Free The Autumn Aircraft: Avery's Recruits by J.M. Barber Page A

pull your sword n—”
                  The boy dropped the backpack and went for his weapon so quickly that Devon’s mind did catch up until he was struck. The sword came out in something that seemed more than a swift motion; it was more like a flick.  It made a light, audible swish on its way out of its sheath, glinted under the recessed fluorescents briefly as it did a one-eighty arc, and the motion remained seamless and smooth as it cut through Devon’s left leg, like a razor through a warm block of Swiss. The limb was taken off, trailed by thick ropes of blood as it flew up in the air like a tossed loaf of salami, and Devon fell back onto the hallway floor with a thud, his leg landing nearby with a thunk of its own. He watched the boy’s continue in horror, his mind too deep in the throes of shock to respond. The boy brought the sword up like sphere then and struck down hard into his wrist. It made an almost inaudible squish and crack as it cut through the thin layer of flesh and bone. Devon wasn’t able to scream at first, it was too hard just to take in air.
                  “I will sooner die, before I let someone stop me from doing what I need to do,” the boy said, his eyes now slits, both his hands clenching the rubber handle of the sword. “Now you be a good boy and don’t scream, or I’ll send my baby through that thick, muscled neck of yours.” He raised his eyebrows. “Got it?”
                  Devon was still unable to speak, but his lips trembled. He defecated, the sound rolling through the hall like a drum line.
                  “Yeah, you got it,” the boy said, and yanked his sword from his wrist and returned it swiftly back into its sheath. He wrinkled his nose for a moment then picked his backpack up and put both straps calmly over his shoulders, the same expression he’d worn as he’d approached the building back on his face, and turned and started back toward the stairs.
                  Devon swallowed, felt like he was about to faint and tried to smack himself in the face.  He was too much in shock to even do that.  He let the Asian kid disappear up the stairs.
                  “Oh my God,” he whimpered when the kid was out of view, and was helpless to stop the tears as they started to flow from his eyes. “Oh my God nigga…no.  No nigga no.  This nigga didn’t just…this nigga didn’t JUST CUT MY LEG OFF!”  He cackled loudly, unable to help himself.  “No-no-no.  Fuck…need to do something…no…”  Devon did the only thing that he could think of. He reached into his pocket and extracted his smartphone.  If there was one thing he knew about his situation—and it seemed he didn’t know much—it was that he was losing too much blood too fast. 
    With his uninjured hand Devon Bradley thumbed the necessary numbers for the police and with an unsteady voice, a voice choked to the point of breathlessness, he described the strange Asian boy with the backpack, the one that had cut through his leg with a pristine blade, impaled Devon’s wrist, then concealed his weapon and went on his way, as if it was the natural thing to do.