Chapter 13 - Surprise
I need some kind of diversion. I'm pretty sure I can hit the door at the top of the basement steps like gangbusters and I'm looking to be somewhat close to him. A little momentary surprise, I just need to get my hands on him to even things up. I've got to keep him from getting a gun into play. He'd have a gun out to intimidate Zar and keep her in line. A distraction for his attention, then I come in the opposite way of that diversion. That, I might be able to work with.
The only thing I can think of on short notice, is my phone. I have an app that will trigger another app after a countdown or on a timer basis. A long time ago, its ancient history now that some joker once made a phone app that blinks red and blue lights. A siren noise. You would put it up on your dash, and pull your friends over then call them a rube. It worked too well, and it got past just kids doing it. Criminals were pulling people over and robbing them when they thought a cop needed to speak with them. Of course, the app still existed.
The app now lived on, as a party accessory. When your favorite hockey team scored, the siren noises and flashing cop lights went off. It was strictly for home novelty use only. You can't set the lights and sirens off on demand, its sports game signal only. Of course its hard to find the original now, but I know how to look for things online. I just used it to be annoying one day. Hello, diversion.
My plan is to put this phone, with the timer counting down to the lights and siren on the windowsill. Just for a second, the lights will resemble flashing cop car lights. The siren and tweaks complete the momentary facade. It should get his attention towards the front wall. I'll be hitting the cellar door behind him. Get the gun knocked off the table, get my hands on him as quick as possible. I give myself even or better odds if I can even it up.
I heard her get snide with him. She's still talking to me, feeding me any information she can.
"Left handed, huh. That's weird."
"Why is that so weird."
"A lot of left handed guys I knew? They were gay. Just saying."
He didn't take the bait or snip back at her. Big guy. Looks tough. Southpaw. Pretty sure I can hear him lifting and dropping my automatic on the wooden table. You get intimate with the sound of a gun over time. Me and that one have been together longer than I've known Merry and Zar. I've got minutes left, and I'm not about to waste it. Anything else I can use for a weapon. I found a fairly new big name rechargeable drill. Several inch long wood screws.
What would he be wearing for footwear. The tracks? Looked like some kind of work boots. If I could locate a foot, I could send the big drill with a several inch long coarse thread wood screw up through between the floor boards. I hit his sole and get a half a twist on a run, it'll go all the way through his foot and up out the top. It will be a temporary anchor, but still debilitating even if he pulls free. He'll do more damage pulling with adrenaline than the attack itself does.
He's at a table. You can't see your feet under the table. My little light. I can frame his foot location. He won't notice a dim tiny light, let alone a brief one. I expect the noise and red blue lights. He doesn't. I get a brief freeze. As soon as I hear the first chirp of the siren go off, I immediately go straight up with my finger waiting on the drill. All that exists, I make sure his foot looks to be above my waiting screw.
I hit the trigger button and shoved straight up as the powerful drill lurched up with the coarse thread. I heard the satisfying howl within a fraction of a second of the first chirp. As soon as I buried the screw I went to the basement door at the top of the steps. Not enough room to get a run and kick the flimsy old re-purposed closet door in. The wooden frame around the door is showing on my back side. I just chin up and swing. My feet I can walk back one then two studs before I let myself swing and propel my legs and heels into the old weak door.
The four inner panels exploded out like they weren't even there. The cross shape that formed the four inner panel sections went asunder with it. I just stepped through the outside edge of what was once a door. I has about a step and a half off him. He was standing. Pulling at his left leg. Staring at the window and front of the house. Lights and sirens had him momentarily in a fluster. Me coming behind him gangbusters might seem like a team of uniforms hitting the house. I only need that little bit of momentum. I've pulled the trigger. I'm now fully committed to my course of action.
Szarabjorna exploded upright. She planted one foot on something down in her corner and shot down the rectangular table. Sirens and lights, foot screwed to the floor in time with it. I hit the door moments later and Zar knocked the guns off the table. His attention was in demand. Foot, get free, fight or flight. Front door, police. Immediate ambush from the back. He got his attention half on me and the two handguns clattering off.
I had hoped to get on him, maybe tackle him. No. I was happy to go down and come to rest between him and both guns. I started kicking at his screwed foot. I can do a lot of damage if I get him while he's trying to lift it. I'll take a limp on this match up. I'm out of my weight class. This guy isn't a complete rank amateur. He's I think pretty damn level headed under this pressure situation. This might be some version of myself, gone bad. I shoved the guns to clatter further away. As long as I'm on him here, he can't get those guns into play. His foot's looking like its really going to nag him. Good for him.
I'm not in a bad position, even if it looks like a tight spot I'm in from his perspective. Sure, I'm down on the floor. But I'm between him and the guns. I've got hands on him, and I'm still waiting for him to try to clear that screwed foot up. I get a nice stomp sideways on it when its almost ripped off, ouch. I can shred a good portion of that foot. Serious limp. There's arteries and veins in the hands and feet, never know when you can get lucky and hit a quick one.
He tried stomping at me, but I'm punching up with my boot heels. I could threaten to knock him over, and he doesn't want that. He wants to stand up. Good. I'm comfortable rolling around in the dirt. With a stomp out of the question, he thought about grabbing me or coming down at me. That's more pressure on his screwed foot. I'm grabbing at his wrists, I can't wait to snag his meaty wrist with both of my hands and try to get some control going.
He finally yelled and did his needful. His foot started to come up, and his scream increased in volume. I was about cocked and waiting on it sliding up, and when almost off? I pumped my heel out with everything I had. I got some kind of foot rip going, it set him off. I've got him at bay. I'm up on one arm, kicking with one or the other leg. I can suddenly lurch out and ensnare with both feet. It made him try to leap back. He doesn't want grabbed weird. No, he wants to stand up to fight. His injured foot limps him. Good. I keep kicking with my heel at him. I'm trying to lash out and get that extra couple inches and try to reach that knee.
