Dead on My Feet

by J. A. Konrath

  He went down.

  One second—

  Everyone panicked. The two guys behind me sprinted toward the door, and the two guys flanking Mulrooni bounded into the house.

  Two seconds—

  Bruiser stared down at his employer, his expression the same as a stupid dog who can’t comprehend the ball rolling under the sofa.

  Three seconds—

  I followed the goons out of the garage door and took three steps before—

  BOOM!

  The explosion deafened me.

  Deafened me, but didn’t hurt me.

  Thank you, NASCAR, for being between me and the blast.

  Then I was chopping one guy in the neck, taking his gun, shooting another guy, and sprinting to my Bronco.

  The gate is closed, Earl said.

  I hopped into the truck anyway, put on my seatbelt and jammed on the gas.

  This is even dumber than the grenade ploy! You think you’re actually going to—

  I hit it at close to thirty miles an hour.

  When I came to, my airbag had deployed and the truck had stalled.

  Behind me, above the ringing in my ears, shouting and gunshots.

  I pushed away the airbag. The gate was down. I tried the ignition, knowing it wouldn’t start.

  Somehow, it started.

  Something in the engine was grinding, and there was some smoke, but the Bronco made it over the gate and I was able to steer it down the private road and turn onto the main thoroughfare without anyone on my ass.

  A mile away, I was shaking so bad that I had to pull over and puke.

  I somehow made it back to the hotel. When I came into the room, Pasha was sitting up on the bed.

  “It’s over,” I told her.

  And then I did the worst, lamest, most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in front of a woman.

  I began to sob.

  When I finally fell asleep, she was holding me.

  When I finally woke-up, she was still holding me.

  I went to the lobby to pick up the morning paper. Mulrooni was mentioned on page three. Local businessman, killed in a gas main explosion. Two others, as of yet unidentified, also died in the blast.

  Gotta watch those gas mains. They were dangerous.

  “Won’t they send someone else?” Pasha asked over a two star continental breakfast of soggy powdered eggs and microwave oatmeal.

  “I think Mulrooni was on his own on this. He said I cost him money. Him personally. With both him and LaBeck gone, there’s no reason to pursue us.”

  “Speaking of money, I owe you some.”

  I nodded.

  “What if I feel unsafe? Could I pay you to stick around for a few days?”

  I didn’t even have to consider it. “I’ll take the job.”

  My Bronco looked a lot worse in the daylight. We arranged for a tow truck and a rental car.

  Small talk, on the drive back. Not uncomfortable, but not as intimate as I’d hoped for. Pasha didn’t ask me what happened at Mulrooni’s, and I didn’t offer any information. But I could tell her opinion of me had changed.

  She knew I’d killed him. And she’d just slept with a killer. After she paid me, I figured there was a good chance she’d tell me to take off.

  Everyone is grateful when the garbage man comes. But no one wants to be around the stink.

  Eventually our conversation wilted, and we drove the last thirty minutes in silence.

  Back at her parking lot, the Canadian goose who’d befriended me waddled over, honking for pills. When I tried to ignore him, he pecked me.

  There was an analogy there for something, but I was too beat to figure it out.

  When we got into her apartment, Pasha asked me if I wanted an espresso.

  “That would be great.”

  While she made it, I sat on the sofa. Groucho hopped into my lap.

  Pasha handed me the coffee. She sat down across from me, rather than next to me. A bad sign.

  “I’m having some trouble dealing with a lot of this,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “I need to know what happened last night. After you left.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I told her. I told her everything.

  When I finished, her expression was blank.

  “Were you scared?” Pasha eventually asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you did it anyway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could have run away. Why didn’t you run away?”

  I wondered if she was talking about the cancer. “Why? Because I always run away when I’m scared?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, you risked your life for me. For a few thousand dollars. Why?”

  “I’m a problem solver,” I answered. “This is what I do.”

