Blood Brothers by Keith Latch Page B

Heck, he couldn’t fight off one—any one of them.
    Michael Cole was, unfortunately, as
ungraceful a flyer as he was a walker. But it was not the actual
flight that damned him. It was the landing. It is often said that a
successful landing is nothing more than a controlled landing.
Michael Cole didn’t know this, how could he? But it made little
difference; there was absolutely no control in his landing. He
braced himself and bent his knees, but as his left foot touched
ground, the shock ran up his leg and his knee gave out
completely.
    To say that Michael crashed would be like
saying the moon is nothing more than a pebble. His body landed in a
bad way. Though grounded, the hard earth did not stop him. The
momentum of his leap propelled him through several head-over-rear
flips. When he finally crashed for the last time and was left lying
on his back, a tree root broken through the dirt jabbed into his
kidney and the world fell silent as the sky spun above him. But
that silence was not to last.
    There were footfalls behind him now, and they
grew louder and louder with each passing second. And then, it was
all over but the crying, so to speak.
    A heavy weight dropped down on Mike’s chest,
pushing the air from his lungs, squeezing his stomach.
    “Hey, fucker!” Bobby said. He was a big guy,
true enough, but he was not a pretty sight to see. Besides missing
his front two teeth, Bobby Crews also had a severe freckle issue
and hair that looked like a farmer’s cow had gotten loose and
decided to feast on the wild red stuff instead of the salt lick,
for a while. And his breath…oh, that was bad, too. Smelling like
the asshole of a twenty-year-old German shepherd, his breath almost
gagged Mike. But since Bobby’s considerable weight made breathing
hard, there wasn’t actually a chance for that. “Where were you
heading off to? The party’s just getting started. Don’t want to
miss it, do you?”
    Bobby started hitting him. In the face, on
the chest, on the top of the head. The other boys, starting to feel
left out, wanted in on the action too. As Bobby straddled him and
hammered him with punches, the other three joined in with kicks. To
the ribs, to his thighs, down both arms, his hands, his
fingers.
    Time stopped. No, that wasn’t right. It
crawled. Slowly, seconds passed. Mike’s body never went numb. It
was too alive and still sensitive from the hell it had suffered at
his father’s hands. He felt every bash, bang, and clobber that
came. Felt it all too well.
    It was by the grace of God that the boys
finally tired of their little game. They left him there, but not
before Jerry worked up a bit of snot in his mouth by hocking a bit,
and spat it down on Mike’s cheek.
    Then they walked away. Their curses filled
the air until they were out of earshot.
    Michael Cole lay there for a very long time.
He couldn’t move. He was bleeding. He was crying. Every inch of his
body hurt, but especially his pride. He went through all this
because he dared to think a girl thought he was more than a piece
of shit to be kicked away like so much garbage.
    He would never make that mistake again.
     
     

Twelve
     
    Michael Cole awoke with a start. He blinked
several times at the strange surroundings he found himself in. It
took half a minute for him to realize he was in his motel room.
Blades of light filtered in through the window blinds and the room
was uncommonly cold.
    His mouth felt full of cotton and when he sat
up in the bed, sharp knife-like pains filled his head. He actually
touched his hand to his temple to make sure it hadn’t spilt.
    “Damn, must’ve been a good time. That’s all I
can say.” He finished sitting up and swung his legs to the floor.
He was weak as all get out, but he managed to stand. It was only
then that he remembered Trista. He looked back to the bed, but he’d
apparently been sleeping alone. He checked the bathroom, found
nothing. He looked over the surfaces of the tables and along the
bar, but