The Revelator by D. W. Bell

Author:D. W. Bell [Bell, D. W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-07T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

In short, it was a beating for the ages. Brutalized and bloody, it was back to the good ol’ days of pain and slaughter on the killing floor, meaty fluids staining the tiles pink and red, accented with the frothy bubbles of ejected aspiration.

The recklessly lopsided encounter had resolved in the only way it could have, with John; bruised, bloody, but uninjured, stepping out of and over a circle of nine bodies that lay either groaning and writhing or silent and still. Taking his position just behind and to the right of Charlie, who had locked his one eye with blatant contempt on Boudreaux for the duration of the controlled chaos, John smartly snapped into the position of attention, fists still dripping gore with thumbs along the seams, thereby gruesomely blood-striping his pant legs in caricature of his bygone Marine Corps dress blues.

Although it had been urgently clanging throughout the massacre, the alarm bells of the old wall phone seemed only now to ring loud enough to defeat the enveloping quiet of combat, demanding that it be heard despite its diminished control. Known to never smile, the corner of Charlie’s stern mouth may have lifted a fraction of a millimeter, but nobody saw it as he quietly gave the command, “Rest.”

Rather than fully relax and stand down, John snapped to a formal parade rest, flecks of blood flying as his hands came together at the small of his back, the light, aerosol mist painting delicate crimson wings on the now unsterile white wall behind him, the splatter pattern forming the bloody apices and outer margins of a terribly angelic butterfly. The old phone stopped ringing, unheeded.

The fight had been cinematic in scope. Bigger than life and twice as ugly. The captive audience must have felt as if they had been transported back to the time of martial wonder that was the kung fu explosion of the early 70’s, when Bruce Lee’s first forays into American cinemas dazzled crowds with scenes in which a single combatant triumphed over impossible odds with only his bloodied, bare hands, but this was real life.

The savage, lurid beauty of the vicious, calculated dance drew involuntary oofs and gasps from the onlookers mystified by the magic of the melee. Only this was no precision choreography. Bones broke and flesh tore. The only thing on cue was the blood and it hit its marks flawlessly with every take, in glorious Technicolor.

Seizing the moment of distraction to regain control, Boudreaux resumed his seat in the cushy antique chair and took on an attitude of bored distraction, pretending to examine the cuticles of his immaculately manicured nails. Feigning mild surprise when the show was over, as if the epic battle held no interest for him at all, he spoke languidly to no one in particular, “Ah, I see they have completed the testing. Bravo.”

With a slight, disinterested yawn, he arose and resumed his position at the window, silently, slowly clapping as his cold, black eyes locked with the single burning orb staring up at him from below.

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