by D. A. Young
What was that?
Patrick looked around. He could have sworn he heard a rustling sound. “That you, Dipper? I know the boy ain’t come through, but I done showed him the error of his ways. He won’t be givin’ me no more trouble.”
No one answered him.
“Huh. Guess it ain’t.”
He finished his business and ambled back to where he’d left Darby. Patrick drew his foot back to kick him awake and paused, sensing that they were no longer alone. His head swiveled around and…nothing. Feeling edgy, he snatched his belt up, whirling in a circle, aimed to strike at whatever was stalking him.
“Who’s out there?! Bring your pussy ass out now!”
From behind him, Patrick felt the air shift, making the hairs on his neck stir. He spun around and got the knob end of an axe between the eyes.
***
He was flying, Darby thought vaguely as he briefly opened his eyes and saw the ground blurring beneath him. Away from Patrick but not the pain. It had invaded his body and taken up permanent residence. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t scream from it. Was he dead??? For a moment, Darby felt blessed to be free of Patrick. Then sadness crept in. He would never get to see Jackie, Casey, and Mama again. Suddenly, he made a sharp left and the ground rose up as he flew down the hill. Darby raised his head and felt woozy as the trees passed in a haze. He was soaring and then landing with barely a sound.
“Where am I?” he groaned. “Who’s there?”
“Don’t try to talk. You took a bad beatin’.”
The sound of one of his best friends’ voice made Darby relax. It was Holt. “How’d you find me?”
“Your ma called my house,” Holt huffed as he ran. “Asked my mama if we’d seen you. I put two and two together.”
Tears flowed down Holt’s face as he moved. He never cried. Holt didn’t begrudge those who did, but he preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check. He pondered how long it would be before the image of his friend, chained like a dog, bruised, and beaten bloody, vanished from his mind.
Darby was drifting, floating in and out of consciousness, when Holt’s words clicked.
“You been followin’ me?”
Holt’s chuckle vibrated under Darby’s body. “Yeah, for about a month now. I happened to be out and about when the cars started pullin’ into the field. You handle yourself well. Been at it long?”
A month ago, he’d been working with his axe in the clearing when he first heard the cars driving in. Holt ducked into the bushes at the opposite end and waited, his curiosity getting the better of him. No one ever came this far up the mountain. Four vehicles in total. Eyes narrowed, he recognized Patrick’s truck. Holt was surprised to see Darby emerge from the backseat with a sullen expression. Two other men and a woman joined father and son. Each had a boy with them. Two were bigger than Darby by at least a foot, and the last one was his size.
Holt watched, torn between fascination and concern, as the boys peeled their shirts off, found an opponent, and started brawling. Darby was a human cyclone, his face contorting like a feral dog as he brought his opponent down, fists pulverizing the larger boy. After winning that match, he took on the winner of the other match and defeated him, too. Their parents exchanged money, and everyone left. It happened two more weekends in a row, and now, they were here.
“That was the first time that bastard made me do it. Told me if I didn’t do it, he’d make Casey do it. Fucker said ‘cause I was big for my age, I should be earnin’ my keep,” Darby bitterly replied. “Speakin’ of, how are you able to lift me when we’re practically the same size?”
That earned him another laugh. Holt was the same age as Jackie, but Darby’s continuous growth almost matched his in height and build.
“Don’t worry about that. Right now, all you need to do is rest while I get you home.”
Darby was silent for so long that Holt thought he’d fallen asleep.
“You kill him?”
“Nah. I tied him up. I wanted to, though,” Holt confessed. “Real bad. He needs to die for what he did to you.”
“Don’t!” Darby sharply instructed him as they came to the end of the hill and Holt set him on his feet. “I appreciate what you did, but that motherfucker deserves to die by me and my brothers’ hands.”
“I could make it look like an accident,” Holt offered. “No one would be the wiser. He wouldn’t even see it comin’!”
