Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  Painfully rising from his knees and turning his body, Owen reached for his gun. The handle was a little wet from his own blood. Thankfully, Scar was still not paying attention. He had his back completely turned to Owen, peering deep into the darkness that the forested mire provided. The piece was heavy in his shaking arm, but Owen maintained what little strength he had to aim it at Scar.

  Scar’s eyes almost bulged out of his head when he turned and noticed Owen. “Whoa, whoa, what the fuck? I didn’t do that!”

  Owen only held his sinister gaze at Scar. One second felt like a century. His entire hand trembled, like hw was enduring an Arctic front. The gun felt heavier with each passing moment, while his rage continued to build. Scar remained motionless.

  “You gave me your word.”

  “I didn’t-”

  The pull of the trigger felt like all the pain in the world escaped from his body. Each subsequent pull gave him more relief. The first bullet found its way into Scar’s abdomen. The second one missed. The third one hit him in the sternum. The last one found its way through his neck. Scar stumbled, his face in utter shock. He had no balance left as he fell to his back. Owen could not keep his balance either, dropping back to his knees.

  Taking a shallow breath and staring at the dirt below him, Owen closed his eyes and wondered if this was finally over. A fifth shot rang out and a crackling echo followed. Owen almost jumped out of his skin, hastily aiming his gun at Scar. He remained on his back, motionless. Realizing that the shot didn’t come from him, his eyes darted every direction his still head would allow. He jumped again when a sixth shot sounded. The whizz of a bullet flying by his face almost made his heart stop. It was enough, along with his current discomfort, for him to lose balance and fall over on his side. His shoulder felt a dull pain, as it landed on an oddly placed stone. His eyes were conveniently staring at Scar’s lifeless body. A sensation of injustice overcame him, causing him to not even try to move. He had just wrongly killed Scar Grayson, and now he was remorseful for it.

  Laying there in pain, Owen pondered how much time he had left before he would absolutely need to seek medical attention. He could feel the bleeding not ceasing its flow out of his body, but he just couldn’t will himself to get up to go somewhere and do something about it. A lot of it was attributed to his overall weakness. Yet, something else kept him down. It was a depressed and maudlin feeling, like even if he did get patched up, it would only delay the inevitable from the mystery shooter. As chatter and reasoning in his mind persisted, something out in the woods quieted his mind. Voices from the trees were heard. They sounded like they were in the middle of a conversation, though one of the voices had a touch of cockiness. As they came closer, he recognized that irritating voice with an overwhelming amount of southern twang.

  Clint!?

  Emerging through brush, Clint walked out into the swamp clearing with a rifle ready to fire. Behind him was Nicky, who was unarmed. His eyes had a puffiness to them and his face appeared to look a tad more haggard than he did yesterday when they ran into each other on Old Day’s land. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Granted, neither did Clint. The youngest Grayson gave a glance at Nicky while pointing to Owen. Understanding the non-verbal expression, Nicky briskly ran to Owen and grabbed his handgun away from his grasp. He doubted he would have resisted anyway. Eye contact was made between the two men, but no words were spoken. Nicky’s five-o-clock shadowed face contorted in a weird way, though it may have been the moving shadows or Owen’s mind playing disoriented tricks on him. It was an awkward return of glances, but it helped him not think about the pulsing pain of his back for a time.

  Nicky walked over to Clint, who was standing over Scar’s body. Both men said nothing, letting the birds that remained in the trees do the talking. A car horn way out in the distance faintly sounded. Nicky spoke the question all men present had wondered. Owen listened intently, even though his eyes suddenly grew heavy.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Looks dead to me,” answered Clint.

  “Hmm.”

  Clint sniggered. “Neither of us ended up havin’ to do it. Just had to kill that fairy over there. Or wait, he ain’t dead, is he?”

  Nicky sighed. “No.”

  “He still got his gun?”

  “Nah. I grabbed it.”

