Session 6
Rain pattered against the windowpane. Spike burrowed deeper under the covers, fighting to hide the welling panic as wave after wave of memories threatened to carry him away. In the dark room lightening slashed through the cracks in his eyelids. Weary after a long day of training, unable to distract himself earlier with a visit to Annie because of the weather, Spike fought desperately for the embrace of sleep.
A state his heart raced into … forced back to a place he never wanted to see again …
Straight down the cue the balls all lined up. Well, not in a direct line. Even though Spike couldn't see the diamond that had long since rubbed from the rail, it didn't matter. Experience told him that his true target, the ball directly off his left hand was going into the corner pocket. The moment he called the shot, his opponent spat his whiskey.
"Kid, you lookin' at the same table I am?"
Spike took a lungful of smoke from his cigarette and released it in a cloud. His hand drew the cue back. "Damn right I am."
"There's like three solids in the way. I mean, you've gotten lucky so far, shrimp … "
"Luck's got nothin' to do with it. You just can't see the path." Spike drove the tip low into the cue ball hopping it over the bunch and into the rail. On the rebound the cue ball shot across the table connecting with the right side of the eight ball transferring the motion. The end ball slipped smoothly into the corner pocket leaving Spike to lean on his cue and grin up at the man twice his height. "Perspective is everything, now ante up, dipshit."
With a grunt, the man handed over the cash. "That's it, you little shit. Don't think I won't beat your ass at this game."
Spike snorted. "If you knew how many morons told me that. And yah know what? They're all still trying. So get in line!" It was like a three-card monte, the more they lost the more they wanted to try to win.
The man grabbed his jacket and stomped out into the growing storm. Spike glanced at the clock. Closing time. He locked the door and sighed. Shit. Gonna be a rough night. His stomach rumbled. Yeah, yeah, I hear yah. Although I'd rather stay dry tonight, guess you got other bright ideas.
Padding behind the counter Spike hit the catch on the hidden door in the wall to deposit the day's loot from the table, both from honest bets and picking pockets. Another day of the house's unbroken winning streak. Many fueled by the egos of previous losers, what a bruise to be beaten by a kid. Spike relished the con. It'd been a long time since he'd needed to shim the table. It was easy enough to pull out the trick shots he'd spent countless hours practicing when no one was watching. Shocking a grown man into wailing like a baby never got old.
His stomach grumbled again. That however, did get old.
The weight of the cash in his hand made him pause. He eyed the wall, Joe on the other side in the office where he spent much of his days. He wouldn't miss a little, would he? The take had been decent today. And Spike reasoned, not for the first time, that he needed his wits sharp enough to keep this up. He couldn't do that distracted by hunger. It wasn't a ploy he tried often. But the last week scrounging hadn't turned up much. Something hot and fresh was a rare treat.
Not the wad, he didn't dare nip into that. However, coins were rare. They wouldn't barter for much, but it would be better than empty handed. Spike tossed the bulk of the loot into the box. The office door opened. In a deft move, Spike pocketed the coins as Joe wandered out discarding an empty bottle into the trash. He eyed Spike as he was shutting the door.
"Leave it open, runt."
Spike stepped back and leaned against the counter. "Come on, plenty of saps today. You don't have to check it."
Joe reached in and started to rifle through it, counting every woolong and tossing a few valuable pieces of jewelry aside. "Heh, so a trip to the pawn shop is in order tomorrow."
"I can do it if you want."
"Screw that." He eyed Spike. "Not after that little stunt you pulled. I told you not to get caught."
Spike glowered. "I didn't think there was a camera back there."
Joe cuffed him. "You didn't think! I told you what to do. So how come I had to spring you from the lock-up, you worthless idiot. Can't keep your hands out of trouble."
With a sigh, Spike turned away and headed for the door. "They bought the story, so I don't know why you're still on my ass about it."
"Hey! You save that mouth of yours for goading the customers!" Joe stomped around the counter.
"Yeah, whatever." A few steps to the door.
"Get back here, you ungrateful runt!" Joe's meaty hand seized Spike's collar, not just the vest he wore, but the shirt. He knew that trick. The grasp brought Spike to a sudden halt.
Clink!
Spike's heart nearly stopped.
Joe's icy voice broke the silence. "You little shit! You holding out on me?"