I'm getting some respectable distance now. Any more space, I'll think about transitioning to standing again. Var reported him being left handed. That makes him in all probability left legged as well. I've torn his best foot, ruined his strong leg for pressure. All his weight needs to shift onto his right leg. His least favorite. He's deciding now. He doesn't want a mad scramble to end up on the ground. His injured foot will nag him even more, if I can get him down here.
He limped back to the open space. I control the access to the guns, and he doesn't want to be near me right now. Breathing room. A tiny bit of respect. I'll take any momentum I can get. A little shift, and I'm keeping him from the table, too. Zar is in her corner, behind the table. I want him dealing with me. He took another step back. I bolted upright. I generally fight in a crouch. I can shuffle around flat footed or up on the balls of my feet for special purposes. He stands. What is he. I have to guess, quick and correct.
I'd have stuck his ass on the line playing high school football, that's for sure. He's big and strong. He has no desire to wrestle around. Probably played football. Not at all acting like a heavyweight wrestler. Standing, when fighting. Boxing, if anything. I stood up and went to take a step towards him. I darted down and shot a hand out. Came back up, quick and smooth. Its a lifelong practiced move. I backed out of it. He now has to gauge when I stand up and might advance, and he's wary of me grabbing him all of a sudden. As long as he's having fun with my run of the mill tricks to keep him busy, might as well add another one. Make it appear as if there's no end to the weird effective things I can do.
I went up again, and edged in flat footed. I'm sure I'm just out of his reach. He's not out of range of my legs. His arm reach, versus my leg reach? I win that every time. I tagged his lead ankle with a nice sharp work boot launched at it and retracted back. If he boxes, he knows his arm range. I know my leg range, because I'm not going to be a great boxer, ever. As many annoying sting kicks I can drop on his one good leg, I'll take every one of them.
Try to kick the shin and ankle. Keep him from advancing. Dropping and popping back up holds his attention. He doesn't like the slick look of that move. He has no idea its just a visual intimidation. I'm no expert in the roll off moves you can get to out of that position. I like what I got going right now. I'm calm, I'm keeping him busy. His gas tank drains out quicker than mine. His bigger size and strength requires more energy to sustain. He'll gas out before I will, if I conserve energy and can keep calm.
About the only reason I'd think about taking a run at him and locking up? Would be if I thought I had a chance to try to work that bad leg. If I could get it up even a little, I might be able to trip him up or dump him. Stomping the torn foot if nothing else. I eventually went for another fake drop and pop. I just came in low without popping back up like he's used to seeing. I got a wrist on his bad ankle. He's stumbling. If I can get a leg off the ground, I have a chance to rip into an ankle lock. I have to think I really have that on though, if I'm caught short by a big boxer like this? I'll get trapped and pounded.
I failed on tripping him up or getting leg control. He's too big and strong. He can move his bigger weight around effectively on his feet. Football again. I kicked vicious at his knee and got close. I shoved off his shin instead. I kicked up at him and tried to catch him in the jimmy. Not a solid thing, more of a push on his thigh. He backed up. Good. I've still got him frustrated.
A constant stream of tricks was nice, but it can't last forever. It has to end sometime. Like now, for instance. Kicking at him to keep distance still works, but he's now lingering. He just has a new distance to keep out of. He's hanging around after limping in, before shuffling back some. Its coming. He wants to use his size and strength. He's testing the waters to come in closer and closer. He's got a couple inches in height, a couple dozen pounds in weight. He wants to press that advantage.
His bad foot is still a limp, and he's weeping blood out of what appears to be the top of the footwear. In our fighting practices, we called it a friendly fighter. One that keeps getting closer. He's your enemy. He shouldn't like you. If your enemy seems to like you and want to hang around you? That's not good. He's real friendly now. He's not shuffling back out after testing my leg range yet again. He's exploring grabbing at me. Taller, he's got those long arms to go with it. He would be doing better at this part of the game, but his injured foot has been quite effective at turning his balance act into a sort of one trick pony. More of his big weight goes on that good right leg. The one he's least capable with.
He's too confident at staying in range now. I'm going to get grabbed soon. Time for my big boxing fake performance. I'm not the world's most amazing boxer. I use some tricks. Right handed people notice it the most. That preference for the strong hand. I'm very right handed, and very right legged. In fact, my left, my jab? Is just about weak sister useless.
To wrestle, I have to lead with my strong right leg. So when I do stand up and throw hands as much as I'm going to, I lead with the same leg. Because I'm right handed, I can jab quite well with my strong hand. To a boxer, this is heresy. The jab is your weak side, your power is in the other hand. I will appear for all intents and purposes, to be left handed. My jab will appear to be accurate and to have a little zip to it. He'll avoid my left. If you don't like the jab, move away from the power side. He'll naturally keep stepping into my strong hand.
It won't last forever, but its another trick to string him along with. Before that though, there is one thing. I haven't gone right for him once yet. Not like he thinks of it. He's gotten very friendly. Its time. For the first time I just took one big step forward. I whipped my left palm up behind his head, and crashed in with my right hand. Low on the palm into the nose. I stomped like a pissed off elephant, and got a good heel straight down onto that damaged foot. It was all a big surprise and he started pushing with spastic nervous energy. Back out of range.
That trick only works once. Its crude but effective. That's why it works. There's no technique, its nothing anyone could plan on. He's got a wide flat nose, the big face and jaw, the whole nine yards. I got a bloody nose but not the blood faucet that would water the eyes I was hoping to get.
I'm starting to take little shuffles at him now. That's an abrupt change and he's not sure about that. We've both got winter outfits on. Its harder to grab a wrist clean, and have your move planned and it got executed well enough. Its a lot easier to catch a coat cuff, though. Big target, easy handhold. I grabbed a solid hold of a wrist coming in, and I got my fist around the heavy work fabric.
