Scott Sigler - Contagious

Perry nodded.

“Good,” Dew said. “Then we’ll table the discussion for a few minutes and address my topic of conversation.”

“But Dew, I—”

“Shut your fucking mouth, you little shithead.”

Perry stared for a second, then smiled. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Are we going to have a lecture about my behavior?”

“That’s right,” Dew said. “I don’t give a fuck how loony tunes you are, Dawsey. I’m sick of your shit. You’re going to start playing ball, you got me?”

Perry leaned forward and put his hands on the wooden table. It was the only thing that stood between the two men.

“I call you when I need you,” Perry said. “I can’t roll out a bunch of army assholes with guns and helicopters. You can. Other than that, your services aren’t required, so just keep being a good little bitch and go where I tell you to go.”

Dew felt his temper slip into the bad place. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered if he’d come out of this alive.

“Say,” Perry said. “I didn’t see a new Mustang parked in front of my room. What’s the holdup?”

“You’re just a little bastard trapped in a big boy’s body,” Dew said.

“There’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”

“ Boo-hoo-hoo, ” Dew said. “So you had a rough time, and now the world owes you a lollipop?”

“You’re goddamned right the world owes me a lollipop. At least my government does. Where the fuck was my government when I was going through hell, huh? Where the fuck were you when those things were eating me up from the inside?”

“You survived,” Dew said.

“I’m the only one who survived,” Perry said. “Because I fought. Because I’ve got discipline. You’ve got to have discipline.”

Dew laughed. “You want discipline? I’d like to give you some discipline.”

Perry smiled. “You want to shoot me? Shoot me. It’s the only way you can put me down. You ain’t jack shit without that gun, old man.”

Dew had him. A fight was a foregone conclusion at this point. He just had to keep pushing buttons, get Dawsey out of control. Put him in a rage.

“You mean this gun?” Dew pulled his old .45 from his shoulder holster. He ejected the magazine, cocked back the slide and held up the gun to show there was no bullet in the chamber. He set the gun between them on the table. He held up the magazine with his right hand and used his thumb to flick out the first bullet. Then the second. He stared straight into Perry’s eyes as he emptied all seven rounds. He held the final bullet, then tossed the magazine away and bounced the bullet up and down in his palm.

“So now I don’t have a gun,” Dew said. “What do you have to say now, boy ?”

“Right,” Perry said. “Like that’s the only piece you’ve got.”

Dew gave an exaggerated nod. The kid was smarter than he looked. Dew pulled up his right pant leg and drew his Taurus Model 85 .38 revolver from his ankle holster. He emptied the five-round cylinder and dropped the gun on the floor. From his left leg, he took a steel telescoping baton and tossed it across the room into a wastebasket. As soon as he did, he wished he’d kept it. A flick of the wrist would expand the baton from six inches to sixteen inches—instant steel billy club. The cat was out of the bag, though; he couldn’t exactly go back and get it. Dew then reached to the small of his back and extracted his Ka-Bar from its horizontal sheath. Finally he slid his hands into his crotch and removed a black switchblade. The switchblade and the Ka-Bar followed the baton into the wastebasket.

“What the fuck, old man? You going to war or something?”

“Every day, kid, every day. Now, unless you’re going to give me a body-cavity search for the frag grenade I carry up my poop-chute, you’re gonna have to take my word for it that I’m disarmed. So are we gonna do this, or are you just gonna sit there wankin’ your crank?”

“Are you serious, old man? Look at you. Gut hanging out. I see you sometimes limping and shit. I hit you half as hard as I can, I’ll probably kill you.”

“I’m not your little butt-buddy Bill,” Dew said quietly.

Perry’s eyes widened, a combination of rage and shame.

“You’re a big man, Dawsey,” Dew said. “Killing someone who weighed all of a buck-fifty soaking wet.”

“Don’t you talk about him,” Dawsey said in a quiet voice that sent goose bumps up Dew’s back.

Dew smiled his best asshole smile. “What’s the matter, pussy? You don’t want to take a swing at me? Maybe I can find a midget around here somewhere. Maybe a baby, or a fat woman, or an eighty-year-old grandmother. But that won’t work, because those people wouldn’t be your friends. They wouldn’t be your best friend. Someone who trusted you, who tried to help you.”

Dawsey’s hands curled up into cinder-block-size fists. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said in that same quiet voice. “I… I wasn’t in control.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Dew said. “It’s called accountability, boy. If you actually had any discipline, your little faggot friend would still be alive.”

Perry reached down with his left hand, across his body, and grabbed the right corner of the table. He lifted and threw in one motion, effortlessly flipping the table to his left. It smashed into the wall, legs breaking on impact. The empty .45 bounced across the carpet.

Dew waited.

A snarling Perry Dawsey raised his right fist. Huge muscles rippling, he stepped forward to throw a haymaker.

And just when Perry took that step, Dew flicked the bullet at Perry’s face.

The bullet bounced off Perry’s forehead. He blinked and flinched, an automatic reaction caused by something flying at his face. He turned his head just a little, his fist hung in the air, and he took an instinctive shuffle-step to maintain his balance as momentum pulled him forward.

Dew opened his right hand, making the space between his thumb and pointer finger as wide as possible. He stepped into the oncoming monster, snapping forward with his horizontal open hand. The crook of his thumb smashed into Dawsey’s throat. Dew held back a little—any harder and he would have broken Dawsey’s windpipe, making him suffocate to death. He wanted to hurt the guy, not kill him.

Not yet, anyway.

Dawsey’s hands shot to his neck, and his eyes scrunched tightly shut. He made a single noise, part-cough, part-gag.

Then Dew Phillips thumbed him in the left eye.

Perry flinched away again, turning his head to the left to protect the eye, left hand coming up to cover it, right hand staying clutched at his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see.

Dew stepped forward to kick Dawsey in the knee, but the big man flailed his fist in a wild arc that caught Dew’s right shoulder. The force spun Dew all the way around, and he fell hard, knocking over the table full of open briefcases. Dew felt the sting of a cut on his right temple, and only a second later a bit of blood came trickling down.

Dew had been in hundreds of fights, and he’d never been hit that hard.

He scrambled to his feet. He tried to move his right arm but couldn’t—it was numb and unresponsive.

Dawsey was still coughing, still trying to draw a breath, still keeping his watering left eye turned away, still swinging wildly and blindly back and forth with his right hand. Dew skirted the wall to the broken table. With his left hand, he picked up a table leg by the thinner end. The leg’s thick top made it look like a polished wooden mace.

Dew stepped forward and swung it low. The thick wood slammed into Dawsey’s right knee. Dawsey cried out, his throat capable of producing only a hoarse whisper. He dropped, left knee and right hand holding his weight.