My undying thanks and love go out to the following: Joe D, Dasiygirl95, Wolflihood, jess a, Alana, jamdropsmarblecakes, JohnnyStormsGirl, Guest, 26RH, Kimberly Anderso, Lulu, Slytherin Studios, and Not. So. Typical. Girl. You guys are awesome and wonderfully supportive. Thank you so much for all of your kind words and for sticking with me while we follow the lives of those Bondurants we love so much.
This one is a bit of a mess! It's so violent that it's almost awful. I tried very hard to channel the vibes of the movie in terms of the action and I hope it played out well. Let me know what you think about that.
We're almost there, folks! Just two more after this and we'll be saying goodbye…I don't want to talk about it now. I'm not quite ready to let this story go so let's just get on with it, shall we?
As always, you know I hope you enjoy.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The figure stepped forward onto the ramp. He pushed forward the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. The stranger scrutinized Forrest, shooting an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth. He was breathing deeply through wide nostrils like an angry bull at a rodeo. He stepped forward.
Forrest was gonna let him make the first move. The middle Bondurant son understood that the more you knew about a man, the easier it was to make him fall. And you can tell a lot about a man by the way he fights – especially in the way he plans that first swing.
The stranger went for the obvious blow, a hard and fast left hook to the jaw, meant to distract Forrest while the man's right arm came in at his ribs with a much greater force, the kind meant to break bones and bust organs. Forrest took that first left hook willingly. He staggered back from the blow, allowing him to narrowly miss the second, and the all-to-familiar taste of blood tickled his tongue. The burly stranger had split his lip. Out of reflex, Forrest's tongue flicked out to lick the bust on his bottom lip, a droplet of blood dribbling down his chin.
The fighting around him had been carrying on for some time now. Bodies were strewn across the train yard – wrecked, bloodied, beaten. Some were dead. Others had merely surrendered to unconsciousness to escape the unrelenting pain that had been unleashed upon on them. Forrest and Howard were through. No more petty acts of vengeance. No more tug-of-war with the enemy. This was going to end. Today.
When Forrest's opponent had swung, his movements had caused his shirt to rip at the sleeves and there was a large tear on the side, most likely from his brother's knife. The man's shirt was in ribbons. It hung loosely from his body and swayed in the evening wind. The stranger curled his lips in anger as he shred the garment to the ground. Now bare to the waist, the man stood before Forrest all sinew and gristle, huge but flabby. The furious stranger banged his fits together and moved in once more.
Forrest's sharp gaze darted down from the man's dark face to the muscle of his arms as they flexed. This was all the warning Forrest needed and he jerked to the side, a punch grazing him, his huge fist whistling past Forrest's ear. Angered that Forrest managed to dodge yet another one of his blows, the stranger let out a bellow of rage and unleashed a storm of punches.
The Bondurant male was able to duck or block most of the attack. He threw nothing in return, choosing instead to let his reflexes and instincts protect him from the powerful assault. His opponent was enraged. This was to be his downfall. Where he let his emotions carrying him, Forrest carefully calculated his moves. He waited for the man to exhaust himself, then he went in for the kill.
Forrest destroyed the man in three simple blows. He did this so quickly and so emphatically that he wondered if he should be disturbed that he was able to kill with such ease.
Forrest observed his fallen opponent's battered face, pressed into the dirt. The man was smiling. Angry in life, happy in death. Forrest frowned and kicked at the man's hand, the one missing three fingers. Wonder how that happened. Forrest turned and saw that his brother was crouched behind an overturned train car, his gun cocked and held erect in front of his thick chest. Howard waited, listening, before yanking himself up to fire off another round at whoever it was he was aiming to shoot.
Across the train yard, Everett was getting his face pummeled in by a man the size of a bear with a sweat stain on his shirt that was so wide Forrest reckoned he could swim in it. Danny was still up and swingin' too, somewhere near the tree line. Mitchell was taking on three men at once and as Forrest took a step his way, prepared to aid his friend, his path became blocked by two equally beefy men with droopy eyes and crooked grins.
Forrest's hand tightened around his brass knuckles.
Here we go again.
Everett couldn't take this. He might not have been a bitch but he wasn't built like an ox and his body could only take so much. The mountain of a man on top of him was never going to run out of energy and if Everett didn't do something fast he was sure he'd lose consciousness. Blinking through swollen eyes, Everett took another strike to his stomach and hastily surveyed his surroundings.
There was a pile of coal lying next to the train tracks ten feet away. A shovel stuck out from beneath the pile and Everett saw his chance. Whipping his head toward his attacker, Everett drew back and spit in the man's face. The fury that followed was immediate but the distraction had given Everett just enough time to drop to the dirt and seize the shovel. His attacker realized Everett's plan and staggered back. He had nothing to defend himself with against a shovel, no knife, or crowbar. Panic briefly flickering across the stranger's features, he withdrew a pistol from the band of his dunagrees.
Everett gathered a shovel-full of coal.
For a second, the man's gun pointed directly at Everett's face.
