“There IS no score. This is no game, you're crazy as a fucking bedbug and you should be put to sleep.” Only one chance. When that trigger was pulled he was a dead man if he missed. God, if only about two dozen feds would come tearing out of those woods like the cavalry in a John Ford western.
“In due time,” the deep rumble said, “but not by you. Put the baby down you gutless wonder. Let's make it just you and I.'
“A fair fight, eh?'
“If I'd wanted you dead at a distance I could have taken you out a couple of times already. At six-twelve you were parked at the red light at East Main and Buckhead Highway. I could see your head clearly through a reticular starlight scope. If I only wanted to see you dead I could have scoped you out with a gun. But I want a PIECE of you,” he said, and just as Eichord was starting to answer him, saying, “I'm suppose to—” something or other, the flexible club of tractor-strength chain came snaking, whirling, whipping low, boloing out like a flying chainsaw, aimed at the legs, a daisy-cutter, sure to cripple and maim, flung hard but low enough to miss the child, and the beast charging forward as Eichord pulled the trigger just as the chain reached him, jerking the shot for fear the baby would be hit by the deadly chain—throwing the little boy back into his nest in the car seat knowing that those two hot loads of poisoned pellets were gone and nothing was between him and Death and the hands taking him and powering him down to the ground, Eichord immobilized in a grip more powerful than any he'd ever felt. It was like being caught in a pair of huge, steel vises. The idea of putting any kind of move on this mountain of muscle was out of the question.
“Now,” the hard voice hacksawed into his ear, “you will feel my wrath, you insolent—'
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Eichord screaming in pain, screaming over the thunder as he felt the little finger on his left hand being bent back but for some reason not just being bent back, the beast not stopping, bending it all the way, keeping on with it, breaking it easily as he intoned the word “insolent,” snapping it with almost gentle insouciance, Jack yelling into the rain and thunder as Bunkowski's steel cigar-thick fingers that had once furiously squeezed a FLASHLIGHT BATTERY began to twist and rip and Eichord passed out.
The pain was not of this world. It was like slamming one's finger in the car door again and again, and Eichord blacked out, collapsing, coming back, blacking out, coming back, the pain merciless but not quite enough to send him completely over the side into blackness. My God why would anyone want ... Ohoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh the pain washed over him in a wave of dizziness and that fearsome voice grunted in its distinctive bass register, “A little souvenir for you,” Jack gagging as he felt the bloody thing being forced into one of his suitcoat pockets, the wet clothing wrapped around him like a shroud. “Your
Eichord felt himself being manhandled over onto his back. He screamed again in pain as his hand struck something. The monster loomed over him. He could feel the thing's hot breath on him. There was a shift in the massive body weight.
“Now I am going to rip your rib cage apart. It will be quite painful. Special Investigator Eirhoorrrrrrrrrrrrrrr aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” The rain or something hot and wet splashing down on him and he tried to turn and nobody was holding him and the huge bulk was starting to spin around, holding its throat where the carotid artery had been completely severed through and just then Jack caught a glimpse of silver in the bright flash of lightning and the blade arced down, the sword propelled with such—not ease, that isn't the word— perfection? SIMPLICITY. The movement like a choreographed ballet. A simplicity of movement. Simplicity not as design or format. Not as tradition or technique. Simplicity not as style. Simplicity as CHALLENGE. Seventeen syllables of flawless haiku. The perfect twelve bar blues. Subtle. Studied. Symmetrical as a Chinese brushstroke.
And the silver blade of vengeance made hard contact again smacking down through hair and scarred flesh and tissue and muscle and bone and tortured memories and making that awful wet thwocking sound of a cleaver whacked into a rotten melon as the long, razor-sharp and carbon-hard sword of honor and terrible retaliation came slashing down in those powerful hands slicing Chaingang's skull. The great blade split the head of the evil one in a foul horror of bloody bone gristle gray matter and only then did the immense behemoth topple and Eichord felt his consciousness ebbing away completely as the stealthy silent specter that to him would always be the Man from Kowloon melted back into the cloak of rain and shadow.
He fought to hang in. Clothing soaked in Bunkowski's blood. Some of his own. He tried to stand and slipped and fell in the bad wetness and almost went down again from the pain and OHHHHHGODDDDD who would believe a little finger could hurt so much and Oh Dana Jimmie if you guys were only here to make jokes about it and help me and he tried to retch again and again but couldn't and spat some more, backing away from the fallen monstrosity and the blood and filth that was soaking the wet ground and he saw the shotgun thing.
1. Gun, and the lid of the box, and
2. Glue. He walked through the glue. Each step a major effort. Slogging through the bloody gluepond.
3. Tree. He fought to keep from going under and something or someone was near the tree, moving toward him, and
4. Door. He was there beside the car door now, and
5. Hive. The killer bees swarmed in his ear, buzzing noisily as he continued unsteadily on his feet, someone helping him and trying to lead him away from the vehicle and he could bear the cry over the sound of an approaching siren and he managed to get “wait” out of his mouth and with the most massive effort of will he'd ever made he leaned down and focused on the interior of the nearby car.
“The baby,” he could hear himself say, “get it,” He could hear his own voice over the bees buzzing.
“Frawfer mansions through horse pistols,” someone said. How irritating to hear that sort of gibberish in an emergency.
“Bring the baby,” he managed to say, and the man who spoke nonsense was doing something and then and then and then his knees buckled and
6. Sticks. The sound of broken sticks. Sticks and stones will break my bones, but I will still get to
7. Heaven, and the sweet arms of the blessed savior Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzus going dooowwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn and he could feel himself losing it for good and being swallowed by the cold dark jaws of shock.
“Here,” he heard a voice saying, “we're rejoining the living,” which Jack thought to be an unusually appropriate choice of words.
“How long was I out?” was the question he framed in his head, but it came out as smiling silence because he'd forgotten to open his mouth as he spoke, so he only smiled. It was amazing how much coordination is required to verbalize a thought, and the realization of this tired him. He left himself sink deeper into a sea of feathers as the doctor told him about sewing his finger back on—how could this be?—telling him how Jack should check back in a few days and something mumble-mumble nighty-night.
“—look like you're ready to go anywhere,” and a hearty laugh. And Eichord thought he must have just drifted off for a couple of seconds, and he wished people would shut up so he could doze off but these fellows had him propped up and he was on his feet or maybe he had always been on his feet and something mumble buzz, “Gets too strong call me and we'll fix you up with a shot.” He nodded at the kindness and rightness of it all.
He heard a friendly voice speaking to him but for the life of him he couldn't focus and he was sitting down again or for the first time and moving and he tried to speak but once again only a halfhearted smile reached his mouth.
The next time he woke up he was in a bedroom somewhere and Donna Eichord was sitting across the room
