The Law of Retaliation Page 7

  As Ryan turned towards Caden's door, the lock and the knob turned. The door opened and Caden gripped the doorway with his right hand. He hit the door with his shoulder, ready to barge into the room.

  At the same time, Ryan bolted forward and tackled the door, tossing his entire body weight against the entrance. Caden bellowed in pain as the door crushed his wrist. His hand was caught between the door and the door frame.

  Caden cried, “My fucking wrist! He broke my wrist! Help me, damn it! Help!”

  Owen and Nathaniel pushed the door, but to no avail. Ryan firmly planted his boots on the bathroom's linoleum tiles as he leaned on the door.

  Ryan opened the scissors, then he held the blades over Caden's index finger. He quickly closed the scissors, causing the sharp blades to slice into Caden's finger at the knuckle. While placing more pressure on the handles, he moved the scissors back-and-forth over the finger—slicing deeper and deeper with each thrust.

  Shocked by the pain, Caden hopped in place and violently trembled. He hissed and groaned as he hopelessly tried to pull his hand out of the doorway.

  Owen shook his son's shoulders and shouted, “Calm down! We're–”

  “He's cutting my finger!” Caden yelled, rosy-cheeked.

  Surprised by the revelation, Owen glanced over at Nathaniel and said, “You pull, I'll push.”

  Nathaniel wrapped his arms around Caden's waist, then he pulled back with all of his might. Owen tossed his body at the door, using himself as a makeshift battering ram. Yet, the racists couldn't free Caden from the door.

  In the bathroom, Ryan continued to saw into Caden's finger. Blood spewed from his wound, dripping across his hand and smearing the blue wall. The blades were painted red with blood. He didn't expect a finger—such a small part of the human body—to hold so much blood. He could see white inside of the deep gash, too. Fat? Flesh? Bone?–he thought.

  He figured he cut deep enough. He scraped the bone with the blades. He gritted his teeth and placed as much pressure on the handles as physically possible, exerting all of his energy. Crunching and popping sounds emerged, echoing with Caden's shrieks. A wet cracking sound followed and Caden's index finger was severed. The finger plummeted to the floor.

  Caden gasped and staggered, shocked. An insufferable wave of pain surged through his entire arm. He couldn't feel his finger, though. It was gone and he couldn't believe it.

  Tears streaming down his cheek, Caden cried, “He... He cut it off! He... He... Shit, get me out of here! Hurry!”

  Ryan was equally shocked. He watched in horror as blood spurted from Caden's knuckle, spewing like lava from an erupting volcano. He shook his head as he snapped out of his contemplation. He closed the scissors, then he thrust the tip of the blades into the neo-Nazi's wrist. He tried to twist the blade, hoping to sever a major artery.

  Before he could widen the cut, Caden's mutilated hand slipped out of the doorway and the door slammed shut. Ryan locked the door, then he fell to the floor. He stared up at the bloodied wall, then he stared down at the severed finger.

  He whispered, “Holy shit...”

  Caden teetered left-and-right in the bedroom, holding his mutilated hand up to his face. He felt woozy due to the loss of blood and sheer shock. He mumbled incoherently, struggling to form a single word. Saliva overflowing in his mouth, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  Owen grabbed his wrist and said, “Stop moving. Let me see.”

  He stared at his son's hand, awed. His family was supposed to be untouchable—above the law and impervious to human weapons. Yet, his son stood before him without a finger, sniveling like a child who fell down in a playground.

  Owen pushed Caden to the bed, then he marched to the bathroom door. He banged on the door and shouted, “I'm going to cut your fucking hands off, boy! Do you hear me?! I'm going to rip you to pieces and feed you to the hogs!”

  As Owen barked at the door like a dog eager to run free, Vincent rushed to Caden's side. He pulled the bed sheets off of the mattress, then he gently shoved Caden onto the bed. He ripped the sheets, then he wrapped the fabric around his friend's mangled hand—a makeshift bandage. Blood immediately soaked the white sheets.

  Exhausted and drenched in sweat, Caden leaned on the headboard and shouted, “Ryan! Ryan, you sneaky bastard... I'm going to get you for this, bitch! I'm going to–to... to re-attach my trigger finger, then I'm going to finger-fuck your wife's asshole. I'm going to make her taste it, too! She can taste last night's tacos, you fucking traitor!”