  “Well shit, we ain’t finished then!” exclaimed Clint. He headed toward Owen, keeping him in his gun’s sights the entire way. He had tried to move constantly since after he shot Scar, but his legs and arms felt like Jell-O, and his mind barely seemed to care. Extremely weak, he understood that fleeing was an impossibility.

  Son of a bitch, screamed Owen inside of his head. Clint was now over him. He was a lousy shot, but at this range, his accuracy was assured. This is not how I wanted to fucking go. Definitely not from him. Clint pasted on that stupid smirk.

  “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the murderer of not one, but two of my brothers. Shit, you are a Grayson hating machine! Hey Nick, could you imagine if I let him go, what would he do? Shit, he’d probably kill me, then he’d go find Mary’s weird ass and go kill her. Shit, I’d bet you’d go searching all over the world for Shannon so you can kill her. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit in the world if you found my fuckin’ Ma and raped and killed her too. You faggot piece of shit.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” It was the only question that came to Owen’s mind even after being insulted.

  Clint pressed the barrel of his rifle into the unwilling forehead of Owen, forming a circular indention. “Shut the fuck up.”

  He kept his gun pressed into Owen’s head for the longest. A calm, yet vehement look shot out of Clint’s eyes in waves. Owen had already silently said his goodbyes. Clint wasn’t going to let him out of this one alive. Lying there, waiting for a bullet to shoot through the rifle barrel at the speed of sound, Owen hoped Ben would find out about this so that Clint would receive justice. Be it the death dealing kind or life in prison, any kind of retribution would be idyllic.

  Seconds ticked by. Owen felt his body tense up. Why is he not pulling the trigger? His eyes quickly darted to Nicky. He had turned his body wholly around, not even looking at what was transpiring. But was it ever going to happen? Owen’s eyes moved back to Clint’s. His smirk grew larger and a blast of air shot out of his nose.

  “Man, fuck this. This is too fuckin’ easy,” Clint stated, lowering his gun and throwing it well out of the way. “Get your faggot ass up. We’re gonna finish what you started the other day.” Clint gestured his arms wildly. “Get the fuck up!”

  Blinking a few times in disbelief, Owen had to admit he was stunned. Clint had the easy shot. A guaranteed kill was just a pull away. Instead, a round of fisticuffs would decide his fate. While it improved his chances of survival, it wasn’t by much. Owen wasn’t one hundred percent. He wasn’t even fifty percent. Clint had all the odds in his favor and was primed to pummel Owen to death. That probably got Clint hard thinking about it. But at least Owen had a fighting chance, for what it was worth. Granted, that chance was probably worse than Adrienne’s high school football team beating the Dallas Cowboys. He wasn’t sure if he could last even standing up. Blood still drained down his back and if it continued to bleed unobstructed, death would eventually follow. Yet, he refused to use his wound as a crutch. Owen tried a positive approach; any chance was better than none. Struggling and grabbing a handful of dirt, Owen somehow managed to get to his feet, though he stumbled and dropped to a knee before gaining his balance.

  Clint chuckled, smiling from ear to ear and shadowboxing in place, swiftly punching the air. “God, I’ve been waiting days to fuck your ass up.”

  The last male Grayson stood before Owen. It was time to man up and end this feud with the man who had abused his daughter, and if left unchecked, would likely abuse Austin too. Thinking about him smacking Ali and choking her gave him a jolt of energy, powering through the wooziness from the blood loss.

  However, he had no time to reflect on hi
s newfound boost of vigor. Clint came at him with fists flying. Owen managed to dodge the first one and blocked the second one with his forearm. But he couldn’t block the unexpected kick to his calf that ended up knocking him off of his feet. If he wasn’t so weak, he could have flexed his leg and not fallen from the blow. Instead, he was scrambling back to his feet before Clint could mount any further offense.

  Owen backed away, making Clint laugh with an angry look on his face. “Why are you running away, pussy?”

  Nicky crossed his arms and spoke deep and loudly. “Well, you did shoot him.”

  “He’s still being a bitch.”

