Disorder Ch. 07

The blow struck him across the face and he fell from the chair still laughing, his assailant swearing and leaving, shaking his fist as if even that measly blow had hurt him. But he was gone and out of the room as John still shook with laughter, hair falling into his face as the meathead -- was it Keith? What a name! -- hefted him with a grunt of effort, his little, piggy eyes standing out in a face that looked really far too large for them, lost in folds of flesh that betrayed his age.

It was all a farce. They weren't real -- not really a threat. And maybe things could have been different if it was not Donnie that was involved, John shoved back into the chair as a suitcase was opened, revealing a selection of knives. He could have snickered yet again at just how everything was planned and played out, every last little thing designed to intimidate him when he was far too far gone to even consider the act of intimidation in itself, the light glinting off the shine of the steel?

His doom stood, the knife flashing. Their eyes locked and John pulled back, his jaw set. It could not be so easy. And yet the man smirked, his lips pressed together so tightly that it took a discerning eye to catch it in the lick of saliva teasing between his lips, practically salivating for John's blood like a fucking wild beast before a fresh kill.

Yet that particular beast had a wolf to face up to.

In the moment that he stood over him, taunting the blade, John lashed out, making his move in the blink of an eye with the speed of a striking serpent. His bound legs came up directly into the man's groin and he grunted, lunging even as he fell. A male's anatomy was a crude blow to go for but there were no rules to play by on the edge of death, wavering back and forth as the final curtain threatened to fall, and John was up and teetering for balance in but a moment, fighting to control his body when his limbs were locked down and useless. But not for long as he got his arms around the creature's neck -- if he was to survive, he couldn't serve to see him as a man, not at the moment when anger faded to shockingly sickening clarity -- the ropes, strangely, helping him.

If he'd shouted, perhaps he would have lived. Perhaps Jaunt's brother, for that was the only person that his crony could have been, a jumped up impressionist of one who was intrinsically flawed and doomed to fail to begin with, would have heard him and come running. But, like Jaunt had all that time ago, those years ago, he'd already been cast aside and treated as a failure, someone not worth the matter of the ground that they walked on. Like his brother, this one too had underestimated him and his sidekick, while meaty and muscled, was no better. He didn't want to admit to anyone that he'd allowed John to fell him and so all he did was struggle as John squeezed on his neck and throat, bearing down and down and down with the heels of his hands bearing up under his chin until, with a great physical effort, he threw his body to the side, a sickening crack slicing through the air.

The man went limp, only one of them left breathing. John shook his head, flicking sweat from his eyes, and cursed under his breath, although he had no time in which to recover himself. Arms up, he wriggled free from beneath the crushing weight of the man, intent only on his next action. The knives were the obvious thing to grab hold of and he made quick work of pinning one down with the handle between his heels to saw through the ropes. And, once he had his feet free, new sneakers and all that he could have even used the laces from to rake through the ropes, having prepared. Donnie would have been proud of him for doing that, even if he would have scoffed first at John actually doing something sensible. And Donnie was just why John had to do what he was doing.

He left the body, freeing his wrists with the knives -- convenient, he had to say. One clasped in his hand, a tool of death to make a statement. His heart pounded, mouth dry, the lust for life flowing through his veins. He didn't want to die, every last particle of his being clinging to life as if to an anchor in a storm, bobbing and swaying on a tumultuous sea that could hurl him down and down into the sordid depths at any moment. The only way to keep going was, simply, to keep swimming.

The wooden hut with bare floorboards, undoubtedly, offered little solace and the door creaked open, the nightmare advancing, squelching through muck and mud, brown, dead leaves underfoot but sinking down into the filth without any note of noise. The knife glinted, a droplet of water running down to the tip, pointed to the floor as if he knew that there was nothing more to fear, his place secure, despite the aches and pains of his strained and beaten body. But now that nightmare was John and he grinned like a madman, hair roughed-up and harried, as Jaunt's brother spun to face him, eyes wide. He hadn't gone far then, simply not wanting to be the one to do the dirty deed itself: what a weakling.

"Surprise."

A whispered threat and one that was followed through in the lunge and flash of a knife, John barely pausing to take note of the woodland around him, flat, broad leaves heavy with moisture as if from recent rain. There was no time for his target to flee and it was almost disappointing just how quickly the battle was won, a fight without any glory as John cut and stabbed, ripping into the man over and over again, nothing more than a hunk of useless flesh, the light dying from his eyes. Only one of his hands boasted a cut where he'd tried to get it up in time to protect himself, expecting, of course, that nothing unexpected would happen. And that was just where the fault in that family resided, the stars misaligned for the destiny that was never theirs to take from the beginning.

If they'd been careful, they may have managed to escape. They may have lived for longer. It was not a shame that they did not.

John laughed harshly and brokenly, true mirth ringing through as he wiped the blood off his hands onto the brother's jacket. Still, he did not know his name, adrenaline slinking down cautiously as if his body still was not quite sure whether or not it could relax, release the tension it was holding for the raw and simple act of survival.

It was done. He could walk away. Sure, there would be questions about the bodies left in the woods but he could leave those for someone else to deal with. Not everything, after all, had to be his problem and he turned on the spot, arms outstretched, rain pattering down on his face through the thick, green canopy of leaves above.

Off scot-free... John threw his head back and laughed louder and louder, lips parting to allow sweet moisture into his mouth, cooling what had heated. There was blood there too and he spat it out with disgust, making a face and shaking his head. His hair should have been held away from his face but it clung to his cheek, damp and sticky with something that should have taken his due attention immediately but didn't warrant it as he exulted in freedom. He could see Donnie again soon -- and Charles too. Although they didn't have to know what he'd done for them, that one could be his little secret to take right along with him to the grave.

