Burn Scars by Eddie Generous (best novels for beginners TXT) 📕

but his mouth and a gash on his chin, too. His hands were firm beneath him and he kicked his right leg up, toe of his boot pressed to the cement.

“I’m okay. Got to load the truck.”

“Like hell.”

“Gotta.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“You need the hospital.”

At this, Rusty pitched himself forward, attempting to rise straight, but tipping onto elbows and knees like a felled boxer trying to beat the count—no Tommy Morrison this time, he was still in this fight, now Tommy the Duke versus Razor Ruddick; down but not out. He swayed and pain reached into every cell of his body with fresh stings. He clenched his teeth and pushed upright, onto swaying feet, unsure of how in the hell he did it until he recognized Christine’s arms around him, being the strength he needed.

“Hospital.”

“No.”

“Rusty.” Christine began shuffling them toward a stack of microwaves in boxes.

“No.”

“Dammit! Yes,” Christine said, all the calming whispers long forfeited.

“Get Cary.”

“What?”

“Too late to stop. Get Cary. Dwayne knows. Get Cary.”

At this, Christine inhaled a goodly gasp before saying, “Dwayne’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’s dead.”

“No, he tried to kill me. He’ll come back.”

“He’s dead.”

“Cary will know what.”

“I killed him.”

Rusty managed a sideways look at Christine. The world was still red-hued, but the rest of the color palette was coming back through the fog as the pain began pulsing like the ebb and flow of a falling tide. “Cary?”

“No. Dwayne. I shot him!”

“Shot Dwayne?”

“He was choking you and I shot him. I took a gun from home when…” Christine trailed as she sat Rusty down on a Panasonic built-in microwave—stainless steel, 2500 watts, retail price $329.00—the polystyrene inside the box squeaked against his weight as if protesting.

“Stole your dad’s gun?”

“He has four of them. Handguns anyway. He has hunting rifles, too. The handguns he keeps in lock boxes, but the keys are zip tied to the handles.”

“Smart.”

“He loses things.”

“Like his mind.”

“What?”

It almost slipped then, but Rusty swallowed the truth. One confession led to another and he just couldn’t face it. Not yet.

“Get Cary.”

“Hospital.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Rusty shook his head, sending red sprinkles onto the grey floor, appliance boxes, and Christine’s shirt. “Cary,” he said, petulant as a toddler.

She sighed. “Where is he? At home?”

“Randy’s, watching the Leafs.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Don’t move.”

Rusty tried to pull off a glove. Christine had to help him.

“Just sit, okay?” she said.

Rusty nodded and reached his bare hand into his pocket and found a smooshed cigarette pack. Only two were broken, but the rest were bent. He dropped the filter and some loose tobacco on the floor as he pulled free something he could smoke. He licked his lips, slipped in the cigarette and began feeling his legs for a lighter. “You see my lighter?” he said, but Christine was already gone. He continued patting himself down before finding that his lighter was in one of his jacket pockets.

He lit and tasted blood with every inhale. The smoke went to his muscles, doing its best impression Popeye’s spinach, and once it was down to the letters above the filter, he found that his legs had enough power to stamp out his finished butt. He stood for thirty seconds, drunk swaying, and had to sit back down. He fumbled free another cigarette and lit it. He watched pinprick lights come and go in the distance from around the trailer parked at the bay door. He wondered if anybody out there could possibly guess all the wild stuff that had gone on in the last week. In the last hour, even.

Done and stomped the second cigarette, he stood, steady, mostly. He took a shuffling step, then lifted one foot while no longer leaning against the microwaves. He set it down and took a long stride with the other leg.

“Okay,” he said and then licked blood from around his puffy lips.

He looked at the cart he had beneath the washer when Dwayne came in. He then looked at the big man and the incredible spray pattern streaking the cement, leaving a pretty good silhouette of Rusty’s head in the lack of blood.

He licked again and then realized it probably was only mostly his blood he tasted. A groan predated a gagging spit by about a second. Rusty then stepped right up close to the corpse.

“Dwayne, gonna get you to do the cardboard tonight. Then I got a freezer for you to clean, a real big one. Full of rotten shit.” He took a few steps sideways, cocked back his right foot and followed through, planting it in Dwayne’s gut. The motion and effort were too much, his arms pin-wheeled and he had to do some major leaning so as to avoid falling back. But he overcorrected. He lost his balance and fell on the corpse. A great, flappy, rancid fart blew from Dwayne’s ass. “Goddammit, man.” Rusty rolled sideways off the body, pushing to his hands and knees.

Fish and grease, always.

That fat, stinking Fillet of Prick.

Rusty looked to the cart under the front-loader Maytag. That washer had to get on the truck somehow. He got to his feet, steadier yet than before. He took a breath and high-stepped simply because he could.

“Now, let’s have us a little cooperation,” he mumbled, feeling almost drunk.

Foot against the leverage bar, one hand on the rounded handle, the other on the top left corner of the box, Rusty kicked, pulled, and shifted in the way he had a million times before. The washer tilted and tipped a few inches, but fell back into place. He took a breath and tried again. He had to repeat this stage three more times before he got the weight onto the wheels and the angle perfect.

Rolling backward, he skirted the corpse, but not the blood. Red tracks followed him