by D. F. Noble
“Hell yeah,” Dean agreed. “You could just poop right off the side.” Then he imitated a bomb falling with a whistle.
“You know what would be sweet?” Alex said, burped, then tossed his beer can. “Zip lines.”
“Zip lines?” Jake asked.
“Yeah,” Alex explained. “You could hook zip lines up here at the tower, and then hook them up below in the trees. Maybe build landing pads…you know, with like old mattresses or something that you could drop off into. That would be sweet.”
“Till you got a branch lodged up your ass,” Dean said, and took a swig. “So… this Chris guy. You really think he's still alive?”
The mood changed, and Jake's face went stony. “Yeah. I know it. He's out there somewhere.”
“You still got the gun, right?” Dean asked. “Why don't we just go hunt him down. Pop-pop.”
Jake looked down into the swirl of leaves below. Flashes of memory, images of that gun in Chris's mouth, rain coming down. “Yeah, I got it. No idea where he lives, though. I can't just walk into his neighborhood and start shooting, man.”
“Um,” Alex interjected, “why don't you just go to the cops?”
“And do what?” Jake asked. “It'd be my word against his. I've got no proof. Right now, he doesn't even know my name. Just knows my face.”
The boys sat silent for a moment and watched the sun descend on the horizon. It sank slow into the clouds and turned the skyline to beautiful pinks and oranges. A warm wind washed over them, and with that wind came the sound of a police siren. Jake wondered then if the world would always be like this, a constant tease. One moment, beautiful, just enough to get you to relax before the nightmare started.
C hapter 5
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
They were fighting again. Dean could hear his mom and stepdad yelling downstairs. That's how it always started: first the yelling, then someone might throw something, or say the wrong thing, then it would get physical. They had no qualms about fighting in front of him. Didn't matter where or when, those two would go at each other. Dean hated his stepdad, and for the longest time he looked at his mom like she was a victim; but no, she brought it on herself. That was Dean's opinion. She could just leave the fucker, Dean used to tell her that all the time, but she would say, “You don't understand, Dean. He loves me. Maybe when you're older.”
That only made her sound stupid. Dean didn't care what anyone said; punching someone in the face, knocking their teeth out, making them wear sunglasses to hide their black eyes, none of that sounded like love. His stepdad, Mac, was a hothead, would go off at the slightest inconvenience. It seemed like if he didn't have something to be mad at, he would go and find it. Mac was a truck driver, and when he wasn't methed out on the road, he was laid up drunk on the couch. Dean kept a mental list of all the transgressions Mac had done to him, and one day, Dean would recount every wrongdoing while he beat Mac to the ground. Dean tried it a few times, but Mac was a grown man and always overpowered him. Dean knew that wouldn't last forever. Everyday Dean grew stronger, meaner, faster, smarter; and Mac, he only grew more drunk, more ragged.
Dean listened to his parents fight downstairs and remembered, remembered back to when Mac first came into his life. It started with Mac not letting Dean eat at the table for dinner. “Ain't my fuckin' kid,” Mac would say. “He can eat when I'm done.” Then when Dean threw up some peas on his plate, because Dean hated peas as much as he hated Mac, Mac held him by the neck and made him eat those peas he just ralphed up. You think we're made of money? You too good for my food, boy?
You little faggot.
Bastard.
Piece of shit.
Every insult, Dean counted. Every time Mac came home and viciously beat his mother, or beat him, Dean etched it in his mind. One night, Mac kept him up till morning and went through all of Dean's heavy metal CD's and broke them one by one, explaining to Dean that he
would not have this Devil shit in his house. Finally, when Dean broke down crying and in a rage yelled back, “Who are you to talk about God when you beat my mom, you fucking pussy!?” Mac leapt up and punched Dean in the nose. Blood, instantly, everywhere. Dean tried to fight back, but he was only twelve years old. Mac held Dean down and punched him a few more times before Dean's mother clocked the fucker in the head with a cast iron skillet. Mac went out cold and lay there twitching. It was bad—really bad—when Mac came to. He broke Dean's mom's arm by pushing her down the basement stairs. Dean called 911, and when the cops came they arrested Mac and hauled him off to jail.