Darby’s smile was more of a grimace as the pain washed over him. He would have fallen if Holt hadn’t caught him. “That’s part of the problem. I want him to see it. I don’t want that son of a bitch to miss a single moment of my revenge.”
Holt frowned and looked as if he wanted to argue. In the end, he solemnly nodded. “Alright then. My bike is in the bushes over there. Can you make it home?”
Darby nodded, and Holt relaxed, seeing the determination in his friend’s face.
“Then go on ahead and take it home. I’ll head back and untie him.” Out of the blue, he stiffened, pivoting to take in their surroundings with keen awareness.
“Holt? Holt?” Darby snapped his fingers at his distracted friend’s face when he didn’t answer.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell my brothers.” Darby cleared his throat and closed his eyes. “Please. I’m askin’ you to keep this secret because Jackie worries enough for all of us. His anxiety is keepin’ him up at night. Mama’s been actin’ real funny, and so is Aunt Viv. I don’t want to add to their plates.”
Holt balked at the idea of keeping secrets between the brothers. However, he knew Darby was right. Jack did stress and it was startin’ to affect his schoolwork. He gave the area another sharp once over. His instinct told Holt they were no longer alone in the area.
“You have my word,” he promised distractedly. “Now, get your butt home!”
Darby left, peddling as fast as his injuries would let him and wondering what in the hell had gotten into Holt.
***
“Help me!!!” Patrick hollered. “Is anyone out there?!”
How the fuck had he gotten here? He was drained from the alcohol and straining against the collar and chain that had been wrapped around his body. His plaid shirt and tank top had been stripped, pockets emptied, and the contents, including his pocketknife, scattered out of his reach, but his belt was gone.
“Heeeelp!”
His continued pleas echoed in the star-studded darkness and remained unanswered. Patrick shivered nonstop and gazed longingly at his clothes. The temperature in the mountains always dropped drastically when the sun went down, especially when the fog rolled in during fall and winter. He could hear small varmint rustling around in the underbrush and fucking hoped that the bigger ones like the coyotes and boars didn’t sniff him out.
“Help–”
The axe, now embedded approximately three feet above his head, shut Patrick the hell up. Fear rose like smoke from the pit of his stomach, and he strained against the chains helplessly then stilled, realizing that he was being watched.
The tables had turned.
He was now the prey.
“Wh-Who’s there?” he demanded shakily and received no answer.
That damn unnerving silence again.
The buckle struck the side of his face, cutting the corner of his right eye.
“Gotdamn it!” Patrick howled as the drops of blood hit his chest. A pair of black boots came into view. He lifted his head, and the leather strap struck his face. Patrick tried to focus, but the belt came down again. It was only the beginning of his nightmare. He was used to issuing the beatings. Taking them was another story altogether. One that his family would have derived great pleasure from if they could witness it. Chilling screams filled the silent night as red welts rose from his flesh and turned bloody while Patrick twitched and shitted on himself. He couldn’t avoid the belt and yowled for mercy from the brutal blows that wailed at breakneck speed. Only when Patrick’s shrieking receded to crying and hoarse blubbering
did his silent punisher stop.
“What’s happenin’?” he sniveled fearfully, too terrified to open his eyes.
“Look at me.”
The voice was muffled, but Patrick immediately obeyed, staring up at the stranger dressed in all black, wearing a baseball cap and bandanna concealing the lower part of their face. Robotic blue eyes stared back at him. They reached forward, and Patrick threw his head back against the tree trunk, eyes shut, trying to evade their grasp.
“No more! I’ll do whatever you want!”
Silence.
Patrick opened one eye tentatively. Instantly, the cutting edge of the axe was at his jugular, sharp enough to slice through his skin if he moved even a fraction.
“Darby will no longer fight for you. If you ever put your hands on the children or your wife again, I’ll skin you alive, inch by inch. Blink so that I know you understand that I mean what I say.”
He hastily obeyed.
“I’ll be watching you, Patrick Sullivan.”
He fainted as the weapon was raised then swiftly brought down, seemingly headed in his direction. It cut through the chains and freed him instead.