  Pasha began to cry. I finished my espresso, set Groucho on the floor, and stood up to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You don’t want me here.”

  “I do want you here. That’s why I’m crying.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Jack was right. You don’t understand women.”

  “So help me understand.”

  Pasha punched the arm of her chair. “I’m falling in love with you, you idiot. And I know, by telling you that, you’re going to leave. You’re going to leave, and die someplace all alone, and that makes me hate you.”

  I shook my head. “You’re not falling in love. You were in trouble. I helped you. You’re grateful.”

  “So that’s what all of this was to you? Just a job?”

  I nodded.

  “Then tell me. To my face. Tell me you don’t have any feelings for me at all.”

  That was the right thing to do. For me. And for her.

  So why couldn’t I bring myself to say it?

  I needed to be strong. For Pasha. But the situation was really messed-up, because just looking at her made me feel strong.

  I almost gave in. Almost reached for her. But the phone saved me.

  As we stared at each other, it rang once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Then the machine picked up.

  “Phin? It’s Annie.”

  For a moment I lost the ability to speak.

  “Phin, please. Pick up the phone. I know you’re there. I need you.”

  Pasha’s eyes spilled over. Then she handed me the receiver. I took it into the other room.

  I had no idea what to say to Annie. What to feel.

  You know what to say. Tell her to leave you alone. Tell them both to leave you alone.

  Earl was right. It was better that way.

  Good call. Now hang up, walk out, and let’s go get some drugs.

  “Annie.” I used my stern voice. “How did you get this number, and why are—”

  “Phin, he’s got me. I—”

  “We got unfinished business,” a guy interrupted her.

  A guy I recognized.

  I lowered my voice to a whisper, so Pasha didn’t hear. “If you hurt her…”

  “Show me what you’ll do. I’m in the parking lot outside. Come down now. You have thirty seconds, or she dies. Bring a gun, or anything else that goes bang, she dies. Call the police, she dies. Me and you are gonna settle this.”

  He hung up.

  I hurried out of the kitchen, heading for the door.

  “Phin?”

  I couldn’t have Pasha follow me, so I turned, speaking through clenched teeth. “Don’t be an idiot. You were nothing but a job to me.”

  I stayed long enough to watch her break, and then I stormed out the door.

  I took the stairs two at a time, bursting out of the lobby, seeing—

  A black Land Rover. Annie, in the front seat, handcuffed to the wheel.

  And standing in front of the car, biceps like melons…

  “Hey there, Suzie. I was hoping you blew up.”

  Bruiser had a gun in his fist. A Desert Eagl
e, one of the largest caliber handguns on the market. In his hands, it looked like a toy.

  “Shirt off, turn your pockets inside out.”

  I complied, then turned around to show him I was unarmed. “I owe you an apology, Sue.”

  “For what? Shooting me? Blowing up my boss?”

  “I’m truly sorry,” I told him, “for not killing you when I had the chance.”

  “Well, then.” He spat on the ground. “Now’s your chance.”

  He opened the hatchback of the Rover and threw the gun inside. Then he tore off his own shirt.

  It was ridiculous. Bruiser looked like he’d eaten Arnold Schwarzenegger, and then had Stallone for dessert.

  He was going to tear my arms off.

  I stole a glance at Annie. She had duct tape over her mouth. Her mascara was running down her cheeks.

  Run away, Earl said. She’s not your responsibility. The only responsibility you have is taking care of me.

  Bruiser smacked a fist into his palm, so hard it could be heard from low orbit.

  “I have been so looking forward to this.”

  “Me, too,” I lied.

  I’d endured a few beatings in my life. They hurt, but I healed.

  Being beaten to death was another thing altogether. Bruiser was so big, so strong, this was a whole new level of street fight. Black eye, bloody nose, broken tooth, concussion? That was playground rough-housing. This was going to be medieval torture; every bone broken, face ripped off, spine snapped, arms torn from their sockets.