A second later, Joe seized his wrist. As Spike's feet left the ground, he flailed. "No! It was nothing! Just my lighter!"
"Nothing? Didn't sound like nothing!" The other hand rammed into Spike's jean pocket and pulled out the handful of coins. He held it up and snarled. "This doesn't look like nothing you greedy little shit! What else do you have in there?" He searched every pocket, removing Spike's cigarette pack, his lighter, and even the small pocket knife.
That last item sent Spike into a panic. "Joe, don't take that! I need that! You can't—"
A hard slap across the face dashed any further pleas into silence. "You know the price of stealing from me!" He wrenched the door open and threw Spike out into the cold rain, locking the door behind him. "I don't want to see you until dawn! You try and pick the lock, I'll break your fingers."
On his knees, already soaked in the downpour, Spike stared up at the pool hall's door. A barrier against the streets, inside that office a couch with his blanket, waiting … where he would not sleep tonight.
Growl! Spike's hand rubbed his belly. "Hope you're happy. Shit, now I have to do this the hard way. Defenseless without a fuckin' knife."
Climbing to his feet, Spike sighed as the old canvas sneakers he'd scavenged soaked up the puddle, leaving each step to squelch. This was not a good night to have to find shelter. Hands in his empty pockets, he cursed his idiot plan. If he hadn't gotten caught trying to be honest for once and actually buy something for once instead of stealing for his survival, all he'd have had to do was nip out find something to eat and come back to a dry, warm couch. Now that door wouldn't open until after sunrise … the start of another day's hustle.
Someone at the weather center had either pushed the wrong button, or the damn machine had busted again. It had been raining for the past few days. Spike wasn't a fan of trying to scavenge in the rain, all the more reason he had gone without, surviving off beer from Joe's tap. One of the few things that tightwad permitted.
So what would tonight be? With all the recent rain, dumpster diving would be at risk of drowning. Of course there were always trash cans, with the chance of something half eaten and not spoiled. However anything that had been thrown out tended to have extra flavors. A swift stone chucked against the head of a pigeon always made for a decent fresh meal. But that was out. Without his lighter and anywhere dry to cook it that would mean eating it raw. A risk he wouldn't take after he'd watched another kid puke her guts out after trying that. He hadn't seen her around since, a bad feeling.
Why did Joe have to be such a dick? Didn't he know that cheap plastic lighter was for more than lighting cigarettes, and the pocketknife had been hard to come by. His stomach tormented him in painful knots. "Seriously don't want to hear your belly aching until I find something."
Passing an alley he paused, and took a few steps back. A refrigerated shipping truck sat parked behind a grocery store. No one around. A slow smile spread on Spike's face. The only thing between him and the truck was a simple chain link fence. That was no trouble. At the base of the fence, Spike picked up a piece of wire that had rusted off, one of the fence binders. He pocketed it and vaulted up onto a trash can. It was a short jump up to catch an overhanging lamp and use the momentum to swing over. Catching the back of the fence, Spike hung there for a moment before dropping down in the alley and sneaking around the back side of the truck.
In the poor light he knelt down and worked the wire into the padlock. An older model, all he had to do was fish around inside until he received his reward, the lock popped open. He threw the latch and opened the door to …
Empty.
Spike sat on the bumper with a scowl. The story of his life lately, going the extra mile for nothing. Rain dripped down from above him. Course it's empty. Would have been too easy.
Hopping off the back of the truck, Spike left it open and threw the lock with all his might into the hold. Metal against metal clanged. His frustration hardly sated, Spike drew his foot back and kicked a can against the wall. It clattered down the alley. He was about to kick it again when the movement of a shadow at the end of the alley caught his attention.
The sound of snuffling, claws striking the pavement drilled into him. He froze. Around the corner, about fifty feet away, the scraggly head of a mange-riddled dog appeared. Its nose flaring.
Spike took a step back realizing the dog blocked his way. The only other way out was back over the fence. Had it seen him yet? He shifted ever so slightly back.
The dog wandered forward, fully blocking the alley. It's eyes roved until they locked on Spike. The dog's scarred muzzle wrinkled into a snarl.
