Donnybrook

by Frank Bill

  The gunfire ceased. From the house, Dodge cursed. “Son of a bitch jammed up!”

  Cramp lay jerking on the living room floor. Looked up at Dodge and gargled, “You shot me, you son of a bitch, you shot me.”

  Elbow hopped behind Dodge, said, “What you get for bringing strangers to our home.”

  Outside, Pete lay struggling against Whalen’s fifty-year-old strength, his cheek feeling the gun indent it. Spittle webbed like molten taffy when he opened his mouth, saying, “Don’t shhh—”

  Pete’s hands lost their grip when the Glock turned his cheek into a burn, the bullet opening up his skin enough for part of himself to pebble down his jaw. Whalen rolled off Pete. Pete rolled the opposite direction, hands to his face, screaming, “Shit! Shit!”

  Whalen got to his knees. Then his feet. His left arm dangled at his side while his right held the Glock up by his ear. His eardrums were shattered from the gunfire.

  He watched Pete stagger up and limp toward a sheet-metal garage. Whalen clasped his head three times, trying to get the black-and-white static out of his mind. He lowered the pistol from his ear, aimed it at Pete. Felt something pelt and warm the back of his thigh. His calf. Then his left hand opened up like a firecracker exploding.

  Whalen dropped to one knee. Spun in pain to face the open door, where Dodge sat recessed within the house, his mouth agape, brass falling from the AR-15’s side chamber. Whalen raised his Glock. Closed one eye. Split Elbow’s kneecap. Lined Dodge in his crosshairs. And returned the same heated jerk.

  * * *

  The metal gate V’ed in its center. Busted the Tahoe’s headlights and grill. Ramped up over the hood and cab, scratching and scraping metal all the way. Angus kept the gas floored, the engine screaming just like the man whose arm he kept pinned inside the truck.

  The man’s feet and legs cleaved over the rough curving road, dove up and down with dips and ruts. Angus steered into a curve with his right hand, swerved to within inches of a tree. Released the man’s arm. Listened to him grunt and thud into the timber.

  Lang, adrenaline-eyed, sat in the passenger’s seat and said, “Damn, you might get killed, but you make it worth every second.”

  The road straightened out into a field of cars. Trucks. Tents. Smoke. People scattered like cockroaches on a crumb pilgrimage. In the distance sat a barn colored black and gray, same as the shack Angus had driven past. Outhouses sat off from everyone, painted identical to the barn and the shack. In the center of the field sat a large square ring lined with barbed wire from top to bottom. A man stood to the side of it on a wooden platform, announcing through a bullhorn the numbers of the next twenty fighters who elbowed and nudged through the waiting others. Onlookers cheered.

  Lang said, “They must be starting another round of the ’Brook.”

  Angus drove around the mass of vehicles that lined the field and asked, “The shit does this Ned drive?”

  Lang said, “Beat-to-hell Chevy, last I saw. Orange bed rusted up with a blue-white front end. You best park this beast ’fore they get your ass.”

  Angus knew that he had a small window of time, that the men at the gate had radioed ahead. They’d be on the lookout for the busted-up Tahoe. He parked it between a Ranger and a Chevette. Left the keys as he clambered out, the sawed-off in his right hand. Jerked Lang from the passenger’s side. They walked among rows of cars with men and women lifting bottles and cans, their faces smeared with chicken grease and barbequed venison. Angus noticed men with rifles and walkie-talkies out in the far corners of the field. They were making their way into the crowd of bodies.

  Angus wanted vengeance at least as much as the meth. He told Lang, “You see Ned, nod. Mouth his description. All I want is him, my spineless sister, and the dope. You do some dumb shit, I unload both barrels into your skull.”

  Lang hated Ned as much Angus. Wanted to see him bleed for robbing him and Pete at the bar a few months back. For leaving Pete taped up with them two sadist brothers. But Lang wanted something for all the trouble Angus had brought him, especially for his busted-up bar. He said, “Sure, I’ll point him out—for a price. And why don’t you unbind this belt from my wrists? Fucking arms is numb.”

  Angus tapped both barrels down on Lang’s neck with one hand. His other hand dug into Lang’s arm, and he said, “You’re in no spot to barter any deals or get them wrists released. Make toward the ring, distance ourselves from the truck, and I tell you what, I’ll let you keep on breathing.”

  The doors of the black-and-gray barn swung open. Ned limped out holding his shoulder. Liz held a gun in one hand. Rucksack slung up over her shoulder. Lang spotted them. “Look! Up over at the barn! There goes Ned and your mangle-headed sister.”