And then pain. Clear, sharp, enlightening pain. For a moment, John didn't know what happened, trying to turn and finding something holding him in place, although there were no hands on him or anything. How strange was that? He blinked through the fog, something shifting in his back, and widened up eyes minutely, the dull, hollow laugh of someone that he knew all too well to his back calling him to the harsh reality of the situation.

There had never been any true escape at all.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging into flesh that, soon, would be no more, and Jaunt's bared teeth filled his vision, a savage grin like no other that he had ever seen before or would ever again have the good grace to see.

Again, the knife sank in from the front this time, Jaunt's face haunted and hollow, cheeks sunken in. John could not have begun to imagine the horrors he'd been through since they'd last been face to face but it was not the matter of the moment as the blade cut through flesh, Jaunt's coat pulling back enough to show a gun hidden beneath: just a pistol. It wasn't even all that much but John gasped and held the image of it in his mind. Where was his knife? It had been in his hand but he now had his fingers wrapped weakly around Jaunt's wrist, striving to get that blade back out of his guts. By all rights, he should have already toppled to the floor but his grasp on life was too stubborn to give up so easily even as blood soaked through his clothes, leaving him in a spill that could never again be regained.

"Never...send...a...boy!"

Jaunt hissed, shoving his face into John's as his eyes bulged, mouth open and closing soundlessly. The man who had plagued nightmares and brought half the city to ruin -- that was before John himself had been more or less responsible for the other half -- smirked, a gleam of drool on his lower lip. He was as deranged as he'd ever been but a droplet of water splattered down onto his forehead, trickling over his eyebrow, as the rain began to fall, an unseen breeze rustling through the trees.

John twisted, ignoring the pulse of pain in his gut, nausea-inducing at best and the worst... Well, the worst was something that one could not consider as pain ripped through him, clawing and grinding away at his false victory. He closed his eyes, blinking away moisture, the strain of holding on to his tentative thread of life as blood spilt out, hot and heavy, wearing away at him, bit by bit, more rapidly than he ever would have honestly have cared to admit for himself. He thought himself stronger than that. He was wrong.

Fool...

"You'll pay..."

But John was already paying and the world around him, even his own body, seemed to move in slow-motion as he lunged, letting the blade drive in deeper, reaching for the gun concealed under Jaunt's coat. His fingers could not grab it but it was enough for Jaunt to curse and reel away, putting the distance there that John needed, his strength gone but enough adrenaline pumping through his veins to drive him to the throbbing, pulsing crescendo, the climax of the grand event itself.

It was show time.

The knife turned, breath raking and cries muffled, broken on eardrums drowned out by the pulse of a heart destined to stop -- but which one? The knife flew out of Jaunt's grip as he cursed and scuffled for it, striving to kick John away at the same time as he lunged, two bodies crashing down into the mud in a splatter of muck. They wrestled, elbows digging in and limbs flying, but no curses passed by the lips destined for breath and breath alone: for as long as it would be theirs.

And then John's arms were around Jaunt, blood soaking into his assailant's shirt, wrenching and grasping, the safety released and John squeezing the trigger without even knowing if it was loaded. He didn't even aim, head spinning and vision greying out, but the bang and slam of the bullet into the meat before him could not be denied.

One.

Jaunt's hand flew up, a hot line of pain erupting across John's neck. His resolve hardened. Blood thudded between his ears, pounding, driving, forcing him on.

Two.

Jaunt went limp, head lolling back, his mouth a gaping cavern of death.

Three.

Three bullets, although more lives than bullets had been taken by the man. There was no light in his eyes and he died swiftly, which was a better end than he deserved, John staggering away with little in his mind.

Donnie. Where was Donnie?

Blood poured from his throat as he slumped to the ground, slipping down an incline into a ditch, which may as well have been dug out especially for him. It was as good as any grave as the rain fell, washing life-blood into the soil as his blood left him in a rush, seeking sustenance elsewhere, although its semblance of life too was gone and dead.

No one had survived.

But he had not gone out alone, not gone down without a fight and, sometimes, with a life as ragged as John's had been, that was all a man could hope for. There was nothing to flash before his eyes as they slowly closed but his family, throat tight and pain a throbbing force that seared through his entire body. With so much pain thrumming through, there should not have been room for any other emotion at all but his chest swelled, knowing that, at least, he had taken out the only one who could really have sought to bring down Donnie, even if Charles was, more or less, a passing fancy for the powers that were.

He'd done something that would never be spoken of. It was fine, just fine, even if some twisted part of him still thought that he deserved some sort of accolade or award for sacrificing himself -- weren't people heralded as heroes for that kind of thing? Ah, but he was no true hero, just a sinner dying in the dirt in a sinner's garb, not even having the strength left in him to lift his head or twitch a single muscle. Mud filled his mouth and he welcomed it in, the heaviness in his limbs towing him down and down and down into the depths of the earth. There was no ocean to swallow him up as the rain pattered down, a soft melody to a man's final moments and, perhaps, the best that he could hope for.

The weight of the onyx pendant weighed heavy on his neck, metal marked with the blood of both his enemies and himself. It was superstition to think that it would help him any but the presence of it, in some strangely twisted fashion, was comforting merely for the fact that it was there, a futile and feeble connection to a life once lived.

The city would live. Donnie, above everyone else, would live, taking their empire forward. Not that he'd ever wanted for anything, he never would want for anything ever again, not even if he sat back and merely lorded it on his fortune.

Tired. So very tired. Best to sleep. Best to let it all go.

His eyes closed on the world.

Maybe Donnie will forgive me.

And then John knew no more.