Spike edged backward, moving slow. "Why did it have to be a damn dog? I hate dogs." His heart already raced in anticipation even as he tried to keep his voice level. "Hey there, boy. Don't worry about me. Heck, we're probably up to the same shit, right? You as hungry as I am?"
The large mongrel's nostrils puffed with each breath. He stiffened and lowered his head, stalking forward into one of the few working lights.
"Which one are you … " Spike held a hand out, as if it might somehow stop the advance, even as he gave ground trying to recall how far back the fence was as he entered the narrow gap between the wall and the truck. The dog's hackles rose as he released a fresh growl. "Hold on, you're not the … " light fell across a sizable scar down the dog's shoulder, " … the one I slashed. Oh shit. And you clearly remember me." He nervously laughed, his hands flexed as he wished he had the knife. "Hell, that healed up nice. Gives you a bit of street cred. No hard feelings, right? I mean, I wouldn't've done it if you hadn't been trying to eat me. So how about we just part ways."
The mongrel lunged.
"Son of a bitch!" Spike spun and grabbed a wooden pallet, flinging it behind him into the path of the predator as he scrambled toward the fence. The dog's ferocious barking, and the memory of the last time he'd nearly bled at this one's teeth, lent him speed. But it was only borrowed, and Spike knew it, he'd gone too long without a decent meal. Getting close enough to stab one of the brutes was not a good place to be. Staying ahead of them couldn't be done in a flat out run. Dashing up the crate stack, Spike's fingers caught a spot in the brick face without mortar. He used it to swing his feet up to land on top of the fence.
"Screw you!" He flipped the dog off and leapt for the same lamp he'd used the first time. Landing in a crouch, he glanced back over his shoulder.
Confidence rapidly faded as the dog jumped onto the crate stack and used the momentum to fling himself to the top of the fence. His open muzzle lunged over, hind legs kicking against the chain link. It dawned on Spike this wasn't over.
"Shit!" He spun and scrambled, the worn soles of the shoes skidding on the slick pavement. He didn't dare look back as the heavy animal splashed down in the alley and abandoned his growls. The harsh pant of the chasing mongrel told Spike he hadn't shaken his tail. And if anything, he was loosing ground.
"Faster! Must go faster!" Spike gasped and pumped his legs harder as if his life depended on it, because it did. A stitch stung his side. "Not now!"
Skidding around the corner, Spike had to grab a wrought iron railing to keep his intended course. He swung around and up onto a ledge hoping that the dog wouldn't follow.
Of course the dog didn't get the message. As large as the mixed breed was, he leapt up onto the ledge and nimbly ran along it, only loosing a touch of speed.
Spike scowled as this trick didn't work. At the end of the ledge he took a leap and kicked off the wall, doubling back underneath.
The trouble was, four paws did that better than two legs. Spike's lead narrowed.
"What did I ever do to you … besides stabbing you for trying to eat me?" Dashing into an alley, Spike kicked a couple of trash cans in the way, using them to vault up and catch the top of a wood slat fence. One hand caught, the other slipped on the rain slicked wood. "Shit!" He kicked, the worn shoes failing to gain traction as he tried to scramble up and over.
Suddenly a weight clamped onto his right leg and yanked him down. Spike yelped and barely maintained his hold. His left foot scraped against the boards. The right could do nothing, he couldn't lift it. Staring down, he couldn't suppress the scream. The mongrel hung by its jaws, teeth buried into the muscle of his calf. All he felt was the pressure, thanks to the blessed balm of adrenaline.
Too heavy! His arms trembled, unable to take the pendulum weight of the dog thrashing in the air. Desperately, Spike kicked with his left foot, bashing the dog in the face. The first time only earned him a growl that vibrated into his bones. Spike kicked again, aiming for the dog's eyes.
He was rewarded with a yelp, and a sudden surge forward as the weight of the dog dropped into the alley. Scrambling, Spike threw himself over the fence and tumbled down, loosing his hold on the other side. He landed hard on his left side, the air rushed out of him.
The boards of the fence shook and rattled. The mongrel surged against it, claws battering between the cracks.
Spike eyed the barrier and panted. Relief that this time the dog couldn't follow. "Screw you, pal." Pushing up from the pavement Spike's wry laugh dashed into a yelp as he attempted to put weight on his right leg. It gave out. Startled, Spike glanced down. It was dark in the alley, but through the faint light cast through the slats he caught the ragged holes lining the back of the pant leg, a dark stain welled even as the steady rain competed to wash it away.