  Angus spun Lang to the ground and pushed off through the boozers, joint huffers, bourbon chasers, and crank sniffers. Lang squirmed on the earth, watched Angus disappear as he hollered, “What the shit, man! Unbind my fucking wrists!”

  To Angus’s right, the man with the bullhorn bayed, “FIGHT!”

  In the ring, men slapped fist and knees into one another’s bones. Traded gasps of air for knuckles and shins. Skulls cracked. Ribs gave. Skin peeled. Men bled.

  Angus cleared the bodies of belligerence and discontent, watched Ned and Liz run through the field toward a line of cedar. He followed with vengeance flowing free as creek water in his bloodstream.

  Hauling ass down the entrance road came a roaring, jacked-up red Ford. It slowed, its occupants searching the rows of parked cars for the busted-up Tahoe. Till the driver stopped. Three men from the shack got out. One brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth, the others peered into the Tahoe’s windows and anxiously kicked the gravel.

  With guns in tow, a pack of McGill’s men led leashed hounds through the crowd of onlookers toward the Tahoe. Let the hounds get a scent.

  And like the next round of the Donnybrook, the hunt was on.

  * * *

  Jarhead’s eyes burned from the smoke of onlookers’ cigarettes and narcotics. He fanned a hand in front of his face.

  Purcell asked, “They ways getting to you?”

  “Worst thing about making a living with your hands, you’re always surrounded by lives being carved out by abuse. It’s how they survive.”

  Purcell bared five fingers down on Jarhead’s shoulder, said, “But not you. You’re surviving with your natural-born abilities. Making good out of the decaying class, something your real father never accomplished, though he tried. Thing is, if you win this you still can’t save the swarm that is coming for you and your family. But you can find others like yourself and fight for change.”

  Jarhead asked, “The shit you talking about? How would you know anything about my real father?”

  Purcell smiled and said, “I know lots. You’ll see.”

  Somewhere in the distance a truck rumbled. Dogs bawled. In the ring men flattened their knuckles against one another’s flesh. Jarhead turned his attention up to the barn. Watched the female with the steady step who’d found the wrong end of the beer bottle, the man who’d won the first round of the ’Brook, and he asked Purcell, “What about them two running from the barn?”

  Purcell looked to the barn. Turned back to Jarhead, smiled, and said, “Believe they abilities will soon be omitted.”

  * * *

  Sweat cropped Whalen’s forehead. Blood warmed his lips. Bullet holes bored open his legs. His arms lay motionless at his sides—left hand chopped of several feelers, right hand holding his pistol—with the hard earth cushioning his spine.

  The Jeep’s door creaked open. Footsteps made their way to Whalen. Fu looked at him through cracked glass. He’d meditated on how he’d make Whalen bleed after they got to the Donnybrook. Found Angus. Liz. Got Mr. Zhong’s money. It wouldn’t have been with bullets. He glanced back at the Jeep. How would he get to the Donnybrook and collect Mr. Zhong’s debt? He’d no idea where he was.

  Fu kneeled down, ran his hand over the fingertip-sized bullet holes in Whalen’s left shoulder. His
body was warm. Chest barely rising.

  Behind Fu, Pete stepped from the rusted and warped garage in his boxers and work boots, sticky with dirt, insects circling his frame. He’d a nicked crowbar in his right hand. His other pressed a motor-oil-stained rag into his bullet-burnt cheek. He sucked mucus and said, “You that rotten piece of pork’s partner?”

  Fu turned around, approached Pete, who questioned, “The shit you think you gonna do, gook, whoop my ass?”

  Swinging the crowbar toward Fu’s ribs, Pete felt fast, powerful. He was slow. Fu parted the air with his left hand, hooked Pete’s right wrist. Cupped and controlled the crowbar away from his body. At the same time, the fingertips of Fu’s right hand drove up under Pete’s jaw, the palm turned away from Pete. Fu’s fingertips pressed into the soft flesh beneath Pete’s chin. Hooked the ridged jawbone. Pushed up. Pulled and unhinged Pete’s jaw. The crowbar hit the ground. Followed by Pete’s knees. His mouth hung agape with shock. Unable to form speech. Only, “Uhh! Uhh!”

  Pete’s hands tried to touch his jaw, press it back into place. But the pain was too much.

  Fu laughed, told Pete, “You must learn respect for others.”