“Is he dead?”
Throwing the belt down, Elin tugged the bandanna past her chin and faced her son, who stepped out from the shrubs. “No.”
“Pity. He deserved it,” Holt snarled, rebelliously meeting his mother’s eyes. “You didn’t see what he did to Darby!”
“I don’t need to see it!” she snapped back. “Let’s go!”
They headed back to the road where she’d parked on the side then they left.
“Why did you follow me?” Holt gritted out, staring out the window.
“Because I’m your mother and part of my job is to know when things are bothering you,” Elin admonished. “Every Saturday this month, you’ve slipped away and come back wired until crashing into moodiness. Your father has noticed as well. You taking your sharper axe was another red flag, and I knew I could no longer let you be.”
She’d hidden the truck and circled around Patrick, searching for Holt’s trail, which was damn near impossible to find in the dark. Finally locating it, Elin lay in wait for his return, making her presence known and damn near getting scalped in the process.
“You can’t just run around killing people, Holton! Once you reach that point, there will be no return. I want you to preserve your innocence until the time comes. Promise me you won’t interfere again.”
He turned back to her, mutiny burning in his eyes. “No! I can’t do that, Mama! My friends are sufferin’ at that monster’s hands! How can we sit back and do nothin’?!” Holt’s voice broke, and he pounded his frustration out on the dashboard. “We can’t!”
“You will do as I say!”
Elin never raised her voice to him. He’d never given her a reason to. Until now. She’d trained him to the best of her abilities. A regular man, let alone a drunk like Patrick Sullivan, was no match for Holton. She’d seen to that. What stressed Elin was that this was intensely personal for her son. He was too emotionally invested. Emotions made one careless. Carelessness was cause for mistakes.
Mistakes got your limbs chopped off.
“Wasn’t it you who said, ‘You don’t ask one person to do what’s right; you ask all of them’? Don’t ask me to stand down now! I won’t!”
Elin took her eyes off the road briefly, and Holton’s rigid profile, fueled by injustice, made her want to cry. Her baby was not a little boy anymore. She’d moved here to shield him from darkness, and life, once again, reminded Elin that she wasn’t in control of her destiny or anyone else’s by dragging her into its chaos.
“We will monitor the situation. For now, your word would be appreciated, Holton Rudii Brammer. If you do not give it, I will put you on lockdown.”
“Fine!” Holt shot his mother a sharp glare. Sometimes it sucked ass when your mother and mentor were one and the same. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”
Elin pointedly ignored him, and he knew his mama had said all she planned to on the matter.
***
The next day, Darby sought Holt out and found him in his backyard. He stopped at the gated entrance, amazed at what he saw.
Holt was wielding an axe effortlessly, twirling and spinning it smoothly. He brought it around his neck, maneuvering it to roll off his shoulders like water as he spun around the backyard. Darby’s eyes ballooned as Holt threw it in the air and the axe cartwheeled down, the blade shining hypnotically on its descent. Holt caught it behind his back, handle first, brought it back around, and grasped both hands on the axe handle. Holding it so the blade was symmetrical, he drew the axe back, over his head with concentrated velocity, only to bring it forward, releasing it with his arms extended directly in front of him. Darby was further impressed as the traveling weapon rotated in a perfect pattern until it landed with unerring accuracy and a resounding thwack in the center of its target: a large, circular tree stump approximately twenty-five feet away.
Darby’s enthusiastic clapping drew Holt’s attention to him. “You better not show Lakeisha Flint them moves before I get her phone number!”
“I thought you had your eye on Tristen McGee? You should be at home restin’!” Holt called out, going to retrieve the axe. “What are you doin’ out of bed, D?”
Darby shoved his hands into the wide front pocket of his gray hooded sweatshirt and met him halfway. “Tired of bein’ cooped up, I guess.”
Holt examined him slowly. Patrick had been careful to only abuse him from below the shoulders and because it was cold out, he was well-covered today in a sweat suit, beanie, and scarf. “How ya feelin’?”