Dean felt vindicated, as if it was over then. Instead, when his mom got out of the hospital, she turned on Dean and whipped him about the house with a belt, screaming at him, “You know how much money it's gonna cost to get him out? Do you? You just make everything worse, you little shit! You-” whap! “-stay the fuck-” whap! “-out of my business!”
When Mac got back from jail a day later, he picked Dean up from school and took him out to the woods. Out there, Dean was sure for a moment he wasn't going to come back, but Mac had only beat him—beat him good. Broke his nose and busted his lips. As Dean lay on the ground whimpering, Mac pulled his cock from his jeans. “Look at it, boy,” and when Dean didn't, he got a boot to the stomach. “I said look at it!” So Dean turned his face up to that limp, hairy, pasty white and pink worm, and watched hot piss come steaming out towards his face. Lying there, being pissed on, Dean withdrew into himself. He knew Mac wasn't going to kill him. What Mac didn't know is that one day, they were going to trade places.
Something shattered downstairs and Dean sat up in bed. Heard his stepdad yell, “Fucking bitch! Broke the fucking window! Come here!”
He heard his mother scream, but her cries no longer drew empathy in Dean's heart. Only annoyance, only disgust grew there. Dean had learned a long time ago not to get involved in their fights, and instead of helping, instead of calling the police, Dean opened his window on the second floor and scurried down the siding and dropped beside the house. He walked down the street in the moonlight till he could no longer hear them.
Hopp's Hollow was just another town. Dean wouldn't have even tried to make friends, because he knew that in six months, Mac would uproot them and take them somewhere else. That was always the case with Mac. Fucking over some new landlord in some new town, living in a house till the landlord called the law and had them evicted. Dean's mom, Susan, said it wouldn't be that way this time. They were here to stay, tried to prove it to Dean by letting him enroll in the War Room. Didn't matter, Dean didn't believe her.
Meeting Jake and Alex wasn't a surprise. There were always new friends to be made in each town, new little circles to fall into. And at first, Dean kept his distance. It was hard, real hard, when you had to leave, and Dean knew eventually his family would. Now if I only didn't have a family, Dean thought and kept walking.
This wasn't quite the ghetto where they lived, but it was close. He passed a house with most of its siding gone, and a car almost hidden by some high grass and weeds. These must be city hicks, Dean thought. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk so he wouldn't trip over the toe gougers and pot holes. Trash and sporadic beer cans lined the gutters, and when the wind blew, it wasn't a tumble weed that rolled along the street, it was junk, styrofoam cups, discarded newspapers. The air smelled of egg farts from a local fuel refinery on the horizon, and those flames there at the top of those smoke stacks made Dean think: This isn't earth. This is hell. I'm right on the outskirts of hell.
Dean passed a tree, and there the moon caught his eye. He found himself staring at it, wanting to howl and turn into a wolf and run free into the wild; to be free from the world, his parents and all the people. To be free from himself. When he turned back to the street, he realized he must've walked along in a trance. He was a lot farther from home than he thought.
Fuck, Dean thought.
***
“Fuck you been?” It was Mac, sitting on the couch watching some recount of a NASCAR race. His eyes locked wi
th Dean's, and Dean could see how glossy and wet they were. Of course, Mac was drunk. He brought a can of beer to his mustached lips, took a long pull, rubbed his lips and gave Dean the eyes of a mad halfwit, stupid and angry.
“Took a walk,” Dean said and made for the kitchen. He wanted to get away from Mac as fast as he could. The stairs to his room were just past that kitchen, then just a hallway, and maybe he could avoid this, escape this-
“Hold it,” Mac said.
Great, Dean thought and turned. Waiting for Mac to speak was like playing Russian roulette. You could easily assume that whatever chamber it landed on, it was gonna suck. The only silver-lining was that you didn't die, you just had to listen to his dumbass rants and bitching.
Mac stood up and put his beer on the coffee table. “Your mom says you been taking those karate lessons downtown.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, and waited for the lecture, or why he wasn't going to go anymore. Whatever thing Mac could do to belittle him, that's what Dean expected.
“You learning all them fancy kicks and shit? All that Jackie Chan dancy shit?” Mac said and burped.