Spike's pulse thundered in his ears as he threw his head back and yelled, "Fuck!" Tugging up his pant leg he stared at the puncture wounds, at least four. Deep. Blood pooled and washed away in the rain. He didn't feel it—yet.
Reality struck him. This was going to hurt as soon as the adrenaline ebbed. Scavenging was over for tonight. If he didn't start back to the pool hall soon, he might not make it. Using the wall, he crawled up it and leaned for balance. Testing the limb he hoped it would take weight, at least enough to limp. It threatened to buckle, but he had no choice. If he stayed here that damn mongrel would eventually sort out how to reach him and finish him off. If not this one, others would catch the scent of blood and come. With great care, Spike hobbled along leaning on anything he could to keep him upright.
Nearly back to the pool hall, the pain lanced up his leg. Spike bit back an endless string of curses, head bowed in the rain. He could see the old rusted lamppost out front.
A dog barked.
Spike spun, put too much weight on his right leg, and crumpled to the ground. His eyes searched the darkness. At last a small cur dashed across the street with a bone gripped in its mouth. Spike shut his eyes and panted for a few breaths. "I. Hate. Dogs."
Gingerly he used a nearby bench to climb back to his feet, or foot. The right refused to support anything anymore. At a snails pace, he crawled the rest of the way, collapsing in the pool hall's stoop. Rain ran off the awning dripping onto his shoulder. Spike sat with his head bowed over his cocked left knee and tried not to move. The rain concealed his silent tears.
Hours passed. The rasp of the lock in the door drew Spike from his stupor. He slowly turned toward the shadow in the door frame.
Joe scowled. "Well if isn't the miserable wretch. You learn your lesson?"
Spike shivered, unable to meet the stern gaze. There'd be no point in telling Joe what happened. He'd have better luck negotiating with the damn dog then getting a shred of sympathy from that tight wade.
Joe stepped out onto the stoop. "Get inside, dry your carcass off. Lock the door behind you. I'm off to the pawn shop. We'll open up when I get back." His steps receded before Spike mustered the strength to try and stand.
He hissed the moment he engaged the injured calf. Lanced by the pain, he bit his tongue and grabbed onto the door, dragging himself up. A pool cue served to keep him from needing to crawl across the floor to his goal, behind the counter. Leaning against the shelves he rifled through the bottles until he found the vodka. Uncapping the bottle, he bared the injury and swallowed, his hand shook. Clenching his eyes tight he tipped the bottle.
The delay only made it worse. Throbbing pain surged to a fiery bone deep burn. Spike pounded the floor with his fist, but it failed to suppress the wail that tore from his throat. He lay back against the shelves gasping and trembling until the worst of it had subsided. Scrubbing the tears from his eyes, he capped the bottle and put it back. Wiping up the floor with a towel, faint pink … his blood diluted in a vodka wash. The rain had rinsed the blood from his jeans, leaving behind where the dog's teeth had punched through as the only evidence. And given how torn his jeans were, the evidence was easy to miss.
Leaning on the cue he limped back into the office and flopped down onto the couch. He had a few hours before Joe would return from the pawn broker, hopefully content with his score.
Spike stared down the cue. His vision blurred, the table seemed to shift. His left leg ached from holding his weight the whole day. He wobbled, the right instinctively catching him, but not able to. The stab of pain, and his attempt to catch his weight, shifted the cue.
As his hand caught the edge of the table, he heard the balls clack and his opponent cheered. Without a pause the man lined up a shot. Spike's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as the eight ball fell into the pocket right before his eyes.
"Fuck yeah! I finally beat the little prick! Too bad no one was here to see it." The man grabbed the ante from the table and sauntered out of the door leaving Spike clinging to the table edge.
Spike gripped the cue and limped over to the stools, flopping down on one of them he rested his head in the crook of his arm trying not to dwell on how empty his pockets were … and consequently the box in the wall. Every game a wash. Every. Single. One.
And he knew what that meant.
The office door opened. Joe ambled over to the hidden compartment and opened it. He stared.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Spike watched and braced himself. Why, he didn't know. There was nothing he could do. The man was twice his height, and easily five times his weight. Spike couldn't even stand on his own two feet.