  “You ever been shot?” asked Nicky.

  “No. Shut the fuck up, follower.”

  Nicky’s eyebrows furrowed as Clint continued his offense against Owen. Punch after punch, kick after kick, Clint was not letting up. Owen blocked some, dodged some, evaded grapples, but still took a few hits. Breathing was slowly becoming a chore and his shaky legs made evading, let alone standing tough. He wanted to counter somehow, but Clint was relentless, and any careless attack could be fatal.

  But he knew he wouldn’t win without some sort of gamble. Trusting fate, Owen threw a punch anyway, hoping to get in a lucky shot.

  He missed badly, leaving him wide open.

  Clint seized the moment and buried a straight right hand into his jaw. Owen melted like hot butter to the soft unearthed dirt. The fight was over. Now, attempting to survive began.

  Clint mounted Owen in the same way he did days earlier. He did his best to struggle, but the amount of strength that remained within him could be compared to a small child. Clint easily brushed any defensive attempts to the side and delivered punch after punch. Each shot made him dizzier and number. Clint let up after a few more haymakers, just to examine and revel in the bruised and bloody sight he created on Owen’s face. He thought about commencing with the assault, but he seemed satisfied by what he saw. Clint got up and walked over to his gun. Grabbing it, he aimed it at the head of Owen.

  “That felt fuckin’ good. But I want to watch your head fuckin’ explode.”

  Owen was fading in and out of consciousness to answer. He could feel his lip throbbing and his left eye swelling. It added to his already pained body. At this rate, he was almost welcoming death.

  Clint aimed the gun straight at the forehead of Owen. He smiled with his teeth showing. “And now, I’m gonna kill ya. I’m gonna celebrate, ‘cause we are fucking done with Tomkins in this town for good. I’m gonna drink some beers with my boys. Smoke a little more crystal. Then, I’m gonna go fuck somethin.’ Someone real hot. Someone who probably don’t want me anymore. Yeah, somethin’ like Ali. I haven’t fucked her in days. I think I’m gonna have some fun with her. She’s into some real kinky shit, Owen. Fuck, I kinda want to leave you alive so you can watch me fuck her. But, I gotta do this now.”

  Owen used every ounce of his strength left, just to rise up a few inches and collapse back to the ground. There was nothing left in him. He closed his eyes and awaited the afterlife.

  The sound of a loud gun blared through the wild.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Kicking open the back door of the house, Bird Dog tripped in, using the kitchen island to keep from falling on his face. His body was in a world of pain. He took a bullet right below his shoulder and another one grazed his cheek. Half of his lower face was crusty red from blood. It was the same for half of his body. But for now, he was alive, and there was one thing he wanted.

  He didn’t know if it was because she was forbidden fruit, being the chief of police’s wife, or if there was something about the fact that she had kids and was still attractive, but for as long as he could recall, Bird Dog had wanted to fornicate with Ben’s wife, Taylor. Her dark hair, pleasant body and motherly features that he knew damn well from masturbating to MILF pornography had driven him batty since he laid eyes on her. He would never get another chance like this one. No one could stop him, especially not her husband, who was lying in a pool of blood outside. He doubted that she would go willingly for a man of his stature, but he’d have his way in the end. He was likely going to prison anyway. Might as well end it on a high note. It was his parents that instilled the fact that jail time wasn’t anything to stress about. Of course, they spent most of their lives in there.

  “Hey Taylor!?” thundered Bird Dog. “Where are ya, purty lady?”

