Messenger of Fear (Messenger of Fear 1)

I noticed then that he had a bruise under one eye, and that a discreet flesh-colored bandage lay across his nose.

“Come on?” Sneakers asked. “What do you mean, come on, faggot?”

“You already beat on me for no good reason!”

“Yeah, I seem to recall that,” Sneakers said. “You got us both detention for that.”

“That wasn’t even the worst part,” Boots said angrily. “Sensi—what did they call it?”

“Sensitivity and awareness,” Sneakers said with a sneer. “An hour-long video. Plus the counseling. See, Manolo, you gotta pay for all that. It’s not just you being a homo—you were a homo who ratted us out.”

“That’s extra beating.”

“That’s blood. And something broken. And maybe a dead faggot,” Sneakers said.

Manolo cried and tried again to insert the key. Boots grabbed his hand, crushing the keys in his grip. Manolo yanked his hand away, and Boots smashed the fat end of the baseball bat into his solar plexus.

Manolo lost every atom of air in his lungs, clutched his stomach, and sagged into the side of his car.

“That hurt, homo? Did that hurt?” Sneakers gave him a shove with the crowbar, sending Manolo staggering into the other attacker.

“What, you think you eyeball me in the shower and all you get is one beating?” Boots demanded.

“I didn’t . . .” Manolo squeezed the words out but could say no more.

“Are you saying he’s not good-looking enough for you, faggot?”

“I think he’s dissing me,” Boots said, picking up on his companion’s snark. “Except we know better, don’t we? Because I saw him watching me. Yeah. And the more I think about it, one little beating is just not enough.”

“Just let me go . . . My mom . . . Someone will see you,” Manolo said. He had his elbows down to guard his sides and stomach, while keeping his hands up, scrunching down to guard his head.

Sneakers swung the crowbar into the back of Manolo’s legs.

“Ahhh!” Manolo cried. “Ahhh. Ahhhh!”

“Cry, you pussy!” Boots said. He shouldered his bat, just as if he was at home plate waiting for a fastball. He swung at shoulder height, cutting slightly upward, aiming squarely for Manolo’s head.

Manolo ducked. The bat ruffled his hair as it flew past and smashed into Sneakers’s cheek. The sound of breaking bone was as loud as a firecracker, followed by a howl of pain from Sneakers, who dropped his crowbar to grab his face.

“Dude!” Boots yelled.

“Ow ow ow ow!” Sneakers cried as tears filled his eyes.

Manolo tried to run but tripped over Sneakers’s feet and landed hard on the blacktop, elbows and knees.

Boots cursed furiously and aimed a hasty blow that punched into Manolo’s kidney, bringing new cries of pain to join those still pouring from Sneakers.

“I will kill you! Kill you, you—” Boots raised his bat again, but Manolo lashed out desperately and drove a foot against Boot’s knee, and the bully staggered back.

In a flash Manolo had rolled over, powered to his feet, and come up holding the dropped crowbar.

Boots saw it and grew wary. “Oh, you want to throw down, faggot? I was just going to beat you. Now I’m a kill you! You hear me?”

Sneakers rallied and came rushing in a murderous rage to hit Manolo from behind with a flying tackle that drove him into Boots. The three of them went down in a tangle of fists and feet and elbows, all yelling, crying, cursing, and then, somehow Manolo was up again, still holding the crowbar. His breaths came in furious gasps, loud, almost musical, and he swung the crowbar down once, hard, hitting Sneakers and shattering his collarbone.

Boots was trying to get to his feet while still holding the bat, but he was too slow and Manolo caught him with a hard, horizontal blow that broke his elbow. The bat went twirling off across the parking lot.

An adult male voice yelled, “Hey, hey! We’ve called the cops!” I glanced over and saw a youngish married couple next to their car, watching cautiously.