His instinct feeling me on him is to yank back. He's surprised, I'll get that strength put into it. I ended grabbing on with the other hand as well, and my feet went skidding. I held on. There's no throwing me, I'm glued on where my hands have his coat near the cuff. It carries me around to the side and a little behind him. Capitalize. Skidding around like dad giving a little kid a "ride" swooshing them around. I got one foot under me and got a hug around his lower legs.
I can't hope to hold these churning tree trunks. I shifted up to just under his ample gut. Another trick. His gut hides my hands so he can't get a good punch to try to knock my hold loose. Now is my time to hide. Crouch down, feet sprawled in any wide direction. Make him feel weight shifts, even though its just to keep him burning energy for nothing. The more he labors throwing my two hundred and fifteen pound body around as dead weight, the more of my work he's doing for me.
Hiding low in a hug behind his back is a really safe place for me. He has to drag my weight around to move. He burns extra energy trying to figure out the little puzzles that keep cropping up. Here, it took him a while to satisfy himself he can't punch me back here. Right now he's amid the fury of trying to shake me off. I can just slip temporary hooks in now and again, so I can't be tossed. Curling a foot or a knee off of an ankle or leg can anchor me and still let me maneuver between his attempts to toss me.
Finally, I have him playing my game. Which is designed to waste him more of his energy than mine. Okay, after about all I can gas him for right now he's starting to just move around and let me go with him. He's about to figure out his one best move. Which is to grab my wrists to capture me, and just sit down. His two hundred and forty fifty pounds will pin me. He won't be able to do anything else without letting my hands go, but its not a situation I fancy. I need to wake him up from sitting and thinking. He does things more my way, when he's forced to move around.
I made a game attempt at tying to trip him. I wound around his leg a couple different ways, throwing my weight around and shifting, nothing doing. I could rock him some, but he was just too damn impassive. Big football players on their feet, the linemen. They learn muscle memory to shift weight and push intuitively.
Failing to trip him, I suddenly sat down and encircled his ankles with my legs. Instead of a normal leg lock I went for the tighter figure four around his ankles. I now hid even lower, behind his thighs. The back of those big knees are right there. I plowed leaden haymaker after leaden haymaker into the back of his knee. My strong right, sucker punched into a waiting rear of a knee that he's defenseless to protect. Free ones, take all I can get. It burns energy to strike, so make them count. With one foot hobbled, I'm trying to open up a line of attack on this other knee. Plus it keeps him burning more energy.
I can't rock him off his feet, so its not good to let him stand there and puzzle things out. No break time. I'm so low on his ankles that he can't get down to get me, without being off balance. I reached up and grabbed near his back collar and hauled back. I just managed to sit him down. We're kicking at each other now, sitting up on the floor. I'm just kicking the sides of his boots all gentle when he telegraphs another bicycle kick in on cue.
To keep him playing this game some more, I make halfhearted grabs for his ankles. I stretch out to try to heel stomp his knee or ankle or near it if I can manage a shot. Slapping his ankles with my palms and wrists, pushing his ankles to the sides with my own when he kicks. I use a fraction of the energy he's using. He gets shots through this system, and he makes them count. But not knowing which one will get through, he has to load each one up in case its a winner. More gas tank burning.
I've felt enough of his stand up and throw hands game, that its not for me. Bigger guy, longer arms, he can throw a punch. Not like a pro, but he goes for heavy shots. This is familiar to me, somehow. Who boxes just enough to get by, then never furthers it. Ah. Navy. If they're still offering it, you used to be able to elect to stay in basic training a few weeks extra with the Navy. It was just for boxing and conditioning.
He's getting more balls to him now. He comes in and gets right in front of me as soon as he can. The only saving grace to it, is that he keeps stepping into my right hand jab. He still buys the plot line that my left might have something on it. Glad he thinks that. If he gets a sniff of my left, he'll start stepping that way and I'll need a new game plan. Tight little kicks to his ankles and shins keep him back a little, but he's showing a preference for coming in.
Yeah, he kept barging in. You get what you get. I got a nice shit-stomp off on him. Its just what I call it. You haul off like you're kicking a screen door in with one stomp. Official name is likely a front heel kick or similar. I got him good enough I got a free swipe at his knee out of it. Something I could lean into. That's the same knee I beat on before.
Another step in, I caught him with a nice big elbow. Boxers don't use it, not something they defend against. The average person wouldn't think to use it. But I paid for that one. I did rock his head back unexpected, and I know a decent elbow has power. He ate it though, and stepped in anyways. Trying to just come in swinging. I finally got him frustrated or pissed off, he's breathing a lot heavier now.
Yeah, he's gotten his hands on me. Here we go. There's inside and outside. I wanna be outside, and bad. Put your arms straight out forwards in front of you. Classic zombie cartoon pose. If I stand inside your two arms, that's... inside. If you imagine me standing just outside either arm, not inside them? That, is outside. If I go inside on him, grabbing up? I'm going to get controlled, and have to defend against him trying to hold me at bay with one long arm, and pummel me with the free one. Haymakers.
If I get outside, I don't have to deal with that. He's got both fists on my chest winter wear now. I wrapped my arms around both, as if to hold him. He can power out of it, sure. But he gets one arm pried out before the other. I just stayed on the other arm. It puts me outside where I need to be. I can gang up on his arm with both of my arms. As long as I keep rotating with him, I have free kicks to his good left leg. I got a few good kicks right on the back of that knee again before he muscled me around and got a hold of me once more.
Shit. Now I have to clinch him to me. If I let him get any distance rearing back, I'll pay for it. Here we go. He got one good fist full of my chest winter outfit. I got my knees up under him holding me there, so I can squirm around. As long as he can't hold my head still and throw haymakers, I'm still making out. I'm not breathing that hard yet, and he's gulping air and starting to make noise. Yelling. Go ahead, be my guest. Its your air, you waste it any way you prefer.