  In the bathroom, Ryan grabbed the finger and said, “You'll never hurt anyone with this finger again. I'm flushing it.”

  “Wha–What? Wait, don't–”

  Ryan threw the severed finger into the toilet—plop—then he pushed down on the lever. The finger circled the bowl, swimming in the bloody water until it was swallowed by the pipe. The neo-Nazis stared at each other, astonished. They shared a moment of silence for Caden's lost finger.

  Before another word could be uttered, the doors rattled and screaming erupted in the bedrooms. The men shouted over each other, creating a symphony of indecipherable ruckus—violent threats, curse words, racial slurs. Fortunately for him, the doors appeared to be expensive and reinforced. They would need a battering ram to break them down. He was safe, but he still felt disoriented.

  Ryan stood towards the center of the bathroom, overwhelmed by the noise. The voices overlapped each other, so he couldn't recognize a single word. He sat at the edge of the bathtub, exhausted and horrified. As he stared at the toilet, the screaming and the banging dwindled. The noise became muffled.

  “Daddy, where do the little fishies go when they die?” a feminine voice asked, echoing from the back of Ryan's head.

  Ryan sniffled and snorted upon hearing the voice. He held his hand over his mouth as mucus dripped from his nostrils and saliva poured over his bottom lip. Yet again, he recognized the voice in his head—Lucia's voice. He could see himself standing with Lucia next to the toilet, flushing her childhood fish down the drain.

  Lucia said, “I don't know if they really go to heaven. If they do, does that mean our poop goes to heaven, too?”

  Ryan chuckled and cried as he reminisced about the past. He remembered Lucia's innocent questions in the bathroom. He didn't know what to tell her, so he lied. He told her the toilet would take her fish straight to heaven. He was baffled by the sudden memories since they only emerged after acts of violence, but he welcomed them with open arms.

  As the doors rattled and the men screamed, Ryan blankly stared at the toilet. Another memory, he thought, let me remember something else, sweetheart.

  Chapter Ten

  An Eye For An Eye...

  While Ryan fought in the bedroom, Alexa crept around the house with her shoulders and heels raised. Panicked breaths escaped her plump lips as she glanced up at the second-floor windows. She could hear the screaming and arguing inside of the house. She could only think about her husband's well-being.

  She hugged the wall on the side of the house and crouched under the windows. Since she didn't hear Natalie's voice in the bedroom, she figured the housewife was still wandering the first floor. She couldn't afford to be spotted by her. She crept towards the front of the home, hoping to gain an advantage against the neo-Nazis. She stopped before she could reach the garage, though.

  The sound of a purring engine emerged. Headlights illuminated the house as a car cruised down the driveway—the reinforcements were barely arriving.

  Alexa muttered, “Shit, shit, shit...”

  As she heard the sound of doors opening and closing, Alexa crouched and retraced her steps. She returned to the back of the house. Again, she glanced up at the second-story windows. The shouting grew louder and angrier. The situation in Caden's room escalated as she walked around the house. A sense of uselessness sank in.

  Her hand on her brow, she whispered, “I have to do something. I have to help him.”

  Alexa walked onto the patio deck and glanced around.
She ignored the sealed hot tub and the expensive grill. The family's affluence no longer impressed her. To be impressed by a neo-Nazi would be like being impressed by Hitler himself. Her eyes stopped on the back door. She tapped her pockets and frowned. To her dismay, she forgot the lock-pick set in the duffel bag.

  She rushed across the patio, briskly walking with wide lunges. The floorboards creaked under her weight, but the noise wasn't as loud as the commotion upstairs. She stared at the doorknob, anxious. If it was locked, her plan to help Ryan would be derailed. She took a deep breath, then she turned the knob.

  It was open—it was actually open. The racists forgot to lock it.

  Alexa smiled as she opened the door and slinked her way into the house. She closed the door behind her, then she looked around. The dining room and the den were still empty. She stepped forward, moving with silence. As she crept down the hall, she glanced up at the ceiling and winced. She could hear the thudding footsteps and faint screaming upstairs. Be careful, Ryan, she thought, please, don't let them hurt you.