Slowly, Joe turned, eyes seething. "What is this shit? You trying to pocket it again?"
Spike didn't even lift his head as he shook it. "No … nothing to pocket."
The fist tightened. "So, you spiteful little shit, you think I'm gonna let you just throw games at cost? That's my house money on the rail!"
"I didn't try to lose." Spike pushed up from the counter.
Joe reached over and grabbed his shirt, dragging him up. "Try or not, what do you think an empty box means for you, shithead?"
Spike grabbed his wrist, writhing in the grasp. Wide-eyed he blurted, "No! You can't, not tonight!"
Those words fell on a pavement heart as Joe stormed around the counter with Spike's threadbare shirt tangled in his fingers. "Fuck I can't. This is my place and you know the rules. You earn your keep or no roof!"
Spike clawed at his wrist, trying to break free as he was dragged across the floor. "You don't understand! I tried. I seriously tried." That door edged closer, Spike pounded on his arm. "Please! I can't outrun the dogs tonight! They'll kill me!"
Joe lowered him, in the process, Spike's injured calf connected painfully with his step.
Spike howled and jerked the leg away.
With a lopsided scowl, Joe dropped him and yanked the pant leg up examining the punctures. He loomed over the prone boy, shuddering on the floor, tears in the corners of his eyes. "Hah, so the dogs got you. Got you pretty damn good. Wiped that damned cocky smirk off your face."
Spike didn't dare to move. He just stared over his shoulder in frozen terror as Joe prodded his wounds.
"Thought you might be trying to pull one over. But these are real." With a sigh, Joe stood up. "You're lucky the broker took a shine to that jewelry you filched yesterday. Fine, you can stay."
He locked the front door and without another word disappeared into the office. Spike let a half hour pass before he limped across the floor to the bar and dared to pour a mug of beer, choking it down. It would be something to get him by. Not ideal, but leaving the relative safety of the hall would be suicide. Dogs smelled fear as good as blood.
Spike hobbled his way into the cramped office, peering around the door first. It was empty, the door left open at the back leading up to Joe's apartment. A place Spike had never dared to enter. A strange object caught his eye on the middle of the desk. Spike approached the glass vial filled with a purplish substance, a metal cylinder with a trigger lay next to it. Something from the pawn broker? Not that he would touch the damn thing. Joe was pissed enough. With a shrug, Spike dragged himself across the room and collapsed onto the couch, wrapping up in the blanket. Tomorrow just another fucking day.
Voices called from rather far away, saying his name repeatedly. "Spike, come on back kid."
"Is he ok? What the heck happened? Is he sick?"
A hand on his forehead, warm. "Don't think so. No fever. If anything I'd say he's a bit cold."
"Is it the lights or is he paler than normal?"
"Nope, not the lights. He's pale as a cue ball."
Spike cracked his eyes open, the room spun. Two of the regulars bent over him, worry on their grizzled faces. Who were they? It came to him in a haze. The closest one, the one who'd just spoken that was Doug. The one standing up, Roy. They always came together. But why was Spike on the floor?
Doug pressed a hand to his shoulder, "Easy kid, you alright? One minute you were lining up a shot, the next you just passed clean out."
Leaning up on an elbow Spike tried to nod, but it only made things worse. He ended up squinting.
"Ok, somethings wrong. And I should have known it the moment you missed an easy shot."
Missed? Shit, I must've been playing and what the hell is wrong with me … In a painful twist, Spike's gut voiced its opinion. Unable to resist, Spike doubled over practically writhing on the floor as his stomach growled.
Gripping his shoulder, Doug stared him in the eyes. "Spike, when's the last time you had anything to eat?"
Spike's gaze slipped away to the floor. Not something he wanted to admit. It'd been two full days since the damn dog. Two days of trying like hell to walk normal and failing with each grating step. The truth was it had been a good deal before that since he'd scored a meal.
"Hold on." Doug got up and thumped across the room. He rifled through his bag and came back holding out half a large sandwich on a thick bun. "I got called off my lunch today thanks to an impromptu meeting with the chief. Was gonna finish it when I had time, but you need it a lot more than me, kid."