“Some of it, yeah,” Dean said.
“Why don't you show me some of it?” Mac said and nodded.
What the fuck is he doing now, Dean thought, then said, “Like, here in the living room?”
Mac chuckled. “Nah, out in the garage, dummy. Think that shit they teach ya could take me down?”
Dean thought to himself, a barrage of emotions and logical (or illogical) outcomes buzzing through his mind. Mac was quick to temper, the wrong thing and it would be a yelling match, and then a rampage. But as Dean weighed the options, a furnace inside him turned on. Think that shit they teach ya could take me down?
Dean smiled. “Maybe.”
***
Dean knew this was just a mask for Mac to take his hatred out on him. He was hiding behind this playful manner so he could hurt Dean, and Dean knew it. Mac didn't know that Dean was alright with that, though. This might be a great little way to turn the tables, Dean thought as they stepped into the garage.
Mac even moved some stuff out of the way, giving them a nice open spot on the concrete. He finished, took a sip of his beer, and said, “Come on, now. Show me them fancy kicks.”
“Okay,” Dean said, “but usually, it’s not too smart to use fancy stuff in a fight. Some of this is for show.”
“Oh really?” Mac laughed. “You an expert now or something? Come on, show me what you got.”
Fine, Dean thought and did a series of spin kicks, leaping in the air, kicking, spinning, coming back down with another kick and landing on his feet, fists up towards Mac.
“Ooooweee,” Mack said. “That's pretty fancy... I think if you tried that shit on me, though, I think I'd knock ya stupid.”
“I wouldn't try that on you,” Dean said.
“Nah,” Mac said, and put his beer down on a tool chest. “Go ahead, try it out. We'll just slap box, no fists or nothing. See if you can land one on me.”
“I don't think that's a good idea,” Dean said, keeping his eyes on Mac's. Dean waited, coiling and uncoiling his muscles like a snake.
“Why not?”
“Someone could get hurt,” Dean replied, almost thinking that maybe he should get out of this before it got out of hand. Fuck that, a voice in Dean whispered, get him. “You're kinda drunk, Mac,” Dean grinned. “You might fall down and hurt yourself.”
Mac had a good belly laugh. “Look at you, lettin' your balls drop. Here, come on.” Mac took a couple steps forward and went to slap Dean in the face. To Dean, it was the slowest, most awkward movement, and he could see it coming like an old locomotive. Mac's big hand lumbered out and found nothing, since Dean easily reared his head back and stepped to the side.
Mac put his hands up, almost like a boxer then. “Fast little shit, ain't ya? Come on,” Mac went for a slap again, and Dean stepped out. “You ain't gonna try and hit me back? Huh, boy?” Mac grunted.
Dean grinned. “If you can handle it.”
He watched Mac's face twitch. There it was, that big dumb angry beast just behind Mac's skin.
Dean prodded on, “Maybe if you can hit me first, maybe I'll hit you back.”
That was it. Mac smiled, and then swung fast, a mean hook that literally meant to clip Dean good. But again, Dean wasn't there, he ducked and moved to the right, just as Mac's fist hit the tool chest with a clungk!
Mac growled and stepped back, looking over his scraped and bleeding hand. “You did that on purpose, you little shit.”
This time Dean laughed. “I made you hit the tools?”
Mac shook his hand and pursed his lips up, making that I'm-making-a-decision-face. “Alright, smartass. I'll show you what's what.”
Mac wasn't going to throw any more punches. Dean could see it in his body language. Mac was going to come in for a tackle, try to take Dean to the ground. Fucking stupid fuck, Dean thought and stepped back, let him get all the speed he wants.
Mac rushed in; tucked his head down low and brought his hands up forward like a classic football tackle. Just as he reached Dean, Dean dropped back deadweight to the ground, caught Mac in the air above him by his shirt with his hands, and then shot his foot up into Mac's pelvis. Easy as pie, Dean used Mac's own weight and momentum against him, and Dean kicked out with his foot, throwing Mac's lower body higher into the air, while drawing Mac's head closer to the ground. A final heave of muscles from Dean and Mac shot across the garage, airborne, his feet pointing to the ceiling and his face sliding across the rugged concrete. Crash! Mac tumbled into a sawhorse and fell over on some egg crates full of truck parts and various oily slick tools and came down hard on his side. Various shit falling on him, Mac let out a moan and started getting to his feet, looking weak in the knees. Mac braced his hand against the wall and touched his face. He grimaced and his hand pulled away bloody. Fiery eyes shot up to Dean, who was already on his feet.
