Blood to Dust

So I change tactics.

I take a left turn out of nowhere, rolling into a carved hill, and reverse back so my car faces theirs, hidden by a blizzard of dust and gravel.

Let’s. Play. Fucking. Chicken.

These men want to kill me, but me? I’m actually going to let them. They may not yield, but I won’t, either. It’s easy to gamble your life away when you’ve got nothing to live for.

Playtime, motherfuckers.

Revving up my engine, I push the gas pedal so hard the muscles in my foot pull, my truck galloping in their direction. All I see is red. All I feel is the taste of their blood on the tip of my tongue.

Faster.

Quicker.

Nearer.

Closer.

The driver finally swerves to the right, and the van crashes against a thick bush. Black smoke scuttles from its engine.

The van’s old age caught up with it. They’re done. Their vehicle’s fucked.

It’s time to ruin and reign.

I fling my door open and stagger out of Stella, hurrying to my trunk and pulling out a wooden broom. That’s the only weapon I have. A fucking broom. But it’s long and I break it in two against my knee, so now it has two sharp edges, too.

Pacing to the van, I pull out the guy who’d sat in the passenger’s seat, the one with the rifle, and toss his heavy weapon behind my back, far away from his reach.

“Who sent you?” My spit peppers his face as I drag him out onto the grassy hill. He’s twisting left and right, trying to break free, but he stands no chance. I’m way bigger and stronger.

Behind me, the driver unlatches his safety belt, scrambling out of his seat. Before he has a chance to bolt for the rifle, I nail the sharp point of one of the sticks straight into the first guy’s palm, pinning him to the ground. The stick is firmly planted into the soil, as is the guy who’d just tried to shoot me. There’s a massive hole in the center of his palm now, and he’s screaming his lungs out. I proceed to nail his other hand to the ground, crucifying him to the hill like a sick, sad, corrupted Jesus.

Then I jump on the fleeing driver like a panther on its prey.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I slur on a scream as I yank him by his shirt. He swings his fist at me, but I dodge it. I tackle him to the ground and he resists, pulling us together into a ball of kicks and punches. We roll down the bank, tangled and throwing fists at each other. We land in a valley a few feet from our vehicles, and I’m quick to climb on top of him, straddle him with my thighs, the way I did when Pea tried to escape, and unleash twenty-seven years’ worth of wrath on his face.

I’m angry, possessed and out of my fucking mind.

My knuckles land on his nose, shattering it with a chilling sound, and I follow it with another fist as I smash his mouth with a brutal blow. A tooth pops out and rolls on the grass. I hit him until all I see is blood. I hit him even though I know that he might be dead. I hit him for reasons that have nothing to do with him. I hit him because I’m an orphan, an ex-felon, a captor and a guy who’s in lust with a girl he cannot have. Because I’m a sad boy, a broken man and a lonely soul. A barbaric savage, a poet with a heart of gold and a nobody who is desperate to become somebody.

And I hit him because I need him dead. Because I can’t chance him finding me again.

But I don’t just kill him. No. I’m butchering him with my stone-cold heart.

Because he’s not a person. He’s a symbol.

Representing everything I hate.

Everything I want to turn my back on.

Everything that’s taking the only thing I was born with, other than this stupid beautiful face, and that still belongs to me. My peace.

After I’m done, I drag his body up the hill, aware of the fact that someone might spot us. What choice do I have? I can’t leave him here to be found. Luckily, by the time I climb back up to Stella, it’s already pitch black and the chances of being spotted behind those hills are slim to none.

I pile the dead driver into his van and stride over to his friend, who’s still nailed to the ground, cursing and spitting, kicking his legs like a toddler in a tantrum. It’s a good thing Mrs. H sent me to buy a new broom not too long ago, and I forgot it in my trunk.

“Who sent you?” I growl into his face, fisting one of the sticks and moving it in circles, splitting the hole in his palm wider. I need a name I can look up. A name I can hunt down. Someone who I can turn my rage against. If the Aryan Brotherhood is after me, I want to know who the shot-caller is, who went against Godfrey’s direct order and decided to kill me.