It hovered there, like a tormenting illusion. Saliva poured into Spike's mouth. But he didn't reach for it, instead he stared out of the corner of his eyes. This never happened. And the one time it had, the cruel bastard holding it had lured him closer just to beat him up.
Doug remained steady, concern in his eyes. "It's ok, Spike. Take it."
Cautiously, Spike reached out. The damn thing was real. Bread, meat, cheese, and a few other things he didn't even taste as he devoured it, barely chewing before he swallowed.
Roy shook his head. "Shoulda known that tightwad Joe would do this. I'm tellin' ya it was the first thing that entered my mind when the kid showed up years ago. It's always what he can get out people."
Doug picked up his mug and finished the beer as he nodded to Roy. "You better now, Spike?"
Licking his fingers, Spike met his eyes and offered a solemn nod. "Don't tell Joe. He'll be pissed if he finds out … "
Ruffling his hair, Doug smiled. "Like you took a dive on purpose. No kid, you really went limp there. Scared us both." He narrowed his eyes at Spike and held out the empty mug. "Could use a refill, if you don't mind."
Spike shifted awkwardly to his feet and took the mug. The moment he took his first step he heard Doug's inhaled breath followed by, "Shit. Roy, you seeing what I am?"
"Is he limping?"
Spike's head lowered. He'd forgotten to try to hide it. Not that it mattered, it hurt too much from trying throughout the day.
"You think Joe did it?"
By the time Spike limped back with the refill both men had lost all sense of humor in their eyes. Doug placed a hand on Spike's shoulder. "Hey, you look tired, kid. Why don't you lie down, take a nap."
Spike took a shambling step back, his gaze shifted to the table with the half finished game. "But Joe's gone, I'm supposed to watch the place … and the game … what about the game?"
Doug smiled. "You won. And don't worry, we'll wake you up before Joe sees you sleeping on the job. Go on. I'm serious. You look beat." He pushed Spike over toward a couple of chairs.
Spike laid down, his eyelids creeping closed. But sleep didn't come right away. Their hushed voices penetrated the growing haze.
Roy heaved a sigh, "You know you're some detective. Shoulda known something was wrong when he wasn't his mouthy self."
The gravelly voice of Doug rumbled, close by, "You saying a beat cop is a better read? I knew something was up, just couldn't put a finger on it. And I'll tell yah, don't think Joe did it. Look."
"Fuck, one of the damn dogs. That ain't good. You know what that means. The kid's losing his edge."
"Hate to admit it, but he's about to became another statistic. Shame too. I liked him."
"Don't look at him like that, Doug. You know as well as I do how many of these kids end up shredded on the street every day whether it's from getting caught in the crossfire, hit by a car, taken by the elements, or eaten by the feral mutts. There ain't shit we can do. There's too many of them out there, we can't even save a fraction if we tried. I mean, it was a nice gesture, but you're only prolonging the inevitable."
"I know … maybe if I … "
"Two things. One, didn't you just tell me your landlord's kicking you out? And two, you think Joe is gonna let anyone take his sure bet away?"
"Look at our table and tell me that's a sure bet."
A loud sigh. "The kid's fate really is sealed. He's had a good run. Few of them live this long."
Their words formed a pit in Spike's chest, confirming what he'd already suspected. The odds of the game had violently shifted, and this time he didn't know what to do to shift them back.
Hours later, Doug's hand rocked Spike's shoulder. He jolted awake. "Come on, kid. Time to get up." They stood at the edge of the table and the moment Joe opened the door Doug tossed his cue down on the oddly set table. "Damn, you did it again. Well … that clears me out til next payday." He pushed the wad of woolongs into Spike's hand and whispered, "Hang in there, kid."
In the evening air a pigeon swooped down and landed on the edge of the rooftop. Much of the abandoned building crumbled away, old soot marks lined the bricks of the single story. Clearly the pigeon didn't notice as it bobbed its head, strutting along to peck at an object. The moment it darted down, the speck moved. It flapped its wings, bobbing forward in the slow chase.
Behind the rusted out air conditioning unit, Spike held his breath. In one hand he held his lighter, shining it through a glass bottle and shifting the resulting dot of light. In his right hand he held a small chunk of brick from the structure. Slowly, the bird bobbed and weaved its way closer. Until …
THUCK!
