we’re going to walk to the house together calmly. I don’t want the neighbors kicking up any sort of fuss, so I’m going to hide this knife. But if you try’n run, I’ll fucking gut you. I swear to God, I will. I don’t care anymore.”

  I believe him. The air around him is tinged with the truth of his words. Violent intent rises from him like a smell. His lips tremble and the spit on his chin clings to a few days’ hair growth, reflecting the almost-noon sunlight. I wonder if he’s slept. I doubt it.

  “Okay, here we go.”

  He steps from the car. Travis looks up at me with the face of somebody about to do something really stupid. I shake my head and take his hand, squeezing it tightly, and lead him after Greg. Greg stands close to us, one hand in his pocket. There’s no way we’re running before he lashes out with that blade, ending my life or my brother’s or my baby’s, or all three. Travis keeps twitching and sighing but I drag him, ignoring his constant looks. Hell is better than death . . . at least I hope so. With my other hand I touch the lighter in my pocket, wanting to draw strength from it as I did at the bikini booth for all those weeks.

  Greg kicks the door open and points to the kitchen. He’s hardly aware of where he’s pointing or what he’s doing. He just points there because that’s where he happens to point. I rush Travis through and nod at the drawers. “A knife,” I whisper.

  Travis nods and starts going through the drawers. We find one quickly, just in time for Greg to lock and double-lock the front door. I take the knife—a three-inch meat cutter—and hold it out in front of me. Greg rounds the corner, pauses for a moment, and then smiles widely.

  “Wow,” he says. “I guess it was really stupid of me to send you in here, huh? Really, really dumb.”

  “Yep.” I wave the knife; with my other hand I guide Travis behind me, standing between him and Greg. I know this is dangerous. I know that the safest thing for my child is to go along with whatever Greg says, but I’m not having this monster damage my body, because my body is my child’s home. I’m not having his home beaten or raped or hurt. I hate him. I’m scared of him. I hate Mom. I hate the whole damn situation.

  Anger burns in me, anger hotter than anything I have ever felt. He thinks he can just bring me here, do with me as he pleases. “You’re a fucking joke,” I hiss. “You’ve always been a fucking joke, Greg. You can play the big man all you want. You can act tough and say you were sucker punched and pretend that you’re still the toughest guy around, but the truth is you’re small and pathetic.”

  “Big talk—”

  But I don’t let him speak. I raise my voice, barreling over his words. I’m tired of listening to him. “You’ve always been small and pathetic. Only someone as small and pathetic as you would take out his anger on women and children, people who haven’t got the strength to fight back. How is that tough? What’s tough about that? If my dad was alive, you’d really see tough. Hell, you did see tough. Your face is looking a little worse for wear there, Greg. I thought you were the big, scary guy. What happened to that, or was it all an act?”

  “Be careful,” Greg says, voice shaking. “You’re really starting to piss me off. Drop that knife and get up those stairs right now.”

  “No!” I scream. “No! I will not do that! I’ll never do anything you say ever again. You’re a sick monster. You’re a fucking animal. Don’t you see that? You knew me when I was thirteen, for God’s sake! Don’t you have any shame?”

  “Shame!” he explodes, launching himself across the room. He stops a mere inch from my knifepoint. I urge myself forward, urge myself to stab, but my body just won’t comply. “Shame?” he sneers. “Are you really going to talk to me about shame? You, of all people? Don’t forget where I found you, you disgusting, ungrateful brat. You had everything out, Marilee, everything out for everybody to see. Where was your shame when you were standing at that booth? Give me that!” He darts his hand out, catching me at the wrist. He does it so easily, it makes me feel small and petty. He squeezes my wrist, a clamp crushing my bones. I have no choice but to drop the blade. He yanks me to him, gripping my shoulders in his hands, leaning over me. “You’ve really done it now, you little slut. Ah!”

  He stumbles backwards, clawing at his leg. Then I spot the knife sticking out of it, and Travis stepping away from the knife.

  “Quick!” I shout, yanking Travis along after me. I take him to the door but there are five locks on it, all of them fastened, and Greg is already lumbering after us. I run up the stairs, trailing Travis behind me, and dart into my bedroom. Without needing to discuss it, we drag the dresser across to block the door and then slump down on the floor, panting.

  “What are we going to do?” Travis asks.

  “You’re fucking dead!” Greg shouts, kicking the door so hard that the dresser shudders as though in an earthquake. “Both of you are done!”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Jump out of the window?”

  Travis goes to the window and peers down. “It’s just a drop. My room would be better. We could climb down the gutter.”

  “But we’re not in your room, are we?”

  “Hang on.” He opens the window. “I think I can get down here. Come look.”

  I go to the window and look down. Just off to the left, the gutter runs down the house to the back garden. It’d mean hanging off the window and then jumping to the gutter. I know for a fact I wouldn’t be able to do it, but Travis is nimbler than me. He might be able to. Either that or he’ll land on his head and break his neck. But what’s the alternative, get stabbed to death by Greg?

  “Okay, you first.” I pat him on the back. “I’ll come after you. You’re strong. You can catch me if I fall.”

  He straightens his back and nods like a proper little man, and then climbs out of the window. I’m worried at first that he’ll fall like a stone, but his agility is impressive. He leaps from the window to the gutter and claws on, scampering down like he’s been doing it his whole life. And then I wonder whether he has. Sometimes at night, I’ll hear a scurrying noise. Perhaps Travis has a whole other life I’m unaware of. Whatever the case, he’s safe now. He looks up at me. “Now you,” he says.

  �
�Run away! Get help! Go, now!”

  “But . . . aren’t you coming down?”

  “No!” I snap. “Go, Travis. Don’t argue with me.”

  “I’ll climb back up. I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’m serious. Go and get help right now. I’ll shut the window if you try and climb up here.”

  “That’s not funny. He’s going to hurt you.”

  “I’m not joking, Travis! Get out of here and get help. That’s the best thing you can do right now.”

  He makes his angry face at me, scrunching up his features so that he looks twice his age, and then turns and jogs away. I stumble back into the room, drawing in a relieved breath. Okay, so I managed to save one of us. No matter what happens now, Travis is safe. Even if this ends in horror and pain, Travis is safe. He’ll go on living and build a life and look back on this moment as the time his big sister did something good.