“Like deep-fried shit on a stick.” Darby stared at the axe, finding it hard to meet Holt’s stare in the cold light of day. It was easy to mask his humiliation and shame in the dark, underneath his covers, away from Jackie and Casey. He didn’t like to display his fear or weakness to them. He needed to be their strength and support system. Last night, Holt had witnessed it all.
“Sounds about right. He come home last night?”
“Bastard came stumblin’ in this mornin’ while we were eatin’ breakfast.” He chortled at the memory of Patrick’s bedraggled state and injured, discolored face as he limped through the backdoor and into the master bedroom. It was the best gift anyone could have given him. Mama had hustled them out of the house, and Darby chose to come here while Jack took Casey to the library. “You do all that?”
“No, but I know who did.”
Darby nodded. “I’m much obliged to them. Last night, you made me an offer. Were you serious?”
Holt had given Mama his word and had never disobeyed her. His honor was now at stake. It was the code you lived by and without it, you were nothing. Holt was willing to take that risk. Patrick Sullivan had always been volatile, but this was an all-time low that might inevitably end in tragedy. Right now, honor was the difference between life and death for Holt’s friends.
“Yes.”
Darby smiled his relief. “Good. We do it right after Christmas. I want to start the new year on the right foot.”
“There’s no ‘we’,” Holt sternly informed him. “It’s all on me. You don’t want his blood on your hands.”
“Now hold on a damn minute, Boss Hog! Why the hell is it okay for you to get blood on yours?” Darby indignantly asked. “Because you’re older?”
Holt smiled enigmatically. “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number. It’s the experience that counts. This is what I was born to do.”
He didn’t elaborate further, but Darby believed him.
Holt knew that his friend was a stubborn cuss. When he got to pushing his mouth out mulishly, like now, his mind was made up. “Ain’t you tired of this, D? Lemme do this for y’all. I don’t want this shit on your conscience. Like you said, ‘New Year, fresh start’.”
When he went to bed last night, Holt’s mind had been strategizing on how Patrick would meet his fate. It made him understand that unconsciously, he’d
already planned to do this. His favorite was of Patrick drowning while fishing. Of capsizing the rowboat from underneath the water and holding the bastard below, watching him panic as he comprehended that his life was ending and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. No one would ever suspect anything other than the town drunk was too inebriated, per usual, to save himself.
“Trust me. Please.”
Gradually, Darby’s mouth relaxed, and he relented. “Alright. After Christmas, though. We don’t need to give the town, even more, to talk about and ruin the holidays for everyone.” He pointed at the axe. “Right now, I want you to tell me about this trainin’ of yours. I’m trustin’ you, and it should be a two-way street. Your secret will always be safe with me.”
Holt slowly nodded his agreement. “Seems like a fair trade. I’m gonna to hold you to it, Darby Sullivan.”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t. What’s up with the axe? Your ma got you bustin’ wood?”
Holt smiled, running his finger along its handle, feeling a burst of pride. His upbringing was unconventional, but it was his. “It’s a Scandinavian thing. You wouldn’t understand, Irish.”
It was also a big “fuck you” to Ivar from Elin. She’d taken the very weapon he’d used to best her and taught her son to excel with it. Most axes were weighty and required some exertion to wield. A battle axe was lighter. It had to be for swift, deadly attacks, affording a variety of clever, gruesome moves.
“Am I the only one that thinks talkin’ about murder is kinda dark for us kids?” Darby asked, scrunching his nose at his close friend and now partner-in-crime.
“Haven’t been a kid for a while now,” he cryptically replied. Despite what his mama said, Holt had no innocence. It was nothing but a foolish expectation of denial. He simply allowed her to believe differently to ease her guilty conscience over his Aunt Ziva’s death. “Besides, it ain’t murder if it’s survival of the fittest, right?”
Darby offered him a toothy grin. “Can’t argue with that kind of logic, I suppose.”
A week later, Holt would regret not following his instincts when all hell broke loose.