Spike whipped the projectile hard. The chunk struck the pigeon upside the head resulting in a small poof of feathers as it fell on its side. Spike thrust his fist in the air. "Bullseye!" Grabbing the 2x4 he'd make-shifted into a crutch a few days back when he'd abandoned his pride for the sake of mobility, he levered himself up and hobbled over to the bird giving the neck a swift crunching turn. "Sorry bout that, but you know, your kind really is tasty."
A short distance away, Spike eased himself down, leaning the crutch against the edge of the roof. He took out his pocketknife and started to scrape off the feathers, collecting them in the metal trash can lid he'd pulled up there earlier. The feathers joined a pile of dry wood, more sat next to him, waiting to be used. Once the bird was stripped of its plumage, Spike shoved a metal rod through the bird and propped it over the lid. Lighting the feathers, he watched as the fluffy kindling caught and blazed into the wood. Soon enough, flames licked under the bird's body.
He chuckled to himself, "Spike Spiegel, pigeon hunter."
Lying back, Spike elevated his throbbing leg on the crutch and idly turned the cooking pigeon so one side didn't burn. Using a crutch had helped, as much as he loathed how visible it made his condition. Attempting to hide that only resulted in more pain each time he took a jerking step to try and catch his unsteady weight. The crutch made walking smoother, each effort more stable, and left him less exhausted for his endeavors. The damn leg hurt as it was, there was no point in making it worse and extending the healing time, already lengthy enough. Spike knew the punctures would heal slow, and cripple him for some time. There was no avoiding that now. Besides, he could also use the wood to bash anything that threatened him. Dogs barked as they chased one another down the street. Spike smiled and didn't even bother getting up to look, confident they couldn't scramble up here to harass him. This meal was all his. After repeatedly adding enough bits of wood to the lid, the scent of fresh cooked meat filled the air.
Another benefit of the small birds, they didn't take long to roast. Confident it was cooked enough, Spike pulled the small carcass from the flames and chowed down. Sucking on the bones until every shred of greasy meat was gone. At least if it wasn't raining that trick still worked. The dumb birds seemed to never learn regardless of how many of their flock fell to the slung stones. Not like the crows! That never worked on the crows.
Lying on his back, Spike lit a cigarette and resettled with his leg propped up, staring at the stars. Bout damn time the sky cleared up. Wasn't so bad when it was dry out. Tiny dots twinkled in the darkness in a sight that was almost beautiful. He heaved a sigh, content to have eaten something not from a trash can … well, as long as cooking it in the lid didn't count. It didn't count to Spike. That had been fresh meat. Nothing beat the taste of fresh meat!
The squeal of car tires cut through the quiet night, it ended in a deep thud and a pained yelp, cut short.
Spike shot upright and came to the roof edge. Caught in the flickering streetlamp, a truck accelerated away from a body rimmed in a bloody splatter. The shadow cast outline drew Spike forward, leaning over the crumbling brick. A sizable dog lay in the middle of the road, his neck at an odd angle. In the mangy parted fur of the shoulder Spike noted the scar.
His hand strayed down to grip his right shin. "That'll be the last time you chased me, you son of a bitch."
Out of the shadows they came. In pairs and trios, dogs of all sizes ran towards the fallen mongrel and descended on the carcass. Ripping and tearing, their growls echoed in the alley. Spike watched as a larger dog grabbed onto the neck and tried to make off with the whole damn thing. Instantly a tug of war ensued in a cannibalistic fight. Spike couldn't blame them. After all fresh meat was rare regardless of the source. The number of dogs roaming the city exceeded what he could keep track of. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed an animal eating its own kind. It was, however, the first time he relished the destruction of a corpse.
"Serve's your mangy ass right!"
A gunshot interrupted the melee. In an instant the dogs abandoned the feast and dispersed into the alleys. From his vantage point, Spike ducked down and peered over the edge as a man ran for shelter into the ruined building below. On his tail, several men in long dark coats with a tasseled cord across each breast. Guns glinted in the streetlamp before they followed their prey.
As silently as he could, Spike crawled across the rooftop and peered into a hole. Down below, the cornered man stood with his back to the wall. "I didn't mean to! Please, if I had known it was Red Dragon stuff … the rat bastard didn't tell me anything! I didn't know! I know better than to cross you guys!"
