J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”

Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.

She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.

Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.

Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.

I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.

“Wrong target!” I scream at him.

I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.

“Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

But the garage – I have power tools in the garage.

I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.

“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

She dodges it.

I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.

I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

Then she’s on me.

Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

PESSOLANO STARES DOWN at Swanson’s lifeless body. For some reason he thinks of his mother, lying in her casket. He bends down and crosses Swanson’s hands over his chest, and then gently closes Swanson’s eyes. Pessolano wishes he had a lily, or a Bible, or a rosary, to place in Swanson’s hand. He fishes around in his vest and comes out with a granola bar. He presses that into Swanson’s fist.

“We’ll avenge him,” Munchel says. “We’ll kill every last one of those assholes.”

Pessolano stands. He hopes Munchel doesn’t see the tears on his cheeks. He turns away and discreetly wipes them off.

“We can’t leave him here,” Pessolano says into the woods. “Soldiers don’t leave their dead behind.”

“We won’t. But we’re in a combat situation right now. We’ll give him a hero’s funeral. I promise. But after the war is over. We have to finish this first.”

Pessolano nods.

“I think we should rush the house,” Munchel says. “Break in, flush them out of hiding, and blow their goddamn heads off. You’ve got those Desert Eagles in the truck, right?”

“Yeah.”

Pessolano has two Magnum Research Mark XIX Desert Eagle.50 AE handguns. They’re massive weapons, weighing over four pounds each, capable of stopping a charging bull with one shot.

“Let’s do it, man. For Swanson.”

Munchel claps his hand on Pessolano’s shoulder.

“For Swanson,” he agrees. He wipes away another tear and clears his throat.

“Look,” Munchel says. “I know this is a tragedy, but Swanson would want us to soldier on. Right?”

Pessolano nods. He’s choking up a little bit.

“One of us should stay here, keep an eye on the house, and the other should go get the truck, bring it back.”

“Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words first?” Pessolano gestures at the body.

“Yeah, sure. I suck at this kind of shit.”

“Please.” Pessolano sniffles. “For Swanson.”

“Shit. Okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, oh Lord, our friend Greg Swanson was a good man who wanted to rid the world of perverts. He was a hero, and he’ll be missed. But me and Paul are going to fuck up those fucking motherfuckers responsible, and make them choke on their own fucking blood.”

“Amen,” Pessolano says. “I’ll go get the truck.”

ALEX GRABS MY SHIRT, jerks me to my feet. I try to lift my hands, try to push her away, but I don’t have the strength. Physical or mental. I’m broken, bleeding, beaten, finished. It’s over. I’m done.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Alex asks. She’s not even breathing heavy.

My eyes dart around the garage, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Nothing can help me. I’m past pain. Past exhaustion. Deep down, I know I need to keep fighting, know I’m dead if I don’t. But there’s nothing left in the tank. I can’t even stand up, and my knees wobble and give out.

Alex picks me up again.

“You’re pathetic, Jack.”

I hear gunfire, coming from the house. Harry, shooting at codeine apparitions. Dummy . He needs to save the bullets.