  Are you insane? Earl said. You can live out the rest of your shitty life in a drugged out bliss. Maybe you’ll even last a few months. If you try to fight this monster, your life is going to be measured in minutes.

  “But at least you’ll finally shut up,” I mumbled, raising up my bandaged fists and adopting a boxing stance.

  Bruiser began to walk toward me.

  I stood my ground.

  Having gone toe-to-toe with him before, I knew how strong he was, and how fast he was. Once he caught me, it was game over.

  My strategy was to go after the only two things on him that weren’t jacked up on steroids; his eyes, and his balls.

  That’s four things, Earl said.

  If I blinded Bruiser, I had a chance. If I kicked his nuts up into his throat, that could give me an opening to blind him.

  Other than that, my main focus was to not let him grab me.

  Bruiser lunged, I lost balance trying to dodge him, and he grabbed me.

  Told you to run, dumb ass.

  I’d never been lifted up by my neck before, and it hurt about as much as I would have guessed. What hurt more was his other hand, punching me in the face so hard he knocked me out of his own grip.

  I hit the pavement on my shoulder, the stars coming out, pain flaring in so many places I wasn’t sure which direction was up. Instinct made me tuck and roll, and I narrowly missed being stomped on by size 15 work boots. I lashed out with my right leg, aiming for his junk, and connecting.

  My Velcro gym shoe bounced off, harmlessly. Bruiser had learned from our last scrap, and was wearing a cup.

  You are soooooooooooooo dead.

  Bruiser grabbed me again, by the back of my neck and the waistband of my pants. I watched the ground grow smaller, a sensation not unlike a carnival ride.

  Then the ride got bad when he threw me.

  Flying through the air was another new sensation for me, and if I had hit the pavement I would have broken something for sure. Instead, I bounced off the windshield of a Jetta, cracking it to spider webs, rolling onto the hood.

  A boy named Sue came at me.

  I sat up, popping my elbow into the window over and over until I punched a hole in it. Modern safety glass is tough. The plastic layers keep the glass stuck together pretty well, and the fact that the glass is tempered means it breaks into squares and rectangles rather than sharp points.

  But squares and rectangles were good enough for my purpose. I stuck my hand in, pulling out a handful of glass bits. When Bruiser grabbed my ankle, I twisted my body and threw the shards in his face.

  He released me. Not waiting to see if I blinded him, I instead forced myself through the hole I made in the windshield of the Jetta. I flopped, face-first, into the driver’s seat, then frantically searched around for some sort of weapon. A car jack would have been nice. An assault rifle, even better.

  All I found was a baby’s sippy cup.

  The car began to rock, and then a non-blinded Bruiser put his fist through the side window and ripped the door off its hinges.

  Seriously. He wasn’t human.

  I half expected him to eat the door and spit metal fragments out at me, machinegun style, but I didn’t wait to see because I was scrambling for the passenger door, trying to get away.

  Once again Bruiser grabbed me by the waistband and tossed me like he was throwing a bag of potatoes onto the kitchen counter. I soared about three meters and hit the fender of another car, falling onto my upper body, bumping my head on the asphalt.

  Somehow, I still held the sippy cup. I tried to crack it against the curb, to break it open, maybe get a sharp plastic shard.

  But—bang as I might—that sucker didn’t crack.

  Baby stuff these days is really safe, Earl said.

  Bruiser picked up the door—the goddamn door—of the Jetta, and stomped toward me. I got up on wobbly feet, feinted left, and dodged right as the door sailed past. When I stood, I saw Annie in the Land Rover, several parking spots away from me, her eyes wide with fear.

  I threw the sippy cup, missed, and ran for the Rover. Not because saving her was foremost in my mind. But because Bruiser had tossed his Desert Eagle into the hatchback. He seemed immune to thirty-two caliber, but fifty caliber would put a serious dent in his future plans.