“I was just playing with you, boy,” Mac said, wiped his bloody hand on his pants, then stepped forward. “You wanna fuckin' fight? Huh?”
Dean impersonated Mac's southern drawl and laughed, feeling crazy, feeling alive, like someone had just plugged him in to the world's most powerful light socket. “Well shiiiit,” Dean mocked, “ain't been much of a fight yet.”
Mac snapped and flew forward, fists swinging like an ape. Predictable. He's wasting all his energy, Dean thought while stepping in and out of blows, catching some hard punches to his forearms on the ones he couldn't dodge. Mac was a good head taller (and Dean was tall for his age, a few inches short of six-foot and stocky and barrel-chested), so when Mac encircled Dean and used his weight to try and clobber Dean back against the wall, Dean got vicious. He remembered Jake, and thought I owe you one.
Dean shot his knee up into Mac's balls. And when the wind and spittle shot out of Mac's startled mouth, Dean snapped his palm up into Mac's chin, exposing his neck, just enough so Dean's other hand, which formed into a wedge, could collide with Mac's windpipe.
The three attacks came in a blink of the eye, just barely a second, and the shock was so sudden and profound to Mac that he stumbled over and fell, knocking the tool chest over. Wrenches and sockets, nuts and bolts rained down, splayed across the floor. The tool chest, coming down with many clinks and clanks, toppled over onto Dean's stepdad.
Dean saw a box cutter amidst the tools scattered about the ground. He picked it up, used his thumb to slide a couple inches of the blade out. Mac was struggling to catch his breath, Dean could hear him thrash under the weight of the tool chest. Just as Mac pushed the thing off him, he sat up, coughing blood. He looked up just in time to see Dean's sneaker flying in.
Thwap!
Dean's heel snapped into Mac's face, breaking his nose and busting his lips. Mac rocked onto his back, eyes crossing, head swimming, and Dean, grinning like a fox, sat upon Mac's chest. He grabbed a handful of Mac's greasy hair and held his head down. Mac's eyes roamed—the man was dazed—but they s
oon focused when Dean showed him the razor. Mac tried to move, but he was beat, his limbs and body did not respond. Through a fog, Dean began to whisper.
“Little baby needs a nap.”
Dean held his head firm, and Mac, lying there, choking, trying to gasp for air, felt the razor just barely touch his eye.
“Close your eyes, little baby.”
Mac pissed himself then. Dean could smell it, seeping from his jeans. Dean grinned, and Mac knew then the kid had gone crazy. All the hate he poured into that boy was coming back to him. Dean's face said it all. He wasn't pretending. His eyes were black, the pupils so big there was no white in them. His lips were pulled back into a wolf's grin. Mac had seen that face before—on junkies in prison—that vacant stare a dog gets once it's tasted blood.
Dean was going to kill him.
And Mac knew it.
Dean's mom must have finally come to from her drunk and opened the door to the garage then. “What the fuck? What's all the damn noise?”
Dean saw his mother's face droop down into dumb terror.
“Dean!” she yelled, and rushed over to Mac. “What did you do?!”
Dean grinned, stood up and shrugged. “We were slap boxing. Guess it got out of hand.”
Mac looked up at him, terror behind his glossy, drunk eyes, and coughed up blood and phlegm. Susan, Dean's mom, helped Mac to his feet, cooing him like a child. “Baby, are you alright? Babe-”
Mac had to hold onto her, and cleared his throat. He wiped his mustache with his forearm and almost fell. “Call Jimmy,” he said, his voice raspy and worn. “Have him come get me. I'm...leavin'.”
“Baby,” she said, startled. “What the hell is going on?”
“I said...I'm leaving!” Mac pushed her away and stumbled towards the door. “Fuck it... I'll call him myself...You two are on your own. It's over, Susan. I'm done.”