I can worm around enough I can slip what I can't avoid coming in. It means I still get hit, its just more of a glancing blow than a solid centered up shot. Some are better than others. He's punching himself out, using up reserves of fuel. But I'd prefer taking less damage while waiting. If I get knocked out, its game over for both me and Zar. I took damage before I could get control of things and get out of of that spot. My eyes and cheeks are mousing up some. A lip feels like it got torn. There's another beauty mark to add to the collection.
So far, Zar's been staying out of it. Getting pushed and boxed in and forced to fight him the way he wants, this gets me pressured into the table. The table goes moving. Zar's in the corner, and the big table has her trapped. We sent the table moving and it rather penned her in the corner, somewhat diagonal. This time we crashed up and onto the table. Zar lunged out to get a solid piece of winter clothing on this guy. When that got his attention I dragged the pother way, outside of his other arm now. To keep from getting pinned under him at the table, kicking myself up and scooting back on the table makes me more mobile.
The next time we crashed into the table, the table went into Zar's thighs. It had rotated to set itself neatly in the corner. We rolled off the table, and half under it. Another mad scramble with handholds, pushing and kicking. Zar had to make the choice about her trapped legs. The right crash into the table, might break her. She wiggled underneath the table. She looked at me, the urgent face. What should I be doing, was how it came across. I couldn't communicate this effective with anyone but her or Merry. I gave her solid eye contact, and patted his ankle. She stared.
The next table crash saw us on top of it again. Hiding under the table like a kid, she's out of sight out of mind. But Zar and Merry both have their secrets. They were sports stars at a big top ten university in a tough mid-west division for their women's soccer sport. They got expensive degrees for free, not a bad deal. But that's not the important component. The girls at that level of play, had long been weeded out and sorted through to get where they were.
The most feminine girl on the field, was no shrinking violet. Knocked on her ass, she bounced back up and was sprinting after the ball. None of them ran like a girl, as the saying goes. Big top ten universities can and do recruit for size and strength. They also recruit for speed and accuracy. My own Merry was the big fast fullback. They combed the mid-west farms and found girls that looked and worked like ranch hands. If Merry were here instead of Zar, this would be two on one.
Zar had her own gifts though. She was tall and had long legs for her height. Trained as a real dancer for years, before switching to sports. Zar's game was all speed and accuracy. Scoring is nice, but she could put the ball on anyone where she wanted it, even on a bounce pass. Both girls are tough as nails and can surprise people that don't know them.
So the next time we crashed into the ubiquitous table and happened to go down and roll under it, it wasn't that big a surprise that I saw dirty blonde hair moving around trying to navigate the mess of chairs and chair legs and table legs. She crawled out and waited to grab the leg cuff of winter work pants. As soon as he couldn't shuffle his right leg, he went to take a swipe at her. I caught the fabric of his left wrist to impede him bending over.
Zar wound herself around his foot like a little girl trying to keep dad from leaving the house. I opened up on his left knee. I got several nice solid heavy torque telegraphed shots on the back of the knee again. We can burn the rest of his gas tank off like this. Its perfect. He's well into exertion now. Yelling, stomping into any motion he makes. Using all force possible for everything he does. Like a wounded animal. I guess I'm the wolf trying to bring down a big game target alone. Things are dicey. The female wolf in our fledgling tiny pack is joining in.
Now he can get his hands together. This gives him enough advantage that he can reposition me. It allows him to yank and stomp his tree trunk leg. He got her thigh then her abdomen under his stomp. He kicked her face away before she could get free and roll away. I opened up on him to get his attention quick. No big roundhouses and big straight shots. Hands in tight, near my throat. Fast tight rabbit punches spring out on fully automatic fire. In and out, you flurry the target. Its more annoying than debilitating.
I zero in on the throat and the neck for all my fast rabbit punches. I got one through to the hollow of his throat. That step back and the sudden inrush of air. Damn. I was that close to closing the deal and missed just under the Adam's apple. He's swimming with palms out, flustered. Zar's crawling again, I caught that out of the corner of my eye. I got a nice stiff-arm finger poke into his throat again. Its not exciting to watch me land a shot like that, but this isn't about style or points. Its about one thing, and one thing only. Winning, and losing. This will not be graded, its a pass fail course.
Dark color on her face, moving around in her den. She grabbed his fabric on his lower leg again. Drew herself around his leg again. It came to me in a flash, I'm the one crowding him into the table now. Every time he stiff arms at me to push at me, I push up from above his elbow from below. I crouch into it so once pushing I can put my legs into it to enforce the move if I can. Zar has his right leg anchored and she's protected from any attack being just under the table. He started rearing his big meaty arm up to come crashing down on me.
The truth is, I'm out of my weight class. Guy's taller and thicker. Thank god he's not showing any serious training. Big guy, some boxing, now he's a big tough guy the rest of his life. Typical Navy bully, I'd guess. Ran into a million of them on the bases, working out in the enlisted gyms. And here's the big thing to dealing with these big strong guys in a fight.
Guy like him is just too damn big, to try to force a move on him. A guy my size and strength or below, I can just grab them up and start to manhandle them if they don't know what they're doing. This big lummox, I can't do that. And that's the big secret to fighting these giants. No, you can't make them do anything. But, just watch. In the course of a long fight, hands and feet go everywhere. If you see something, take advantage. There's no real difference between me forcing him into a position, and him putting himself not knowing any better, into the same position.
With his right foot anchored by Zar, the instant he started rearing his fists up to bring them down on me, brought me joy. He's putting his arm and wrist somewhere very bad, position wise. I bobbed my head around to take the sting out of several of them before I struck. Instead of absorbing yet another balled up fist being dropped at my head, I lurched up and caught the fabric of his winter coat at the forearm. I scooted up and out to hold onto my little prize with both hands.