Everett lifted to his knees and arced the shovel round, hurling the coal right into the stranger's face. The man fired and Everett dropped. The wind from the bullet blew a few of his slick, dark locks, a stray hair or two fluttering to the ground. Shit, that was close.
Leaping to his feet, Everett wielded the shovel like a mad man, knocking the pistol out of his attacker's grip and rendering a devastating blow to the stranger's head.
The man was out cold.
A bullet flew past Howard's face.
With a curse, the eldest Bondurant quickly collapsed back behind his barricade. He was definitely gettin' too old for this shit.
Grumbling under his breath, Howard reloaded his gun, the bullets jiggling in his pocket like Christmas bells. Once the bullets were chambered, Howard realized like a bad taste in his mouth that after this round he'd only have three shots left. The Bondurant male steeled himself and chanced another look at his shooter. The man was hiding behind two rows of double-stacked barrels, the kind used for shipping oil. There was no way Howard was going to get off a decent shot. He was going to have to get closer.
Inching around the side of the train car, Howard eyed the control stand where the train yard's night watchmen held their post. The stand was a tiny four by four square, not much more than a shack, and it had wide windows all the way around. But it was going to have to do.
Howard took a deep breath, fired off a shot meant to intimidate the other shooter, and took off runnin'.
He hauled ass over to the train yard stand and dropped like dead weight. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering in his ears as Hell rained down on them. He could hear the agonized cries of the other men. Could hear the echoes of bullets whizzing in the air. Could hear the crunch of breaking bones and the squishy burst of gushing blood. The train yard had erupted into pure chaos. The moment was one that was painfully familiar and suddenly Howard was no longer in Virginia but in France, smack dab in the middle of a war.
His dirty farm work-shirt and dungarees morphed into his old uniform and his pistol became a military issued rifle. The jiggling of bullets in his pocket was actually his dog tags making music around his neck. He wasn't just fighting for his family, he was fighting for his country, for freedom and safety for all. Then Danny was there and he was yelling at Howard but Howard couldn't quite make out what he was saying. He could see Danny's lips moving but the words were lost behind the backdrop of war, of explosions and gunfire, of screams and desperate pleas for help.
Danny was waving his gun and gesturing to Howard's back. Twisting in the dirt, Howard peeked over his barricade and saw the enemy approaching. He was close, pistol poised before him, and Howard was virtually unprotected. From thirty feet away, Howard's best friend raised, aimed, and fired. The shot pierced the ground mere inches from the enemy shooter's feet. The man jumped back and blinked.
That moment of hesitation, trying to decide which way to shoot, was enough time to allow Howard the shot he needed. The shooter took the bullet in the forehead, just above his right eye.
And then Howard was home again.
Danny had used his last shot to save his best buddy because even these days he spent most of his time protecting Howard's six. Now, he was wielding his empty pistol like an ax. The man he fought was tall and lean, like Everett, and he had greasy blonde hair that was so blonde it was almost white. He wore it slicked back over his face, the ends curving like a duck's tail. Usually, Danny liked to taunt his opponents. He'd give that damn smile he's so famous for and say a few flashy, mocking words that questioned his enemy's manhood and his ability to please his woman. He'd joke and jest and generally piss off his opponent until the other man saw red. And then, while his enemy succumbed to his own rage, Danny would smirk and snicker before obliterating his opponent.
Usually, that was the way that Danny Mitchell won a fight. Usually, but not today.
He didn't feel like teasing and taunting today. In fact, Danny felt very little. He was so wrecked with guilt, pain, and anger over what happened to Gummy, that the oldest Mitchell son had become numb. Unfortunately, because of that numbness he didn't register the fist flying straight at his mouth.
With a foul curse, Danny swallowed a mouthful of his own blood, his teeth rattling around in his brain, and tackled his opponent. Danny's advance sent them tumbling down the slope of the hill. They rolled until Danny's back landed painfully on the train tracks. The skinny man landed on top of Danny, clumsily delivering a handful of poorly aimed punches in his temporarily disoriented state. The railings of the tracks dug into Danny's shoulders and as he tried to inch away from his attacker he felt the sting of sliced flesh. The tracks had cut through his shirt and split his skin.
Danny brought his knee up between the man's legs and lurched himself upward when the man cried out in pain. He kicked his opponent back with as much force as he could muster lying sideways on the ground. They scrambled to their feet. They each threw out sloppy blows as they regained their footing, their fists hitting nothing but air. Swiping the sweat from his eyes, Danny launched himself at the skinny man once more, but this time he planned for a better landing. Using his weight for leverage, Danny bridled his attacker like a saddle. He fisted his hands in the man's greasy blonde-white hair and reared upwards before immediately slamming back down. The impact of his head thrusting against the ground was deadly. The man's jaw clapped together, bits of teeth breaking off.
Danny lifted his man's head, his opponent's hands clawing at the fingers in his hair, and slammed his head back down once more. And then again and again, until the skinny man's head was good and bashed in, blood caking Danny's fingers and building up under his fingernails.
When his work was finished, Danny slumped back against the tracks. He sighed heavily and wiped his hands in the grass.
