Free RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)) by James Somers

other than my arm. I tilt back to get the correct upward angle and then lash out with my right foot to the front of his left knee. Tom buckles and falls forward onto his hands.
    Cradling my broken left arm, I roll backward and c ome up on my feet. Then, like a raging bull with red in his eyes, I charge at Tom. He straightens on his knees, raising the cricket bat and swinging at my legs again.
    I hop over it and kick out with my right foot, catching him on the chest just to the left of his sternum. His head whiplashe s forward as his body is driven backward onto the pavement. I land astride his chest with my right knee pinning his left arm above his elbow and my left foot pinning his bat hand at the wrist.
    His eyes boggle in shock then, a sneer crossing his face. I pop him with an open palm that thump s the back of his head on the concrete hard enough to daze him. Then I give him another balled fist on the cheek like a hammer stroke to keep him down.
    My self defense instructor always said the human skull is like a bowling ball. Best to thump somebody with your open palm, which g ives you more control, or hit them with the fleshy outside edge of your fist to keep from breaking your own knuckles. After all, the goal isn’t to kill the other guy, just put them down hard and stop the fight.
    I st and then, scooping up the bat. Tom’s cronies still encircle me, and I don’t want them getting any ideas. Fortunately, other bystanders have also happened by. One of them is evidently getting video on her cell phone. Typical, I suppose.
    I wave the bat around me, warning off the other boys. And, to the bystanders, I yell for one of them to call the police. I’m not going to put up with this. How long will it take before Tom starts something again? And I’m at a disadvantage now with my broken arm.
    It throb s terribly. Cradling it does little to help, but it is better to have it tucked protectively against by body than dangling around. Still, it hurts a lot, even if I am hyped up on adrenaline now.
    When the other boys hear the police w ill be involved, they abandon Tom. They want nothing to do with assault charges. It’s every man for himself.
    I ke ep Tom down, waiting with the three people who stopped to see what happened. I press the cricket bat threateningly against his Adam’s apple. “Try to get up and you’ll have a few breaks to match the arm you gave me,” I warn.
    Tom, almost surprisingly , stays down.
    This melee ha s left us both bloody and bruised, not to mention my arm. We have cuts and scrapes all over, despite how brief it has all been. My hand is bleeding, probably from hitting the ground initially. Tom has a couple of nice bloody fist prints across his face and a few cuts of his own, mainly where I thumped him around the mouth, cutting his lips on his teeth.
    We might have shared a little blood, but I don’t figure that makes us brothers. I’m angry at him for this, but I can honestly say I don’t hate Tom Kennedy. I know what to expect from someone like him, so it isn’t like I’ve suffered some shocking betrayal. He acted exactly the way I expected.
    Besides, Harold Lemon taught me a few things over the years. He taught me never to hate anyone, even when they wrong you. Anger is just an emotion, and I can get over that. So, I let it go. Hatred is against God, like murdering someone in your heart.
    So, I d on’t hate him. I don’t want to get on his level. I choose to pity him instead. He is the one with the problem. I bested him today, even if I do have a broken arm. And Lori likes me. Tom hasn’t taken anything away from me, only from himself.
    When the police arrive, I st and up before they can get out of their car. They eye me warily, until I drop the bat, probably supposing Tom is the victim. At least until my three witnesses show them the video. I appreciate ubiquitous cell phone videos more and more.
    My wonderful witnesses arrived on the scene in time to see Tom with the bat in his hands