His right foot is stuck fast. Leaning back on the table, he can't kick at her with his left leg. Now that I managed to get a hold of his left arm up and out, he's pinned. I'm the mirror image of Zar. I got his good hand caught, and he can't reach me with the other one.
"Hold him!"
I dropped my upper shin down onto his forearm so I could hold on with one hand as best as I could. I wish it wasn't my left hand, but it will have to do. After a couple of steady unanswered punches, I shifted to dropping big elbows onto his unprotected face. Not something a boxer expects. My big chance to get my own damage back in on him. I know I've got a bloodied nose, split lips. Eyes and cheeks swelling with hard lumps. I got mine in, while the getting was good.
Yeah, he moves his head around. Trying to make it into glancing blows. I aim off and sometimes catch a good one he moves right into. That's where I get my big damage. There's nothing to grab, to hit him with. While he can't kick Zar or punch me, he's still big and strong and able to move around. Thrashing around he figured out he could roll over. Now two hands to two hands, I'm short changed once again. He can now kick at Zar and get her peeled off him.
I don't know if it was a bloody nose the first time and a bloody lip the second time, or the other way around. What I do know is that she's streaming a trickle of blood from both places now. Injuries are important, the order they occur in doesn't matter as much. Zar's taking abuse to throw in with me.
He's only striking blind at me now and again. Its secondary in importance to moving me. Oh hell, he's making for the guns. They got scattered when this began. This farm house is laid out in a big two story rectangle with a basement. The central load bearing wall is down the middle of the rectangle. Its festooned with thick heavy duty shelves built into the walls. The kitchen is where this all started and I've kept it in here... up until now. Our original side, is the kitchen opening up smooth into the even bigger wood dining table. Around the back of the kitchen, is space to get around to the other half of the floor plan. The dual living rooms, making a great room.
He's inching in, in the direction of where Zar dove and scattered the guns off into the netherworld. He wants to force his way into muscling one into his hand and finishing this once and for all. I feel an odd swelling of pride. I've got the bigger stronger guy in fear for his life, and he'd much rather shoot me and be done with me than deal with me. Zar making it two on one is a bonus round gift. I get to see her college sports days grit and determination. Her game face. A nose and lips both drooling blood, and it doesn't even register. Zar has a set of rattlesnake eyes with a bloody visage. If she's conscious, she's in the game.
Szarabjorna dove under the table and went for the old fashion wood cabinet doors lining the counter after the stove down that wall. She can't move the giant wood table herself to get to those doors. I wondered why she took her winter boots off. She was warmed up when found and taken from the hay-bale Fort Warmth. The lantern was a heater in a confined space.
No. She thought she felt me signal her, touching her work boot with the sliver of cardboard to get her attention. To let her know a friend was near and hadn't forgotten her. No. The light confirmed what was going on. She said the magic words. I see the light. With communication established, she could put her boots back on. She doesn't. Why.
To move, that's why. She was a dancer. Her dance name was Sky. She was the little girl that could get speed and air. When she was older, those same long legs made her a dancing star. She can move light on her feet barefoot, from years of dancing. She knew she wanted to dive to scatter the guns away. The boots were dead weight and ruined her precision. She's much happier scampering around in the knotted T-shirts for leggings covered over with the arms of the insulated work suit. The elastic wrists provide a natural dancer's leggings effect she must like.
Done with the lower wood cabinets she can't get into, she's tearing up onto the table now. Ripping open the wood cabinets and rifling the contents. Weapon, I need a weapon. She launched down off the table with a black frying pan in her right hand. She's not being shy. She's stalking in slow, watching distance. Good. No fight training, but this is a former sports star. Soccer. She understands distance from the opponent, to steal the ball. It puts her light years ahead of anyone, male or female, that never worried about sensing distance with intuition.
I opened up on him now, bar none. I haven't stood my ground and refused to move yet. Its yet another surprise when I do it late in the game. I got about eight feet before one of the guns a quick peripheral blur tells me is out there. This is where this one clattered away off the table to, when Zar dove and kept things fair. Its my big automatic, and its got a really gorgeous low light sight in it. I'm telling you, these night sights are really basic, and line up like nobody's business.
Not a bit of good does it do me if I can't get my hand on it. I don't wanna take my chances rolling around scrabbling over a live gun. He's too big and strong and charged up with enough fear and adrenaline to really make it a fight. I can sort of contain a live gun in a mad scramble like this, but only for so long. Once again, my odds go down because... too big and strong.
Zar's first couple swings were exploratory in nature. Getting distance. She's following anything of his body that strays out of range. Her first swing and an impact was his right elbow. I was already well into standing my ground and seeing how much boxing he had been schooled into. I can't shake my initial gut hunch. Navy big guy, Navy boxing bully.
If I misjudge him, its my life. And Zar's life as well. Zar is the mother of my own child. She might well be pregnant even as I speak, with my second child. Maybe a precious smart little girl, to bookend the smart little boy I already fucked into her. They say there's a couple of things in this world that you never fuck with. A man's woman. A man's car. A man's livelihood. This asshole is going after all three.
I still have little tricks. With my bigger stronger opponent roaring mad, I can get away with anything. He's now done away with reach and boxing. Rage doesn't allow for fine motor control. Boxers are strikers. And all strikers share a common thread. No matter how they phrase it, bunches of punches win fights. To them, the puncher that throws and lands more shots, wins. That's all he knows now, under adrenaline fueled fight or flight rage. Get a hold, keep a hold, and strike at it.
Distance is now taken out of the equation the way we're right up in each other's business as we square off. I can see I'm faster and more accurate. He can keep me at his longer reach distance and tag me for points all day, I'll never win playing his game. That's why he plays it, after all. My options are stay out of distance, or close in and eliminate distance altogether.