  Bruiser followed my gaze, guessed my intent, and blitzed to cut me off. And he was supernaturally fast. I reached the rear of his truck half a second before him, tugged on the door handle, found it locked, and then got hit by a runaway train.

  Somehow our legs got tangled up, and we both ate parking lot. While sprawled out, I took a swipe at his eyes, clipped his nose instead, and then crab walked backward before he could grab me again.

  He was quick, but his mass prevented him from getting to his feet before me, and while he was still on one knee I snap kicked him in the face, then lunged, gripping his ears and jumping up, introducing his nose to my knee.

  I hit him hard, probably hurt him, and then he swung a gigantic right fist the size of a canned ham. It connected with the force of a cannon ball, and I was sure it broke my ribs, popped my kidney, and relocated my liver to the left side of my body.

  I crumpled to all fours, dry heaved, and tried to suck in a breath.

  Then Bruiser was on his knees behind me, arm across my throat, locking in the choke hold.

  I might as well have had an anaconda around my neck. Within a few seconds, I was seeing red, and the pressure in my skull was so intense I thought my eyes would pop out.

  And that’s all she wrote, Earl said. You know the rule of threes. Three days without water. Three hours without shelter. Three minutes without air.

  I scratched at Bruiser’s forearm. It felt like steel cables.

  Why are you even bothering to fight back? This is what you want. It’s even better. Instead of a slow, pathetic suicide from drugs and alcohol, this will all be over in a minute or two.

  I tried to reach behind me, to go for Bruiser’s eyes. But he had his head turned away and his weight pressing down on me.

  I gotta question your motivation here, Phin. I thought we were both clear that you’ve given up. Stop fighting.

  I tried to push forward, but I had no leverage, and my size and strength were nothing against Bruiser’s.

  Just let it happen. Let death in.

  But I wasn’t ready to let death in.

  Everything is terrible, remember? Life is nothing but pain? These are your last few moments. You want to
waste them by struggling?

  I wasn’t sure how many seconds had passed, but everything was getting blurry. My lungs were two burning torches. My vision getting darker and darker.

  Still, I refused to give up. I refused to give in.

  Stop fighting, Troutt. There’s nothing worth fighting for, any way you cut it.

  But Earl was wrong. Some things were worth fighting for.

  Annie. And Pasha. And Jack. And Harry.

  And me.

  I was worth fighting for.

  Why had it taken me so long to see that?

  When I was on the boat, I fought.

  When I was in the river, I fought.

  When I was in the burning car, I fought.

  When I was in Mulrooni’s garage, I fought.

  And now, with only seconds left, I still fought.

  I didn’t want to die.

  All along, I’ve been wanting to live.

  I got my fingers around Bruiser’s forearm and I pulled, pulled, pulled, PULLED—

  And nothing happened.

  I’d finally figured it out, and I was too late.

  At least I wouldn’t have to deal with Earl anymore.

  “What the hell?”

  Bruiser released his sleeper hold, just a centimeter, at the same time I heard a noise.

  A familiar noise.

  A loud HONK!

  His easing up was enough to lower my chin, get it between his arm and my neck.

  There was another HONK! Standing next to me, pecking at Bruiser’s side, was my junkie Canadian goose pal, wondering why he wasn’t being fed more pills.

  “Get away from me!” Bruiser yelled.

  The goose pecked him again, in the face, and once again Bruiser eased up on the pressure.

  Not enough for me to breathe. But enough for me to get my mouth open.

  That’s all I needed. I bit down on his arm hard enough to crush marble.

  He screamed, managed to hold me for another half a second, and then he couldn’t shove me away fast enough and I was spitting a hunk of his flesh out and gasping for air.

  His foot met with my chest, causing me to roll over. I continued the roll, gulping up oxygen, managing to get on all fours and somehow back onto my feet.

  The goose had saved me, but only delayed the inevitable. In fact, everything was worse, because now that I knew I wanted to live, dying would be a lot more painful.