Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

Fish pulled Rusty down and he fell to his knees in the dirt, Fish still clinging to his jacket. He began dry-vomiting, hacking in choking spasms.

Finally, he slapped Fish’s hand away and laid his palms flat on the ground, tried to push himself up. It took three cockeyed pushes till he was standing unsteadily. Everything was fuzzy around the edges and he could only vaguely hear—

“Man, what a punk he turned into!”

“Chicken all the way. No guts!”

“Candle’s gonna slice him up good, you see!”

Every face was one face; every body was a gigantic many-legged body. He was swaying and he felt a hand shoved into his back and, “Stand up, fer Chrissakes!”

His throat chugged and he thought for an instant he was going to bring up what little of his lunch was left lying uneasily in his stomach. But it passed as he gulped deeply and he began to get a clear picture of what was around him.

He saw all the faces. Poop and Boy-O, Margie, Connie, Cherry, Fish beside him looking angry and worried at the same time, Shamey, the Beast, Greek, Candle, with his eyes bright and daring, and—he stopped thinking for a moment when he saw her.

Weezee. She was here, too. Who had brought her?

He started forward in her direction, but Candle moved in and stopped him. “She came with me. I brought her. Any complaints?”

Before he could answer, Weezee started to say something. “I couldn’t help it, Rusty, he saw me—”

“Shaddup!” Candle snapped over his shoulder. He turned back to Rusty. “You got any beefs, you can settle ’em the knife way.”

The sickness and the fear had passed abruptly. Rusty was quite cold and detached now. If it was a stand Candle wanted, all the rest of these sluggy bastards wanted, then that was what they’d get. Right now.

“Who’s got the hankie?” he yelled.

Magically, a handkerchief fluttered down onto the ground between the two boys. Neither touched it. Candle’s arm moved idly in his sleeve and the switchblade dropped into his hand. Even as he pressed the stud and the bright blade flicked up, Rusty was bending sharply and he came erect with his own weapon in his fist, already open.

They faced each other across the white handkerchief, and then Candle watched stonily as Rusty bent down and picked it up. From the crowd cries of, “Get him! Sling him!” and once in a while, “Go, go, go, Chickie-man!” rang out.

Rusty shook out the hankie and put one corner in his mouth, wadding it slightly behind his clenched teeth. He extended the opposite corner to Candle delicately and when Candle took it, his eyes were sharp on Rusty’s own.

Caution: when you knife-fight… don’t bother watching the knife as much as the other guy’s eyes. They tell when he’s gonna strike.

Candle knew it and took the hankie in his mouth with care. He maneuvered his tongue and teeth a bit till the cloth was settled properly. They were separated across a two foot restraining line of taut cloth, their backs arched, their bodies curved to put them as far away at swinging level as possible. The arm-swinging range was just two feet—with the other man’s knife in the way. The first man who dropped the hankie lost and was at the mercy of the other.

Poop was going to be the starter and Rusty motioned him with an offhand gesture to hold up for a second. Rusty saw the heavy black leather jacket Candle wore and realized his own jacket was thinner, more easily ripped. The dangerous area—the lower arms—was mostly unprotected. He held his knife tightly and reached back, took his own handkerchief from his hip pocket and wrapped it tightly about his free hand. That helped a little.

Poop stared at them anxiously. He lit a cigarette and puffed it violently as Rusty banded himself with the hankie. Then the boy threw down the cigarette, stamped it into the dirt of the dumps, and said, “Ya ready to go now?”

Rusty felt a wry laugh bubble up from his belly. Poop was getting anxious. Maybe they wouldn’t kill each other; then he wouldn’t get his kicks.

Both boys nodded.

Poop raised both hands above his head, as a drag-race starter would. Then he brought them slashingly down, screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Go !”

Candle jerked back heavily and the hankie started to slip from Rusty’s teeth. The cloth gave an ominous tearing sound and Rusty swung the knife in flat arcs, moving forward and teeth-winding the hankie so he had more of it firmly tight in his grip. He stopped as he saw Candle’s knife-arm edging closer. Then they were equal, with the hankie tight, and their knives ready to draw blood.

They circled, stepping, stepping, stepping carefully, measuring each movement. Footwork had to be close, because the slightest fouling of feet, and down a man could go. And that meant not only down. It meant out.

The ground was worn into a rough circle as they went tail-around-head past each other. The gang fanned out and watched, making certain an idle sweep of the blades could not touch them. The two boys bent forward from the shoulders, putting their bellies as far back as possible, for that was the direction in which trouble lay.

Feet widely spread, they stopped every few seconds, swinging, making certain they did not throw themselves off-balance.

Grunts and explosions of sweat marked their circular passage and soon Rusty felt his arms getting weak. He stooped slightly and it was a soft sight to Candle that the effect of the retching, the movement, the swinging, the tension, had taken hold. He moved in for the kill. But he was premature. Rusty caught the other’s arm as it came up, caught it on his other wrist, the hankie wound tightly, and Rusty let a squeal of pain loose as the blow ricocheted off. Candle’s hand had struck his wrist with impact and the shake threw Rusty off-balance. Candle was on him, then, with the knife coming back for a full overhead swing, and Rusty tossed himself sidewise. Candle went past, and the hankie snapped tight, dragging Candle almost off his feet.

Rusty moved back away, dragging Candle with him, and in a second, before the advantage could be gained, they were circling each other, both steady, both wary. The air was filled with the flash and flick of steel as each tried to slip one past. Rusty countered and parried each thrust from the deadly Candle and the stout boy did the same.

Rusty’s hair loosened from its rigid wave and flopped over his eyes. He could not waste a hand to swipe it away however. He could not blow it up with his lips, so he tossed his head quickly, right at the height of a full-arm swing.

It fell back and he resigned himself to the handicap. Candle’s hair was sandy, crew-cut, and gave him no trouble. But what he had considered an advantage—the heavy black leather jacket—was not. The jacket bunched against the inside of his elbows, made swinging difficult and cut short Candle’s reach at times.

Candle kicked out with a faking movement and Rusty leaped back, jerking his neck at the end of the hankie. The stout boy had been steadied for that. Then Candle was in close and the knife was around back of Rusty somewhere, his own arm pinned at his side. He fought in close to Candle, and they shoved at one another with their shoulders, edging one another a few inches, then back again.

Finally, Rusty shoved off and got his feet steadied for the swing he knew was coming. But it came from an entirely new direction. Candle’s knife hand stayed in sight, and his free hand caught Rusty in the kidneys.

Rusty’s face went pasty and he staggered back. Candle hit him again, this time with the handle of the knife, wrapped in his fist, in the side of the head, and Rusty started to fall. He grabbed out, and Candle came across with the knife once more. Rusty felt the razor-keen blade slice flesh between thumb and forefinger. He wanted to scream, but could not without dropping the hankie, so he wadded it more behind his teeth, and sank to his knees. Blood poured across his hand.