Up in close, pushing and shoving can be just that. Grown up boys butting heads. I'm not falling for his superior football lineman pushing and shoving, either. You can just stand there and do a slow punch to work this out for yourself. Its easy. Just, do your slow cartoon punch. Now, bring in your little tiny wife or daughter. Have her stand there, and just stick her first two fingers, just off your shoulder into your arm.
When she pushes as you rear back to do your slow punch, you'll feel it instantly. All the sting and power is gone out of that punch. Its also misguided because like a plane in a crosswind, it got shoved off target. It keeps me from punching, but robs him of all power and accuracy in close. I got another trick. I reached out and grabbed his head suddenly. I mean its hanging right there, in front of my own face. I just clapped a hand behind it and on the chin. I yanked and rotated, dropping him neat over my hip.
You can rip any gorilla off his feet once with that one. If you hit it right. Your twelve year old daughter could toss you over her hip if you didn't expect it. He hadn't hit the ground before I grabbed my ankle and dropped my knee with all my body weight down into the anchor drop. I've heard it called an atomic knee drop. I nicknamed it? The Queen Mary, a dropping anchor joke. Useful only on a stunned opponent.
Its all or nothing. If the opponent isn't stunned and moves his head, you just broke your own knee on the sidewalk. Land it though. You just dropped, in my case, a two hundred and fifteen pounds plus boat anchor into a big knee shot. Laying against the floor or getting knee dropped into it, is devastating as well. I nailed a forehead shot. I saw his eyes cross as I reacted after impact. Instinct and raining. Bigger guy, get outside, not inside. On the ground I can just plant a foot or a hand and get outside.
On the ground, he's not as powerful. He's not used to ground fighting, its scary to him. His bigger weight works against him now. He has to lift his own body weight first, plus anything else he wants to impart force into me with. I went all in on his Navy boxing bully guess. What would his worst nightmare be. A dirty wrestler got a hold of him. He's stronger than me, he has reach advantages. But he flops like a dishrag on the ground. Its my complete lack of respect for the bigger stronger fighter, if I just launch into straight out wrestling with him. I'm barely a light heavyweight, I got no business, that's zero, messing with an athletic super heavyweight.
I stepped off outside of his arm, and immediately darted in. A nice curling headlock. Basic wrestling. I walked my hips into my crouched stalk I can move on the ground with. I nicknamed it the Spider System. Hands and feet, not walking. I get my body weight into that neck turning. I rolled over and went for raining my solid right elbows down on anything I could hit. I'll batter his forearms, and if I can sneak one into a head or face shot, so much the better. I like to aim for the sides of the elbow in particular. Covering up boxer style, he grants me access to work the elbow.
The next time we went down it was him tripping over his own two feet. His bad foot hobbles him. I stayed outside on the ground as best I could, and got a string of random knees sneaked in anywhere I could land them. I realize what the problems with my knees and elbows are. What should be devastating shots, this asshole's absorbing and shaking his head through it like nothing. Thick winter clothing, layers of it. I'm like a cat been declawed almost. Now I'm glad I didn't commit to a choke. All this soft fabric, I won't be able to seal the deal. I attempt and fail, I'm all grabbed up inside, right where I don't wanna be. Under and inside, a bigger stronger opponent.
War on two fronts now. With me standing my ground and digging in, He's more stationary for Zar to try to whack his elbow or whatever she can reach. I'm staking my life on this hill. He's a couple week wonder, the result of yet another Navy boxing two/three week camp option. I spent years working out with assholes just like this. I don't respect him in the least. I know I can get him, and kill him. I just need to stay on point.
His gas tank is real low. His mouth is hanging open, he's gasping for air like a fish. He's a boxer, he knows what he's asking for. I'm going to roll off him and light his ass up like a Christmas tree. If I sting him, I'm going for broke.
Rolling off, is my own word. How I view things. When I was little, my parents stuck me in every sport there was. The fact I wasn't that good at most of those sports, didn't seem to stop them. Pee Wee town football league. All the grade-school boys got signed up. One of many techniques for blocking on the football line, was the roll off. If I think your running play is going up just to your right side... I can hit you and instead of engaging your further, I can plan on rolling off. Rotating off of your hit, directly into the line of fire of the runner coming into my grasp.
As I said, rolling off is my own phrase. In boxing, there's clinches and leans. A clinch is when you hug each other for a break. A lean, you'll see late in a big match. If it goes the long distance, you'll see two men panting and leaning forwards on one another. Rolling off all of a sudden, exploding into an uppercut out of the motion
Once I got the stun, you don't wait for an invitation. We were leaning in on each other. He's more out of breath than me, panting hard. I rolled off quick and into the vicious uppercut. There's a slight curious look to the eyes of a guy that just got stunned hard. His opponent that recognizes it, will step into the haymaker and drop him. This is where you see things in professional fights like the turn-around knockout.
Its a mark of distinction to recognize that your opponent is out cold still on his feet. You turn around, unconcerned... while he falls for no reason flat on his face. That, is the patented turn around knockout. I'd never do that here, I'd hit this motherfucker six more times on his way down. I was taught that when it counts for keeps? If you find yourself in a fair fight, your tactics suck.
So my roll off surprise uppercut led to more. Once I saw a good stun, I launched a big right elbow in. Once I land an unanswered elbow, it starts a well practiced rhythm. Elbow, into a pair of rabbit punching uppercuts that flows smooth into the next opposing elbow. Into another two rabbit uppercuts and the first elbow again. The rabbit punches are aimed at the throat; the elbows drive straight in to the center of the head for maximum impact.
He's not out cold on his feet, but he's close. I got scooped up at my waist and dumped hard. They always discover the body slam late in the game. Of course he'll perform the body slam several more times, they always do. Like they invented it. If you just absorb the body slams as best you're able, its a massive energy depletion. The secret? You have to loosen up and go with the body slam. You can't hold your breath against the impact, you have to stifle a puff but let it out. This pressure you let compress out of your mouth protects your ribs from breaking at random. Air pressure will support the air bags you call lungs and ribs.
