When We Join Jesus in Hell Read online

  Bianca says in Karen and Bethany’s voices, You can’t let him make it to the exit.

  A razor blade keeps working its way deeper into his heart and he can barely breathe but he gets his feet moving, gun raised, as he ducks around the machine and runs forward almost feeling like he could blast right from the ground like a missile and destroy his enemy upon impact. But it’s not like that. Dreams are not reality.

  There is a door on the side wall, a fire exit perhaps, and a dark shape is making tracks for it like Hell is on his heels. He’s nearly there. Fist’s instinct is to pursue him, but he knows how out of shape he is now after nearly a decade of sitting in an office, a small paunch hiding the button of his pants, his cheeks fattened and pale, a cold sweat brandishing his skin with shame. He pauses, raises the pistol and takes aim.

  The clock ticks…

  He squeezes the trigger with hate and hope running rampant through him, and he feels like he should be able to see the bullet traveling, blazing through the gloomy depths, until it pierces Jesus’ back and sends him sprawling.

  But Jesus slides left as a bullet slams the door. He’s on his hands and knees and Fist is closing in on him without thinking, the pistol still up, ready to jam it beneath the kid’s chin and send him into oblivion.

  Jesus springs from his crouch, raises his hand and fire flares and fills Fist’s vision. Half his face is burning up. He clamps down on the panic, fights all the images flashing through his head, forcing them to slow down because he doesn’t want to reach the end of them and have to accept that there might not be any more after the next few seconds.

  He touches his face, runs his fingers softly over the hole in the top of his forehead. Jesus is grinning at him, visibly shaking as he rushes forward, the pistol he carries still raised and all Fist can do is stand there and wait for him. He can’t move a muscle.

  Bianca whispers a song in his ear and it fills his heart with sadness because she’s telling him that she loves him, that she’s thankful for all he’s done for her, that he’s made more of a difference than he ever realized by that one small act.

  Miniscule to you, she says. Incredible to me.

  He finds a little strength, though it’s barely enough to blink. It seemed that all the stories he’d ever heard were tragedies when you got right down to it because all good things run their cycle and end up nourishment for things yet to come.

  Jesus is up in his face. He knocks the pistol from Fist’s grip. Laughter builds all around them, and Fist turns his head, sees Karen and Bethany, both of them holding each other and waiting for a reunion Fist realizes he doesn’t want yet. Jesus’ breath stinks like old oil. He says, “You fucked up, boss.” He seems unharmed, the last of his tremors fading. He raises the pistol and presses it over Fist’s heart. Bianca slides down Fist’s shoulder and across the barrel and Jesus jumps, jerking the gun away, startled.

  Fist smiles for a second as his hand closes over the knife tucked into his waistband. He takes a quick step to close the distance, hoping his aim will be true because he doesn’t want anymore collateral damage.

  Bianca skitters across Jesus’ back. He’s freaking out, trying to rip his shirt off and Fist thinks it’s almost funny that a man could be so scared of a little lizard that has nothing left. His vision fades in and out, bright and white, then black, then bright again. He grabs Jesus’ wrist and the kid kicks out blindly. Fist absorbs the strike against his leg, absorbs what power he can from it. He squeezes harder, hoping he’ll be able to crush bone, and Jesus screams. Fist stabs the back of the boy’s neck, buries the small blade to the hilt. The jolt of impact nearly knocks him down, but he hangs on, rips the knife free, sees Bianca wink at him and crawl down Jesus’ leg, make tracks back toward the cart where Fist’s family waits for him.

  His head thrums with an ache so thick he can barely focus on anything but this one thing left to do.

  Jesus tries to turn the gun toward him but Fist slashes his fingers and the pistol clatters against concrete. He stabs the kid in the back, hoping he can pierce his lungs. He stabs again. Again. Each time he jerks the blade free a spray of blood jets out and Jesus’ is wheezing, falling to his knees. Fist jabs the blade into his ear and Jesus howls. He holds a bloody hand to his head. Fist says, “Forgive me.” He stabs the knife and pins the kid’s hand to the side of his head. Jesus tries to jerk it free with his left hand but his eyes water and his face contorts from the pain. Fist scoops him up under the arms and throws him toward one of the machines. A chain dangles there. He thinks, I can get it around his neck. I’ll beat him to death…

  He looks at his family.

  His wife says, Enough.

  His daughter cries because she’s never seen this side of him and it scares her.

  It scares him, too, but they’d never believe him because at this moment he enjoys it; just like he did in the ring with the random boxer who talked a big game and did shit outside the ring, trying to get under his skin and into his head, and they learned the hard way, and much too late, that it only fueled what Fist needed to win.

  Jesus lashes out with his left hand, still some fight in him, and Fist respects that in a way he can’t fully understand. He grabs the punk by the throat and bounces his head off a chunk of rusting steel. Jesus goes limp. Fist can barely stand, his vision all spotty and he knows he needs to end this before he bleeds to death, before the bullet that went into his skull ruins all his wiring. He looks at his family for strength again but they won’t meet his eyes. He scowls, hurt deeper than he’s ever hurt, and thinks, I am doing this for you, don’t you understand?

  His wife says, It doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t make you a better man.

  She was always scared of this side of him. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So gentle and so violent. So much like his father in so many ways.

  Fist blinks. Shakes his head. Bats roar by and the night closes in, wrapping everyone up in its arms. He believes this is right. This is what must be done. Even his father, who he knows doesn’t respect him, agrees that this is it. This is justice. Ugly and stark.

  He kicks the punk’s legs out from under him and wraps his hands around Jesus’ throat and squeezes as hard as he can. The kid squirms and bucks against him hard for a moment and Fist can feel the life going out of him even as it flees himself, and he watches his family and Bianca who studies him with those blind eyes and he realizes how much like her he’s been—how helpless, how much he’s needed direction and support, never quite as strong as anybody needed him to be, or as hard as he thought he was, and he cries and squeezes harder, holding on to the thing that taught him the hardest lesson he’s ever learned...to look inside. To appreciate the little things.

  The clock ticks…

  His wife is outside the cart, holding their daughters hand, her eyes brimming with tears. Her lips quiver. She holds one arm out to him but it takes all of the strength Fist has to let go of the corpse he’s holding and stand. Karen wipes a tear from his cheek and whispers, It’s okay. We’ve got forever.

  He stumbles into her and she holds him and holds their daughter and Bianca clings to his hand and he wants to get her out to the car and feed her because she has to be starving, but he collapses. The ceiling hovers way, way up there in the blackness, and he feels blood streaking from his forehead and back into his hair.

  Karen sobs and holds his hand.

  He whispers, “Don’t cry. We got this.”

  Bethany prays for him to be okay, then she prays they’ll all be okay.

  He says, “I love you. Don’t worry, Daddy’s okay.”

  Bianca’s tiny feet pitter-patter across concrete, until she climbs onto his chest and curls up over his heart.

  He rails against the blackness dragging him down, trying to hold on for just a few more seconds, but wind roars through the building and his body shudders, and he cries, “I’m sorry for...”

  About The Author

  Lee Thompson started selling fiction in early 2010. His novels include Nursery Rhymes
4 Dead Children (Delirium Books, 2011) and The Dampness of Mourning (DarkFuse, 2012). He also has several sexy novellas available and forthcoming from Delirium Books, Thunderstorm Books, and Sideshow Press. He’s not a productive writer of short fiction, but has sold to magazines he loves, like Shock Totem, Dark Discoveries, Darkside Digital and Literary Mayhem. You can visit his website but don’t be a stalker: leethompsonfiction.com

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  About The Author