One of the men in the tasseled coat took it off and handed it over to a companion. In his hands he held a container Spike recognized, just like the one on Joe's desk. The man laughed, a chilling sound as he stepped closer. "I think a smart ass like you needs a little demo of the merchandise. I mean, you wanted to deal, right?"
The man holding his jacket, pumped a fist in the air. "Show him, Wallace. Show him the power of the Red Dragons!"
Their victim fell onto his knees, sobbing. "God no! Don't! I swear I'll never touch your racket again!"
"Too late." Wallace held the canister in front of one eye and depressed the trigger, then a squirt into the other. His body stiffened, a sadistic smile twisted his face. The laughter that left him, inhuman as his eyes shot wide. "Go ahead, take your best shot, Neil!"
With a trembling hand, Neil pulled out a gun. "Let me go … I beg of you, just let me go!"
"Pull the trigger. Go on. I dare you!"
Neil swallowed, his finger shifted. The moment it did, Wallace whipped out his arm and batted the gun out of the way. It fired, the bullet slammed into the wall. With his other hand, Wallace gripped the gun and ripped it from Neil's hands. Faster than should have possible, Wallace anticipated Neil's pitiful strikes. He made it a game, practically punting the man repeatedly into the wall until his face resembled ground beef.
From his vantage point, Spike's pulse hammered. The crazed motions of Wallace driven on by the drug like nothing he'd ever seen before. Sure, he'd walked in on Joe partaking in some powdered shit more than once. But that left Joe a jittering mess, usually passed out on his desk for the remainder of the day. Whatever this shit was cranked up the reaction time. That much was obvious. Spike swallowed, what was Joe doing with it? What would Joe do on it?
Spike's imagination ran wild with the thought of that lumbering mountain of flesh able to move even faster. Possibly hit even harder. He cringed.
That thought occurred to him just as the crack of a skull splitting rent the air. Neil's limp body slid down the wall leaving a smear behind.
"Not enough!" Wallace howled and ran out of the building.
The two remaining Red Dragons leaned against the wall. "Great. This'll be fun to explain to the boss when we get back to Tharsis."
"Hey, it's a done deal. We tagged the targets. Who cares that Wallace went on a bender here? Shit, in this crater it's not like a few more holes in the wall make a difference."
"Right."
"We still get paid for the job."
Job? Spike glanced at the battered man. What kind of a job are they talking about?
"We made the point. Ain't no one mess with the Red Dragon's trade and lives to tell about it. Fuck, might even get a bonus if Wallace does enough damage."
"Think we should go get him?"
"Haha! You gonna try and stop him cranked up on that shit? Cause I'm not. I rather like breathing. Besides, it'll wear off soon enough. Then we can head back home and collect."
Spike watched as the men left, taking a bloody souvenir with them. He waited long enough to be certain he was alone before hobbling down the crumbling ruins on his make-shift crutch back toward the pool hall. Who were these Red Dragons?
Thunder pealed. Spike sat up in bed panting. The sheets soaked in cold sweat. He gripped the blanket tighter as his pulse refused to settle. His hand strayed to the roughly healed flesh of his calf. The scar had stretched over the near month he'd been here. Layers of muscle beneath more toned than it had ever been. It hadn't been his imagination, he had grown, evidenced by the way his old clothing fit now. Another image sprang into his mind … the Red Dragons … he shut his eyes and glimpsed a vague impression of himself, grown up, one of the men in that building. His fist primed to beat down a man on his knees before him.
A heady image tangled with fear and power, settled into purpose. There was a reason he was here. A reason Sensei trained him. He turned his hand in front of his eyes. The callouses of his old life still visible on the muscles building in this new one.
An opportunity, a path, … he took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the dread of mistake. The memories confirmed it. He would likely be dead if he'd remained in that crater. Even now.
Sensei's voice penetrated his spiraling thoughts. Quell the panic. Still the surface. Like water—only when it is still can one see what lies beneath. Don't let it swallow him whole. He lay back down, rested his hands on his chest and concentrated … meditated. His heartbeat settled even as the storm continued to batter the world outside. Spike willed himself numb in the darkness, to embrace this chance to survive.
See You Space Cowboy