This is how you absorb multiple rib and body shots without dropping as they would like. The ability to relax and absorb extreme punishment is a fighter's so called "mettle". Its only worth it to me this late in the game to even think about absorbing punishment to keep him throwing hands. He's close to being all punched out. He takes those little gasping breaks before he explodes into another series of even harder wild haymakers.
I went for broke. Double time rabbit punches to the throat. Surprise elbows thrown in. If I don't have to worry about dancing on my toes to land artful shots, I much prefer to stalk flat-footed. I finally got my own crushed ribs slipping in unnoticed body blows I stepped into the delivery of.
He stopped. I got shoved back yet again with that ape strength, I just take a step back and eat it up. He's now fighting a true war on two fronts. Germany is being attacked on both sides. It might seem silly to see a woman on TV wielding a frying pan as a weapon, but she scattered things all over looking for what she needed. This is one of those real thick old fashion deals. She takes swipes at him at the drop of a hat now. A nice hard rap on his wrist or knuckles. An elbow rang out like a small gong.
She got a good one in, coming down on the back of his shoulders. She got a good horse stomp backwards for it. That took her down. She swung on his knee instead. I stared at her cold eyes, then off to where the gun was laying. She got behind me. Pushing forwards. Curving frying pan hits around me. Its what he's fighting his way towards, his last ditch effort. When he got close enough to see it clear, she shoved my big automatic down this side of the floor rectangle with her foot. Of course. A dancer then a soccer scoring star. She's more comfortable moving things with her feet than her own two hands. I heard the clatter that said it came to rest at the far short wall.
Zar was stalking him again. Stomping at his knees. From the front. From the side or coming in from the back. She noticed the hole in the top of his boot, leaking blood around. She dropped a nice heel onto it and retracted as he howled in pain. Zar's staying in it to win it now. She's taking her own abuse. She gets her own punch in the face now, the wild elbow or backhand chopping out and making contact with her already bloodied face.
What the hell is she doing now. Oh, daddy's girl around the ankle routine again. No. Points for originality, she's ramming her thumb, her finger into the boot hole weeping blood. Trying to open it up more, or just to inflict pain on your opponent any way you can muster it. That rattlesnake look isn't just for show. She's quite game about it. She's trying to force the handle of the thick frying pan into the stigmata wound. She finally forced it in, I saw it slide down and lock in. I heard the shrill report from him as she rammed it home. Its macabre. The business end of the frying pan is her handle now. She's twisting it like a primitive version of the drill that failed to catch on in prehistoric times.
There was a sickening audible crunch scrape noise that was in particular, perhaps the worst. That break in the scream from the inrush of another lungful. She heard or felt that, and went to town twisting back and forth. Well, there's the blood loss that was now significant. It makes a small fountain in time with heart beats, but only several. That's the thing about blood pressure. All that strength and fight men feel, that's adrenaline. It comes from chemicals that affect blood pressure. Blood pressure is not just a phrase, either. You open up a nice artery and the pressure drops just like a cut brake line.
He's running on fumes. Periodic Herculean bursts of effort, each less and less. We've managed to chop him down to the ground. With both of us on him until the job's done, seems like he's finished now. Its in the end all he can manage to cover up and protect his head and neck. I'm putting knees anywhere I think they'll have any effect. Zar is intent on finishing him off with the cast iron small frying pan.
I got my knee on a forearm to help her out as best I'm able to aid her in her quest. Grabbed at the other wrist to open up a target. Her first decent shot was a forehand like a badminton shot. She pasted a wicked backhand that was way more tennis pro than badminton. When a front shot straight down froze him in a lurch, she went for both hands, arcing up and back above her head. Whipping down and curling her back into it for everything she had to give from her knees anchored on bloody floorboards, around and out to her bludgeon. She finally stood up, and bent over to several more dull bell tones.
Blood was everywhere, and it was impossible to tell what had come from who and which injury. He's done for. He could be dead, dying, or hell I don't care. I didn't have much in my gas tank left either. I finally laid back and had a little collapse. Zar's quite a sight. She's got the bloody bruised face. The exhausted limp in one leg. Blood splattered spattered and wiped all over in patches. The single most off feature has to be the filthy blood and dirt encrusted bare feet poking out the ends of her grotesque dancer's leggings.
What do you tell a dancer. Break a leg, perhaps. No, I got it. Go out there, and knock 'em dead, kid. She asked what was so funny. I'm wincing and choking from having the temerity to think anything was humorous. I rasped out the knock 'em dead kid explanation. I got a sage couple tiny nods. She hefted the bloody frying pan down at me laying here, and for a moment it froze me. Her countenance was somewhat terrifying. She dropped it to clatter on the far side of me, away from his carcass.
"If the patient wakes up? As needed."
She ambled off limping to get my big automatic down this far side of the rectangle split down the middle by the sturdy shelves and cupboards. She dropped the automatic near the frying pan. Oh, she held her finger up. Limped over to the close corner and got the five shot snub-nose revolver. She raised it at me, and laid it next to its bigger brother. She finally sat down and gulped air. Experimenting with holding in her sides. Ribs. He was having some kind of electrical seizure, was what it looked like. Arms stuck out straight, fingers straining to weird position. Clawing at nothing in slow motion. Twitches and little convulsions to the straight arms and cocked legs. One foot vibrated with some weird baby rattle motion. She spoke after getting her breath under her.
"You okay."
"I'll live. You."
"I guess we both live, then. What I meant was, there anything, bleeding, or... like that."
"I don't think. Will I die before I make it to the emergency room? I doubt it."
She gestured towards him.
"You can take a nap, as soon as the works done. You going to shoot him? Or, you want me to do it. Trust me here, I have no problem with it. Or, is there like... maybe we should finish him off with the frying pan, because that's how we started it. What's the rules, here. We're allowed to kill him, right?"
