John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Nathan knew something was going to happen. For the first time in his life, he felt that his life was threatened. Without thinking, and without changing his position on the bed, he rolled his weight to the balls of his feet. He had an idea there was going to be a fight, and while he wasn’t much of a fighter, something in Ricky’s face told him that this would be the fight of his life—for his life.

Ricky entered the room slowly and smiled oddly. “You poor bastard,” he slurred. “You never really belonged here, you know. Sooner or later the others would have killed you anyway.”

Anyway? Nathan’s mind raced now. Did he say anyway? That meant….

Ricky halved the distance between them in a single step.

Nathan reacted by pressing himself against the block wall. He was cornered.

“I’ll try not to make it hurt too bad, kid,” he said, his weird smile getting broader. “You ever cleaned a fish?”

Nathan stared fixedly at Ricky’s hidden right hand. Sure, he had cleaned a lot of fish. You start with a sharp knife low in their bellies, and then split them open up to the head. You let their guts slide out onto the table. Then…

Nathan looked desperately for a way to dash around Ricky. It was easy to outmaneuver a drunk; he had proven that a hundred times with Uncle Mark, though there was always hell to pay later. But the cell was so small and Ricky was so big that there was nowhere to duck and dash to get around him.

He saw the knife. If Ricky had acted quickly and just lashed out at Nathan, it would have ended right there. He was certainly close enough. But Ricky had chosen drama over efficiency, waving the knife around in front of Nathan’s face. “What do you think it’s gonna feel like…”

Nathan didn’t hesitate. Bracing his back against the wall, he shot his leg straight out, driving his heel squarely into Ricky’s testicles. Ricky staggered a half-step, then slumped to his knees. Nathan attempted to vault over Ricky’s stooped shoulders, but the cot moved as he pushed off, and he only made it halfway, his knees contacting Ricky’s head and making them both tumble to the ground. Before he could get fully to his feet, Nathan felt a strong hand around his wrist, pulling him back down to the floor.

“Let go!” Nathan yelled, launching another kick, this one impacting Ricky’s nose and making a loud crunch.

Ricky’s hold on the boy’s wrist weakened, but it didn’t break. Nathan tried another kick, but this time missed completely, losing his balance and falling back down to the floor. Ricky was bleeding profusely from both nostrils, and as he struggled to catch his breath, he blew a bloody mist into the air. “I’m gonna cut your fucking head off,” Ricky hissed.

The knife came down at Nathan in a wide, powerful arc from above. Using his free hand, Nathan was able to deflect the trajectory just enough to make it miss, absorbing most of the energy in his elbow. The knife hand recoiled instantly for another strike, but Nathan held onto the wrist, causing Ricky to let go of Nathan’s own wrist. Using both hands now, Nathan concentrated his whole struggle on the hand with the knife, slowing down his assailant’s motion and limiting his ability to get a good stroke.

When the knife was back to the top of its arc, Nathan pulled himself up on his knees and lunged at Ricky’s knife hand with his teeth. He bit down as hard as he could on Ricky’s clenched hand, and he could feel the skin break and little bones give way to his incisors. The taste of blood filled his mouth, but he ignored it.

Ricky howled like a dog when the pain registered. “You fucking shit! You fight like a cunt!”

He waved his arm wildly, trying to break Nathan’s grip, but the teeth only sank deeper, until he finally let go of the knife, allowing it to drop to the floor. “Goddammit!” In one smooth motion, Ricky swung Nathan close, then drove a pistonlike punch into the boy’s right eye.

Behind his eyes, Nathan felt an explosion in his brain. He had never been hit that hard, and the impact of the punch sent him reeling against the cot, knocking it on its side. For a full five seconds, Nathan and Ricky stared at each other, allowing some of the agony to drain from their bodies. Then, together, they eyed the knife on the floor, and together they lunged for it.

Nathan had told himself a million times: a sober kid can outmaneuver a drunk adult any day of the week. And the Fourth of July was no exception. He snatched the knife from the concrete and whirled around in a backhanded slashing motion designed to make Ricky jump back.

But just as offensive moves are slowed by alcohol, so are defensive ones. Unable to react quickly enough to protect himself Ricky seemed to watch dumbly as the blade came around in a horizontal arc and buried itself to the hilt in his abdomen.

Nathan felt as shocked as Ricky looked as the knife drove itself home. Ricky fell straight back, like a tree, his lower legs folding under his butt, and his head impacting loudly against the concrete.

“I’m sorry!” Nathan shouted. “Oh, God, Ricky, I’m sorry!”

Ricky didn’t respond; he just stared at the ceiling. His hands gently massaged the handle of the knife, as though he were thinking of pulling it out, but couldn’t muster the courage.

Nathan didn’t know what to do. But he knew that if he didn’t do something, Ricky would die. Ricky seemed obsessed with the knife; maybe he should help him and pull it out for him. That would make him feel better. Nathan looked over his shoulder toward the door, in hopes that someone might have miraculously arrived with the answers. No, he was going to have to do this on his own. He moved hesitantly closer to the knife, closed his eyes, and pulled it free of the wound.

As the knife pulled clear of the wound, Nathan was instantly splashed with a torrent of blood pumping from the gaping wound, like crimson water from a vampire’s drinking fountain. The sound from Ricky’s throat was inhuman, half moan and half howl. His breath gurgled in his throat, like the sound of blowing bubbles through a straw.

Nathan knew right away that removing the knife was a mistake. Instinctively, he put his hands over the wound to try to stop the blood from spurting out, but it was useless; the gore kept pumping relentlessly from Ricky’s belly, and now from his mouth as well.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Ricky,” Nathan said over and over again, mantralike. In his heart, he knew he had killed him.

Out of nowhere, Ricky’s hand shot up to Nathan’s throat and shut off his air supply. For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Nathan locked his hands around Ricky’s wrist, trying to make him let go. But, like a mouse caught in an eagle’s talon, Nathan was trapped, feeling that his head was going to explode from the pressure. Ricky’s eyes showed murder. He was going to die, and he was going to take Nathan with him.

The knife! It was still on the floor! Nathan ventured a hand away from Ricky’s wrist, and found the blade an inch from his knee. This time, it would be no accident. Nathan mustered all the strength he had left to straight-arm the knife into Ricky’s chest. He struck over and over again, each impact making a grotesque slurping sound. After the second thrust, Ricky’s grip relaxed a little, once again allowing air and blood to flow to Nathan’s brain. After the fifth, Ricky let go completely, and with a last rattling breath, he died.

Nathan panicked. The Crisis Unit looked like a house of horrors. A supervisor was dead, and they were going to blame him. Sure as hell, there would be nothing that he’d be able to say to anyone to make them believe that Ricky had started it.

Say goodbye to a ten-month release. No sirree, baby, killing a supervisor was about the worst crime there was. They’d throw his young ass in jail until he was twenty-one, if he could get out even then.