Fuzzy Navel

“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

She dodges it.

I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, co

I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

Then she’s on me.

Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

10:52 P.M.

PESSOLANO

PESSOLANO STARES DOWN at Swanson’s lifeless body. For some reason he thinks of his mother, lying in her casket. He bends down and crosses Swanson’s hands over his chest, and then gently closes Swanson’s eyes. Pessolano wishes he had a lily, or a Bible, or a rosary, to place in Swanson’s hand. He fishes around in his vest and comes out with a granola bar. He presses that into Swanson’s fist.

“We’ll avenge him,” Munchel says. “We’ll kill every last one of those assholes.”

Pessolano stands. He hopes Munchel doesn’t see the tears on his cheeks. He turns away and discreetly wipes them off.

“We can’t leave him here,” Pessolano says into the woods. “Soldiers don’t leave their dead behind.”

“We won’t. But we’re in a combat situation right now. We’ll give him a hero’s funeral. I promise. But after the war is over. We have to finish this first.”

Pessolano nods.

“I think we should rush the house,” Munchel says. “Break in, flush them out of hiding, and blow their goddamn heads off. You’ve got those Desert Eagles in the truck, right?”

“Yeah.”

Pessolano has two Magnum Research Mark XIX Desert Eagle.50 AE handguns. They’re massive weapons, weighing over four pounds each, capable of stopping a charging bull with one shot.

“Let’s do it, man. For Swanson.”

Munchel claps his hand on Pessolano’s shoulder.

“For Swanson,” he agrees. He wipes away another tear and clears his throat.

“Look,” Munchel says. “I know this is a tragedy, but Swanson would want us to soldier on. Right?”

Pessolano nods. He’s choking up a little bit.

“One of us should stay here, keep an eye on the house, and the other should go get the truck, bring it back.”

“Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words first?” Pessolano gestures at the body.

“Yeah, sure. I suck at this kind of shit.”

“Please.” Pessolano sniffles. “For Swanson.”

“Shit. Okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, oh Lord, our friend Greg Swanson was a good man who wanted to rid the world of perverts. He was a hero, and he’ll be missed. But me and Paul are going to fuck up those fucking motherfuckers responsible, and make them choke on their own fucking blood.”

“Amen,” Pessolano says. “I’ll go get the truck.”

10:54 P.M.

JACK

ALEX GRABS MY SHIRT, jerks me to my feet. I try to lift my hands, try to push her away, but I don’t have the strength. Physical or mental. I’m broken, bleeding, beaten, finished. It’s over. I’m done.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Alex asks. She’s not even breathing heavy.

My eyes dart around the garage, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Nothing can help me. I’m past pain. Past exhaustion. Deep down, I know I need to keep fighting, know I’m dead if I don’t. But there’s nothing left in the tank. I can’t even stand up, and my knees wobble and give out.

Alex picks me up again.

“You’re pathetic, Jack.”

I hear gunfire, coming from the house. Harry, shooting at codeine apparitions. Dummy. He needs to save the bullets.

“You know, I built you up in my head as this supercop. I considered you a worthy opponent. No one had ever beaten me before.”

She squeezes my cheeks together, like I’m a child.

“You got lucky, Jack. That’s how you beat me. Luck.”

Consciousness is slipping away. A slap brings me around again.

“Say it, Jack. Say you got lucky.”

I close my eyes. Alex slams me into the garage door.

“Tell me you got lucky!”

“I… got lucky.”

Half of Alex’s face breaks into a smile. I start to cry. Not for me. For Mom. For Latham. For Herb. And even – I hate to say it – for Harry. None of them deserve this. This night of horrors was supposed to end with the good guys wi

Alex is right. Human beings are just animals, and all animals are selfish. And I selfishly want the people that I love to be okay, and I weep because I’m not going to get my way.

“Perfect,” Alex whispers. Her horrible face gets close to mine, and it looks like she’s going to kiss me. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she sticks out her tongue and licks away a tear.

“Hey! Frankenbitch!”

We both turn.

Harry McGlade is standing in the garage. The Kimber is in his left hand, pointing at us. His right hand is still attached to the refrigerator door, which is resting at his feet, the hinges shot off.

“Let my little sister go!”

Alex snakes her forearm around my neck, putting me between her and the gun.

It’s a mistake. I’m a physical wreck, and a mental disaster, but you don’t need muscles or brains to execute a judo flip. All you need is leverage.

I jerk my head back, snapping it into her nose, then immediately lean forward and to the right, throw her over my hip.

Alex tumbles ass over head, releasing me, flipping onto her back. I take three steps toward Harry and fall at his feet.

“Shoot her,” I mumble.

He drops the gun, grabs my arm.

“Out of bullets.”

Harry drags me and the refrigerator door back into the house.

“Hold on…”

I stop, spin around, and pull the door leading to the garage closed, turning the dead bolt, locking Alex in.

A shot pings through the living room window, whizzing past my face. We kneel side by side, propping up the stainless steel door like a shield. It’s not tall enough to cover us completely, leaving the humps of our backs exposed as we crouch behind it.

“Thanks, Harry,” I manage.

“Mom made me. I think she loves you more.”

Everything starts to spin. I rest my forehead on Harry’s shoulder. He looks at me.

“Jesus, Jackie. You got your ass kicked.”

I run a hand over my face, which is a mass of swelling and pain.

“You don’t need more blood, do you?” he asks.

“I think I’ll be okay.”

Then everything gets really blurry and the darkness takes me in its arms.