"Yes. What's your rush."
"Oh, that. He's still breathing. You need a nap. I could use a nap. We're inside a house, with a gas oven running fine for heat. But, I watch a lot of old movies. You know that about me."
"Your old dance movies, sure."
"Well, anything retro, really. The original slasher flicks are old enough that's a thing now, and that was all real special effects. No computers yet. And I'm telling you, the bad guy? Always, stands up and scares the shit out of you one last time. I mean, you always have to kill that asshole, like three different times."
She's serious, in her logic. I can hear it in her voice. She's in a mild shock. Way too hyper logical.
"So? What's it going to be. Do I have to finish it with the frying pan, because that's how I started it. What. Or, do we tie him up and cut his fingers off to get information out of him. Do we just get our story straight, or maybe we have to move stuff around, what. You tell me. You're the expert."
I thought she was making a stab at gallows humor. I just looked at her, with as much incredulity as I could muster through the cut swollen face. Pretty sure my jaw is broke, too. I can talk, but I have to hold my teeth and mouth just so. Any attempt to open my mouth more than a half inch or so, is met with white hot blinding pain.
"Now that you mention it, some answers might be nice, but..."
The seizure laying on his side didn't look promising in that department.
"Yeah. We should have thought of that before I read him his rights in Morse code."
She tapped her injured face. Her tic.
"Oh. Do, we have some... duty, to tie him up now? Try to take him in. At least make it look good."
"No. We don't have to take him in. And we didn't break the law, either. Self defense. You're allowed to kill them, any way you can."
"I like the sound of that. Do you have to do it?"
"Stand me up. I'll take care of it."
She started to help me up, but the shock is wearing off. That means that pain is replacing it now. Balls of white hot agony that pulse and live with their own screaming nerve endings.
"Shit. You're worse than I thought."
She gestured down towards me. The snub nose in one hand, my big automatic in the other.
"I really don't mind. Which one."
I'm always calculating. I could pass out and spend some time unconscious soon, it might happen. Him brain dead, is a comforting way to stay asleep. Right now, I can crawl over towards the big old black gas oven. Like a cat trying to get warm. Which gun is better for her to have. What if we get more company. Asshole might have some half ass extraction team coming in. No way to tell.
"Use mine. Here..."
She handed it to me. I checked it still had the one in the pipe, safety off. Ready to rock.
"How many times, should I..."
"Once will do it. Twice is better. One in each lung. Or... just make sure you hit him here."
I made a triangle and held it up to show her. Cardio triangle. Nipple to nipple to the hollow at the base of the throat.
"Once in that triangle, is perfect."
God help me, she just limped over to him. Shoved at his shoulder with her filthy bloody foot, to flop him on his back. She bent over, and held the gun not an inch from the middle of my indicated triangle. She adjusted things, so it was pointed straight down and in. I heard the boom and the ring in my ears. The double clatter of the brass shot out and bouncing around. She limped back one pace, and raised her hands. All done?
"Make sure he didn't have a vest on. Pretty sure he didn't, but that's a lot of winter clothes. It could hide a thin stage one."
"How do I check."
"Check for an exit wound. When he quits moving. Should be below the back of his neck."
He was curling around some now, and a leg movement flopped him on his shoulder. She leaned down and looked. Pushing with her dirty foot. Clinical.
"There's a hole out the back of, just below his neck. I mean, the hole's in the jacket---"
"No. All done."
She sat down as ginger as she could manage, to get a look at me.
"How bad are you. Really."
"I'm all beat up. I'll live."
"I can't even get you an ambulance. Can I."
I wagged my head, no.
"What do we do."
I looked around, all dramatic.
"Gas stove. We're warm. I bet he was eating something, we look around. Maybe later on, we could take a little hike to get the food at the barn."
"We just, hunker down for now."
"Not much else we can do. Until I can contact JR and Mike, we're on our own. I can't wait to call in the troops. So. If I happen to go out. You check the phone, for a signal. As soon as you get it, you get JR and Mike. Just, tell them everything. Mike needs to be here, to get on top of this. And, here."
I handed her the five shot snub.
"Anything comes to the door, and we didn't order out for pizza? You know what to do. If I'm down for the count, this one is ready to go, too. Just point and pull the trigger."
"You think company's coming?"
I rolled my eyes.
"Flip a coin. I know I have people I can call, and I can't wait. I figure he might have people, too. Who knows. Maybe they're waiting to hear from him."
"Maybe we shouldn't stay here."
"How far are we going to really get. With you dragging me around like this. Maybe, we could make it to the barn. But if they know about this place, I'm guessing they know about the barn, too."
She looked off at nothing.
"Hmm. Its a lot further, to the diner. No sense we run the risk of freezing to death in a snowdrift, if we fail to make it there."
Zar helped me up onto the thick wooden table. It was warm back near the oven. I didn't go under, but I did close my eyes and tried to lay still. All I can do, is try to lay on my back and even that isn't working for my ribs. Freezing to death would feel good. Numbness before death, would be no small mercy. Zar came back with a veritable armload of what appeared to be wool service blankets and sheets. Big thin sturdy pillows.
"There's a room with some cots up there. I don't think dragging you up the steps is going to be fun. Plus, its warm down here with the stove on."
She laid pillows down end to end, and as gentle as I could I rolled back onto them. She all but tucked me in, with the sheets and blankets. My breathing slowed down soon after I got still and could take those tiny little breaths to prevent grinding the ribs around any more than necessary. The next time I woke up, it was cold water on my face. She was dabbing at my cut face and hands with a damp bloody piece of what appeared to be ripped up bed sheet.
Another time I woke up, it was dark all around. I'm weak and sweaty and not what I would call with it. Someone at the door? I went back out. The next time my eyes blinked open, I was groaning from the sudden breathing of waking up and coming around. I found out who had come to visit. The goat.