  Inside the house, Elbow limped from the bedroom where he’d dragged himself to take cover when Whalen returned fire. Separated his cap. Now the house sat silent as he snuck up the hallway and into the living room. Walls were filled with marble-sized holes. Wood paneling was splintered, and drywall chalked everything. Cotton sprouted from his greasy couch. The television sat shattered. Cramp lay silent, without movement, on the floor.

  Elbow jack-legged toward his brother Dodge. Dodge’s head slumped to his right shoulder. Drool stringing down his bullet-riddled chest. His eyes, like his chest, were unmoving, and Elbow whispered, “No, no, please, no.”

  His lips jerked, tears smudged down his cheeks, and he reached a hand to Dodge’s face. The flesh was rough and warm. The circulation beneath dissipating.

  Elbow ran his hand through Dodge’s head of fishing-line hair, glanced down at the assault rifle across Dodge’s lap. Elbow thought, Someone is gonna pay. He pulled each of Dodge’s fingers from the rifle. Held it in his grip. Ejected the clip. It was empty.

  Elbow glanced through the open door out into the yard. Saw the Asian man standing in front of Pete, who was on his knees. Elbow wrinkled his damp face and muttered, “Who the shit?”

  Out in the yard, Fu unbuckled his belt. Stepped to Pete, who still searched for speech. Pete struggled to his feet. Tried to run from Fu, who kicked Pete’s ankles from beneath him. He fell flat. Fu pressed into Pete’s back. Pete’s limbs flailed. Fu drove a palm into the rear of Pete’s neck, stopped his flailing. Took each of his arms. Bound them behind him. Wrist over wrist. Pulled him to his feet. Spun him around to face him. Listened to him create god-awful tones. Watched the tears streak dirty down Pete’s burnt cheek. Fu grasped Pete’s unhinged jaw, pressed both thumbs up into his chin. Rehinged the jaw. Pete stomped his feet into the earth. Spit and hollered, “Fucking-fuck-fuck-fucker!”

  Fu laughed. “You will get me to the Donnybrook.”

  With hands bound behind his back, Pete tried to kick at Fu, to fight him off as he yelled, “Son of a bitch, I ain’t getting you nowheres except to a body dump.”

  Annoyed, Fu forked the fingertips of his right hand into Pete’s neck, made him gag, then palmed his shoulder and spun him toward the Jeep. He told Pete, “You will take me now.”

  Pete tensed up. “Who the shit are you?”

  Fu told Pete, “That is none of your concern.” And led him to the Jeep’s open door.

  Then Fu heard a whooping battle cry coming from behind. Before he could turn around, two skeleton-pale arms bear-hugged his body and hard bone dug into his neck.

  19

  Ned and Liz took to the woods. The rucksack slung over Liz’s shoulder bounced as she pushed through the limbs of cedar that scratched her face and arms. Behind her, Ned limped with cramped, bruised muscles, calling out, “Mangy bitch, keep where I can see you and that ruck.”

  Wondering why she had ever hooked up with this Pez-dispensing piece of shit, Liz turned with the .38 raised. Prodded the barrel into Ned’s swelled forehead, told him, “Fucking pariah. You’s one that got me into this. Could’ve sold crank somewheres else.”

  Ned’s eyes crossed taking in the barrel. “Yeah, well, don’t forget half that crank and money’s mine.”

  The bawl of dogs came faint behind them, and Ned shouted, “Bitch, get that gun outta my face! McGill and his gang of bastards has got out the hounds.”

  Liz and Ned came out of the cedar thicket and into deformed formations of gray rock, all shapes and sizes, from house-trailer big to Yugo small. They scrambled and climbed through narrow splits of rock till the land leveled out into soil and moss. It was divided by a barbed fence, a footpath running alongside it. Ned warned her, “Don’t touch that. It’s running juice.”

  Liz rolled her plum-lidded eyes and said, “No shit.”

  “Just follow me.” And he stepped to his right. Metal to metal clanked. Ned dropped backward on his ass and hollered, “Goddammit!”

  Ned reached with both hands and tugged at his leg, the tibia and fibula chinked and spurred. His boot filled with blood. He’d stepped into an old, rusted animal trap.

  Liz shadowed over him. Her face resembled smashed prunes as she took in the pulpy moisture that spread through his jeans. His knuckled lips twitched, and he begged, “Don’t just stand there gawking, you morbid cunt. Help get my ankle free.”