  There was only silence, which he expected. He still held out hope for his imagined scenario, in which he dreamed that she would emerge in some black lingerie hooked up to some black stockings. Her dark hair would be curled and she would have on plenty of eye shadow. Black high heels would fit the set. In his perfect fantasy, she would squat down and undo the button on his pants and ease them down and…

  Bird Dog shook his head briskly to snap out of whatever zone he was in, suddenly realizing he was way too into his daydream. He looked down to notice he was fully erect. His chubby face smiled, pleased that he was ready to go. He just needed to find Taylor. He gazed around the living room. The window was broken and the carpet was blackened and burnt in places. He figured it was BJ’s work, since he brought along the molotov and was way too excited to use it.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he continued his search for that hot piece of ass. His horny mood took a slight detour, when he saw a body in a puddle of blood in the hallway. There lay BJ, his best friend in the whole world. He had a feeling when he could hear the sounds of automatic fire from outside that he had met his maker. After this was over and he had fucked Taylor harder than she ever had, he would drink to BJ’s honor and memory. It was the least he could do. But there was no time for mourning. His carnal desire for sex had pummeled any other emotions into the dirt.

  Stepping over his best friend’s corpse, he noticed a door closed over. Easing it open, he walked into a spacious bedroom, with a lavishly colored bedspread, an expensive looking dresser and a large screen television that had something from the Home and Gardens channel playing. The blinds of the window were open, letting it bright white light into the room. This was the master bedroom. Looking at the bed, he deemed it perfect to support the fucking that would be going down on it.

  An odd sound, like a shoe scooting on the ground, could be heard from behind the closed door inside the bedroom. Grabbing his crotch and ignoring the pain that his body was experiencing, Bird Dog strutted toward the door. He tried to turn the door handle, but it was locked. She had to be in there. No one would lock a bathroom door unless someone was on the other side.

  He didn’t waste time knocking politely. Bird Dog took a few steps back, then ran a shoulder through the door. It opened, breaking the latch and cracking the door, causing it to smack the wall behind it from his force and weight. The first thing he saw was Taylor sitting on the closed toilet with dripping wash rags wrapped around her hands. Water was running full blast in the sink. When he slammed through, Taylor’s head shot up. She never heard him coming.

  “Who-what the? Don’t come any closer!” freaked out Taylor. Her clothing ensemble did not match his fantasy. It wasn’t close.

  “Easy there. I came here for a reason. We can do this the easy way or a not as easy way.”

  “What? Are you implying…BEN! BEN! HELP!”

  “He ain’t gonna help you, darling. He’s gone, girl.”

  “No! NO! NO, HE’S NOT!”

  Bird Dog eased closer. His gun was in his hand, but he had no intention of threatening her with it. “Just forget about him. I’ll take care of ya now. Let me show ya how.”

  A bar of soap came flying at him, hitting him square in his cheek wound. It stung, causing his body to shake in a quick agony. Just that was enough to set him off. He put his gun on the sink counter. He felt like getting his hands dirty. “Alright, bitch. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

  Bird Dog went for her loose blue zip up jacket. He grabbed it, latching on like lobster c
laws and pulled her toward him. She did her best to resist him, though she screamed in pain each time her wrapped hands made contact with him. The washrags on her left hand fell off, revealing a bright red hand. It turned him off a little bit. He presumed that she took the brunt of that molotov in the living room. His precious fantasy now had a slight deformity. But he looked past it, ripping the jacket off with ease. The white tanktop under that was also ripped off, leaving her only with a black sports bra and her yoga pants. She managed to squeeze out of his grasp, backing away to the bathtub. Tears streamed down her face and she exposed a look of unparalleled terror. Bird Dog wished she didn’t look so frightened. It would all be over soon.

  A devilish look took over his mug. Just a couple more articles of clothing needed to be removed, a little force and he’d have what he craved. In the meantime, Taylor was reaching into the bathtub behind her for something else to throw. He didn’t really feel like taking anymore abuse. Pleasure is what he needed. He wasn’t particularly sexually active due to his size and looks. The last time he had sex may have been last Labor Day, when he managed to score with a young, impressionable girl fresh out of high school who thought he was funny. But today, the dry spell would end, and it would end with a hot mother. He couldn’t wait a second longer. Extending his arm and ready to grab her, Taylor’s arm raised from inside the tub. Bird Dog was curious as to what soap or shampoo she was hoping to bonk him with. What she took out was black, metallic and aiming right at his head.