  She sniffled, burdened by guilt and shame. While her husband fought off a horde of neo-Nazis upstairs, she crept around the house. She felt like a coward, but she planned on proving herself. She was dedicated to killing Caden and anyone who got in her way.

  Alexa stopped at the end of the hall. She peeked into the living room—the coast was clear. The fireplace was still burning, creating an orchestra of crackling and popping. The crepitating fireplace created enough noise to mask her footsteps. She leaned around the corner and peeked into the kitchen. She couldn't help but sneer in disgust.

  Natalie stood near the stove with her back to the intruder, preparing to bake cookies for her racist boys. She casually used an ice cream scoop to scoop out several ball-shaped chunks of dough. She even hummed and swung her hips, as if the argument upstairs were a catchy song. Even when she recognized Caden's screaming, she kept sashaying and baking.

  Alexa was appalled by her nonchalant demeanor. The woman just witnessed her husband's torture, but she didn't seem bothered by it. She knew about her husband's violent plans to retaliate, but she wasn't perturbed. She stayed in the kitchen and baked cookies, following her husband's demands like an obedient dog.

  Alexa entered the kitchen. She clenched her fists and glared at the racist housewife, infuriated. She stared down at the woman's baby bump. Her pregnancy only served to upset her. You don't deserve to bring another child to this evil world, she thought, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a baby for a baby.

  She pulled the switchblade out of her pocket. With the press of a button, the blade snapped out of the handle. She took a step forward—thud.

  Natalie stopped scooping as soon as she heard the first footstep. She placed the ice cream scoop on the stove and turned around. She stared at the intruder with a deadpan expression, blank and steady. Despite the noise upstairs, shrieks of fear and bellows of anger, she wasn't afraid. In the face of danger, she cracked a smile and scoffed.

  The pregnant woman turned her back to the intruder. She giggled and shook her head, unfazed by Alexa's presence. She continued scooping the dough, refusing to show fear around Alexa.

  Alexa was flabbergasted by the confrontation. She stood in the kitchen with a knife in her hand. She threatened Natalie with her mere presence. Yet, Natalie didn't fight or call for help. An eerie sense of tranquility and silence reigned supreme in the first floor.

  As she moved the baking sheet onto the stove, Natalie said, “You're a sneaky one, aren't you? I know the boys didn't hear you or they would have been down here whoopin' your ass. You're sneaky, just like those dirty little bastards who sneak across our border every fuckin' day. You know them, don't you? They're probably your brothers, your sisters, your cousins... You come over to our land and try to implement a cultural invasion. You and that damn Mexican government. We're on to you, though. This is a new America, darling. We ain't taking–“

  “Shut up,” Alexa interrupted. Natalie turned and stared at the intruder with a furrowed brow. Alexa said, “I don't give a fuck about any of that. I don't care about your racist conspiracies or your ideals. You could be resurrecting Hitler in your basement and I wouldn't give a shit. I just want your son. I want to hurt him. If that means I have to hurt you, then so be it.”

  “So be it?” Natalie repeated in an uncertain tone. She turned her back to Alexa and said, “Listen, we have nothing against you. We just think you should stay in your own country and stop ruining ours. Okay? What my boys are doing now... You brought that on yourself. Your skin color has nothing to do with it... this time. Like my husband always says, Lex Talionis...”

  As Natalie babbled, Alexa held the knife over her head and rushed forward. She pushed Natalie over the counter, then she stabbed her right shoulder. Natalie gasped as she staggered and flailed her arms every which way. Alexa pulled the knife out, then she stabbed her again in the same shoulder. Without any hesitation, she pulled the blade out, then she stabbed her a third time.

  Natalie's lungs were vacuumed due to the excruciating pain. She wheezed and croaked, struggling to gather enough air to scream. Her cheeks flushed, red like cherries. Thick veins bulged on her forehead and neck. Blood soaked her robe and her nightgown. She felt the blood cascading across her back, too.