  Liz pig-snorted a laugh and said, “Shoulda watched where you was stepping, you broke-tooth fuck.”

  Then she turned and walked in the other direction.

  Ned screamed, “Don’t you leave with that ruck of crank, bitch. Get back here!”

  Liz ignored Ned’s hail of words. Followed the path along the fence line. Stumbled forward. Her palms slammed the hard surface of rock and soil. She lay in a push-up position and cursed, “The hell?” Twisted her neck, glanced back at her legs and saw a line of clear wire across the path, one end attached to a fencepost, the other end attached to a small metal stake driven into the ground. Before she could move, a slither and hiss came from in front of her. She turned her face to the movement. Spineless coils struck at her from three directions, missing her nose and cheeks by centimeters. Liz went concrete still.

  The hounds’ barking grew louder. Ned grunted and moaned. Liz watched three copperheads, their tongues radaring out for waves of movement to bounce back. Her eyes followed their tails to the clear wire attached to their scaled ends. Like the trip wire, they were tied to metal stakes hammered into the earth. Ned screamed at her, “Get over here! Get these teeth pulled off my ankle!”

  The copperheads coiled their movement and waited. Liz slowly pushed herself backward over the dirt, cedar, moss, and chips of rock. When she felt she was out of striking distance, she arched her back, balanced herself onto her knees, brought her hands to her face. Her insides knotted and twitched as she took in a moment of silence. Exhaled for calm. Heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “What’s a matter, snake charmer? Them’s puny compared to the sizes you’re used to.” Then she felt a hard heel to her back. It knocked her forward right into the snakes. They struck at her head and neck. Over and over and over. While her hands slapped and she screamed.

  Liz’s screams ceased, her struggle slowed to a shudder. Snake venom steamed her bloodstream. In agony, Ned twisted his body. Lightheaded, he pleaded with the figure that stood over Liz. “Hey, man, I … I’ll split what that bitch has in her ruck, just get these damn teeth off my ankle.”

  Angus watched Liz’s flesh swell and bubble with venom. Saw the rucksack over her shoulder. He turned to Ned and said, “You fucking worm, whatever’s in that ruck belongs to me.”

  Ned wiped sweat from his face and groaned, “Huh?”

  Angus stepped toward him and said, “I’m the man you planted a 12-gauge slug into.” Angus pointed to his bandaged shoul
der stained burgundy. “Left me for possum fodder.”

  Ned stared at Angus in a sideways glance and said, “Bitch said—”

  Angus could hold his temper no more, came down on Ned from behind. Pushed his knee into Ned’s back. Placed the sawed-off under Ned’s chin, pulled it across his throat. Choked him and gritted, “Wanna hear you gag, you piece of regurgitated meat. Gag! Gag!”

  Ned’s puffed cheeks shaded fire-engine red. He couldn’t breathe, let alone gag. He was dry as a rotted tire lying in a junkyard of heated clay.

  Angus quit choking Ned. Stood up. Turned. Grabbed Liz’s leg with his free hand. Ignored the pain in his shoulder and dragged her body up next to Ned. Pointed to the rucksack. And said, “That my crank, you spineless bastard?”

  Ned rubbed his neck and coughed for air as his eyes watered. He glanced at Liz’s frame, now a bloated boil of flesh, told Angus, “Crazy bitch cut me a deal: take you out for a cut of some fresh-cooked crank, a sample of her sours. Shit, I didn’t know you. I didn’t even know her. Seemed like the deal of a lifetime.”

  Angus thought about the bark and bite that had opened him up that night, left him inches from death, and his anger wedged even deeper through his veins. He wanted this Ned to bleed and suffer. To wish he was dead.

  Squatting down, Angus shoveled the double barrel into Ned’s ribs, knocked Ned to his side. Ned’s leg tugged within the trap and he coughed and screamed. Raised a hand. Angus threatened, “Ain’t leaving you like you left me. I’ll make sure every time your chest expands your bladder leaks.”

  Angus dropped a knee to the earth, kept Ned’s body twisted, took clumps of Ned’s hair in his free hand, pulled his head back, pushed the sawed-off into his mouth. Ned gagged on the taste of gunmetal. Angus pushed the gun down as far as he could. Smiled and watched mucus run from Ned’s bruised and bloody nostrils, Ned’s eyes watering as his throat contracted and he tried to retch. Angus wanted to mind-fuck this Ned. He thumbed the triggers of both barrels and said, “Hope that cunt was worth dying for.”