The dead man's hair wasn't blonde anymore. It was red.
The ground beneath him seemed to shake as his shoulders met the dirt. He'd hit the train yard floor with such intensity that the air rushed out of his chest and he thought for sure his lungs were going to collapse inside him.
Vaught might have been a shit-heap and a coward but Forrest would give him credit for one thing: he'd learned his lesson while dealing with the Bondurants. After a dance or two with Forrest and Howard, Vaught knew he couldn't rely on those top hat-wearing, mustached city rats with their walking sticks and fancy jackets. Vaught had taken one look at Kellar after the Bondurant brothers got a hold of him and immediately went out and hired the toughest lookin' couple of mugs he could find. The bunch of city slickers he normally surrounded himself with just weren't going to cut it anymore. He needed men who could take a hit and keep on swingin'.
And the men they were fighting today did just that.
Forrest rolled as his attacker's foot came down, slamming into the packed earth were his face had been only seconds before. His beloved brass knuckles secure on his right fist, Forrest hammered away at the man's ankle until he fell with a satisfying cry. But, before Forrest could get to his feet and finish him off, Howard appeared to his left and kicked the man square in his face. The man slumped to the ground.
Howard smiled wearily at his little brother. Forrest did nothing to return the gesture and sunk back into the dirt, great gulps of air disappearing into his lungs. He took a moment to gather his bearings before attempting to regain his footing. Only, his latest attacker's bone-crunching punch had taken it out of him and he sagged back to the ground.
"Need some help there, kiddo?" murmured Howard, his eyes sweeping the scene.
"Shut up, jackass," Forrest grumbled sourly. His breathing was only returning to normal. Sitting up in the dirt, Forrest shook the cobwebs from his brain. He eyed the unconscious man at his side. He probed the man's foot with the toe of his boot. "Gotta hand it to him-"
Forrest accepted Howard's extended hand and rose to his feet. "-he had me flat on my ass…that don't happen much."
"I think Everett just got the last of 'em," called Danny Mitchell as he gradually wandered over. He was clutching his side and his hat was missing, the cuffs of his shirt bloodied and torn. He swallowed, blinking slowly, and pinned the brothers with a withered stare. "Can we go home now?"
The weather was due to break open; all day the sky had been gathering and folding along the edges, and Forrest and the others still had a good twenty miles to travel through the mountains to get home. They were exhausted, their bones rattling inside their bodies, groaning. Their muscles ached, their hands bleeding from the physical abuse they'd just endured. Their feet hurt, too. Swelling from the pressure in the air, they strained their boots, the cracked leather bending around their toes.
The first thing they noticed as they slowly pulled into the lot of The County Line, one after another, was the solemn look on the faces of their loved ones. Everyone was there. Papa, Lucy, Emmy, Jack, Cricket. Everyone except-
"Where's Ellie May?" Forrest immediately asked as he and the others piled out of their vehicles.
When no one spoke, Howard's stomach gave a painful jerk. Howard watched his wife's shoulders beginning to shake as a handful of tears slipped silently down her cheeks. His little sister's face was white and smooth but blank, like a stone. Cricket sat on the front steps behind Jack, his arm curled around the porch railings. He was rocking in place, just like Emmy had done after their mother and sisters died. He was quiet, his eyes wide and unfocused. Their father was in the rocking chair by the door, his old body half-slumped over in defeat. He looked so utterly sad. Today, he wore no hat on his head and his hands, warped with arthritis, trembled against the arm rests of the chair. Papa's lips parted and he made a notion as if to speak to Forrest but all that came out was a low breath.
Their father was speechless.
Howard watched Forrest raise his eyebrows in confusion. "Where's Ellie May?" His younger brother took a step toward the porch and Jack jumped up, blocking his path. Of everyone there, Jack looked the worst of all. His face was splotchy and red, his cheeks glistening, his eyes spiderwebbed and red like his cheeks. He'd been bawling for hours, it seemed. When he spoke, Jack's voice was shattered and he nearly choked on each word.
"Forrest, I'm s-so sorry. I s-shoulda come back with h-her…I never shoulda let-" Jack was violently cut off by a strangled noise escaping his throat. He, like their father's hands and his wife's shoulders, was trembling. But not from fear, from an overwhelming sorrow. Jack swallowed thickly and struggled to breathe. His words were a whisper against the wind, "I'm so sorry, Forrest."
Forrest didn't know what the hell Jack was talking about or why the hell no one would tell him where his wife was or why everyone was damn crying. He pushed Jack aside, not rough exactly, but just so he could get by. He took to the steps with heavy feet, his footfalls sounding like thunder clapping over the mountains. Just as his fingers seized hold of the handle on the front screen door, slender fingers coiled around his wrist. He looked at his father expectantly.
"Please don't, son." Granville Bondurant's words were softly spoken, his tone solemn and sad – a warning. "There ain't nothing in there you want to see."
Forrest couldn't register the tears in his father's eyes or the distant look on the old man's face. Coaxing Papa's fingers off his wrist, Forrest pulled open the front door of The County Line and froze.
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