  Before Alexa could stab her again, Natalie swung her arm back and struck the intruder with an elbow to the face. As Alexa staggered, dazed by the blow, Natalie swung the baking sheet with all of her might. Clank—the thin metal tray collided with the intruder's head, but it didn't hurt her.

  So, Natalie stepped back and tossed the baking sheet at her. Alexa blocked the tray with her arm, then she thrust the knife at Natalie's stomach. The tip of the blade nicked her robe. Alexa and Natalie took another four steps away from each other, equally shocked by the attack.

  Natalie scowled and said, “I should have expected that from you. You disgusting cunt! It's just like you and your kind to try to kill my unborn baby... You're going to pay for that. Oh, you're going to pay.”

  Alexa could see the fury burning in Natalie's eyes. The attempt to murder her unborn baby awakened the monster inside of her. She stared down at the pocket knife. The blade was effective, but the range was short.

  Alexa grabbed a steel toaster from the counter. She held it over her head, then she threw the appliance at Natalie. The toaster hit her injured shoulder, causing the pregnant woman to hiss and stagger in pain.

  As she circled the kitchen island, trying to avoid Natalie's wrath, Alexa searched for another weapon. A wooden knife block caught her eye. The range was still too short, so she planned on using them as throwing knives. She pulled a knife out of the block, then she threw it at the neo-Nazi. To her dismay, she missed by a meter.

  She repeated the process with the seven remaining knives in the block—she pulled a knife out, blindly threw it, then she started again. Of the eight knives she threw, one blade sliced Natalie's cheek, one cut her palm, and the others flew over her body or failed to penetrate her skin.

  As Alexa searched for another weapon, Natalie grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack above the kitchen island. She hurled the frying pan at the intruder.

  Alexa teetered left-and-right as the skillet struck the side of her head. Her vision darkened for a second. When it returned, she could only see a blur. Her ears rang, too. She leaned on the counter as she indistinctly mumbled and groaned. She saw triple, then double. Her eyes widened as Natalie sprinted towards her.

  Natalie tackled Alexa, but the pair didn't fall to the floor. Alexa grabbed Natalie's shoulders and pushed back. They grappled across the kitchen, bumping from counter-to-counter as they wrestled for an advantage. They slipped into the hallway, then they tumbled to the floor in the living room.

  The pregnant woman mounted Alexa's waist and shouted, “You should have stayed in your own damn country, bitch!”

  Natalie wrapped her hands around Alexa's neck and choked her, digging her thumbs into her throat. Alexa, stil
l dazed by the skillet to the head, hopelessly flailed her limbs and convulsed. She lacked the strength necessary to knock her off her balance, though. She tried to scratch her wrists and forearms, but to no avail.

  So, Alexa jabbed her middle and index fingers at the woman's eyes. Her index finger penetrated Natalie's left eye, causing her eyeball to hemorrhage. Natalie cried and muttered as she staggered to her feet. She rubbed her eyes and teetered around the living room.

  Alexa rubbed her throat and coughed as she struggled to catch her breath. The room spun around her. Her vision was still blurred. She was seeing double of everything. The screaming upstairs and the muttering in the living room were muffled, too. Although her senses were distorted, she knew the fight wasn't over.

  She crawled to the duffel bag in the room. A weapon, she thought, I need a weapon. Due to her blurred vision, she couldn't see much in the bag. However, she could see the large tool on the floor—the sledgehammer. She grunted as she lifted the tool from the floor, carrying the heavy hammer with both hands.

  As Natalie turned towards her, still rubbing her eyes and crying, Alexa swung the sledgehammer. The hammer's metal head struck Natalie's stomach. The powerful blow caused her to hop an inch off the ground.

  Natalie took four rapid steps back, then she stopped. An expression of disbelief formed on her face—a frown, a scrunched nose, and a set of confused eyes. The attack caught her off guard. She stared down at her stomach, then she glanced up at the intruder. Eyes welling over with tears, she untied her robe and lifted her nightgown.

  The sledgehammer ruptured her amniotic sac and placenta. Blood and amniotic fluid soaked her panties and nightgown. The liquids—yellow and red—also streamed down her thighs and dripped on the floor. Plop, plop, plop—each drop sounded like a nuclear explosion, echoing through the living room and tormenting the mothers.