The Heart of Gaia, Part 9
by Phil Brucato
"Put the cat down or I’ll kick your ass."
Another fight. Mom’s gonna kill me for sure. But when Ryan heard the kitten screeching and saw what these Brit assholes were getting ready to do to it, well, what’s he supposed to do? Pretend nothing’s wrong, just walk away?
Uh, uh. Screw that.
Damn, I hate England, he thinks, scanning his opponents. Stupid bastards can’t even dress right.
Spice Boys, that’s what they are. Five tall, boney twits dressed more for flash than for comfort. One’s shaved bald, like some rivethead geek; another has longish hair and a longer horse-face; the third Brit is short, shaggy and cocky, like some manic hippie freak; the fourth… damn, he’s tall, and muscular in a lean killer way. The last dude looks like a mad scientist, bald like the first guy, short like the third, and staring at Ryan through expensive mirrorshades.
What a bunch of geeks!
But there are five of them, and one of him. And the tall guy looks pretty strong.
I am gonna get pounded, he thinks. But what else could he do?
It’s dark in the alley — too dark for anyone with a sense of self-preservation. It’s a blind alley, too. Tall Dude Spice has the kitten by the scruff of the neck. Hippie Spice’s got a firecracker and a lighter out. They must have cornered the cat after offering it a little food. There — Ryan spots the foil bag of cat treats near a trash can. Man, he thinks, they actually went out of their way to do this! Sick bastards.
"Oi," says Mirrorshades, "get a loada this little toffer."
Hippie lets out a high-pitched giggle, lights the ‘cracker. "You lost, little boy?"
"Little Yank," Horse-face corrects. "Lookit him. A regular Bruce Willis."
Ryan lowers his shoulders, steps in. The alley sharpens, its sights and scents jumping into vivid focus. It’s the adrenaline, the rush you get just before someone beats your ass. "I said put the goddamn cat down, you Limey turds." He hopes he sounds more ferocious than he feels.
Tall Boy tsks, tightens his grip. The kitten spits, claws the air, shoots a stream of piss all over Hippie Spice. "SHIT!" he screams, dropping the firecracker. "Little bugger just pissed on me!" Startled, the tall dude lets go. The cat leaps, claws out, twists in the air, lands, runs off. The Spice Boys are too busy laughing to care. Hippie Spice cusses like Ice Cube on crack. "It ain’t funny," he shrieks, red-faced. "It ain’t funny!"
"Oi, shut up, Malk," says Mirrorshades. "Let’s stuff it up his arse instead."
As they jump him, Ryan smells ashes and a cold winter wind. In his mind, Rob Zombie kicks into "Superbeast." As a war-song, it’ll work.
In books and movies, the hero fights with power and precision. A series of cool moves drops his enemies like bowling pins. When he’s hit, he grimaces, clenches his teeth, and kicks ass even harder. The outcome may be bloody, but it’s never in doubt. As Ryan knows from too much experience, a real fight’s nothing like that. Instead of dramatic dialogue and telegraphed swings, the whole world narrows to a blur of sensations:
…punches too slow and weak to matter… …burning chest, ripping breath… …sharp blows striking flashes of light… …dazzle-blasts swimming through your vision… …mangled cusswords, half-articulate… …arms behind you, grabbing, holding… …grips too firm, hands too heavy… …hammers crashing again and again into your stomach… …rising sickness, burning eyes… …rockets of pain set off in your balls… …sudden flight, falling bodies, thuds, curses—
The impressions blast into hi-rez. Center on one guy’s neck and the spongy give of flesh. The abrasion of razor stubble and the bright tang of blood. It tastes good.
"Holy shit," somebody yells. "The bloody Yank’s gone psycho!"
But psycho isn’t quite the right word. Ryan’s on a rush of sharp sensations that rise up out of a fog and scream through his eyes and nose and ears. It’s not like other fights — the pain is similar, sure, and the feel of meat beneath his fists is plain enough. But this time there’s a surge in his guts that has nothing to do with stupid drink commercials. He snarls as his teeth rip into Hippie Spice’s throat, and for the first time in years, he feels alive.
Strong. Whole. Powerful.
Cool!
Tall Dude and Mirrorshades snag his arms and tear him off their buddy. Body-slam him into a brick wall and pound him with hard fists. He grabs Tall Dude’s hand — far bigger than his own — and twists it suddenly back.
The snapping wrist is muffled by the Tall Dude’s scream.
Hippie Spice scrambles to his feet, holding his bloody throat. "Screw the little freak, let’s go!" Even five feet away, Ryan can smell the cat-piss. Bet you’ll have a hard time getting that outta your pants! he thinks, smiling. Mirrorshades busts Ryan’s grin with a punch that smacks him back against the bricks. Blackout.
Blood in his mouth.
Wonderful.
One last kick in the ribs. A black spiral of pain.
Then running feet and pained obscenities.
After a while, Ryan opens his eyes. A little longer, and he can stand.
oh, shit, does that hurt!
Another shirt ruined. Another couple of days of bruises, cuts and achey limbs. Still, he’s been healing quicker, lately. Maybe this won’t be too bad. At least the cat got away.
As he leans against the wall and checks his teeth with his tongue (all there, all solid. good), Ryan feels a sizzling rush. His head goes light and giddy, and he actually laughs. That wasn’t as bad as he expected. Rob Zombie’s still singing inside his head, and the worst of the pain is settling down to dull rumbles.
That was actually kinda fun…!
Then he catches the smell, riding foul over the stench of trash cans and blood: A weird, creepy smell he noticed long ago…
…the night Dad left.
Ryan’s high spirits fade. The hair on the back of his neck literally bristles, and the fuzz across his arms rises into goosebumps. What the hell is that? he wonders. Self-consciously, he sniffs the air again. The scent is there, but drifting away.
I’d better get outta here. Something’s wrong.
As he limps back home, a dozen small wounds heal. By the time he gets to Kensington Market, he can walk upright again. Far off, he swears he can hear the howl of a wolf. Hey, he thinks, tonight, anything is possible….
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