Free The Dead Past by Tom Piccirilli Page B

Burly hands centered on my back, shoving.
    "Terrific," I grunted. This was Jackals. This would always be Jackals.
    I spun and saw a short guy with a swimmer's body already in his attack stance: fists up, knees bent, snarl in place but with calm and intelligent eyes, ready to come straight on at me. Even though he had a crew cut, a collared shirt, and a tie on, he still looked like he should be named Noose or Viper. "You smacked my beer right outta my hand, boy!" he shouted.
    I hadn't been anywhere near him, but I apologized quickly. There are guys itching for a chance to get into somebody else's face and run a bit of blood, and if a reason didn't come along they'd make one up. I didn't need trouble tonight. "I'm sorry," I said. "Let me buy you another."
    It wasn't enough. It's rarely enough. He wasn't going to let it go. The lady bartender called, "Hey, break it up!"
    "This son of a bitch knocked my beer down!" He made it sound like I'd attacked his mother with a cat o' nine-tails.
    A lot of people stared, milling around us, fascinated with the disturbance—the group mind at work. I wasn't going to fight him. Really, I thought, no matter what, I wouldn't fall into it. "Look," I said, "Let's just….”
    The eyes should have warned me; cut through the antics and look at those beady, icy baby-blues. He'd already skipped the preliminary shouting match and landed a jab straight into my forehead. It hurt like hell and a blast of stars shimmied and danced, and I dropped back a few paces, trying not to land on my ass. He came at me again, arms out wide like the claws of a crab, wanting to lock me up. People scattered out of our way, gasps and laughter all around. One girl shouted, "Kill him!" and I hoped she wasn't talking about me.
    He jumped the last two feet between us and I pushed him off without actually hitting him. "You've got be kidding me," I said. Of all things, my eyebrows hurt from the punch. "An honest to God barroom brawl?"
    "You . . ." he said. Most of the silly anger was gone, replaced by a well- stoked hatred.
    "No, man. This is just too cliché for me."
    He dipped his chin like a dog that hears a funny noise, lips compressed and almost white. I checked for the other bartenders or bouncers and didn't see any of them; Doug and Willie were on the far side of the room, and didn't even know I was involved. My other high school chums either didn't recognize me, didn't care, or liked the other guy more. "Listen," I told him. "What if we had a fight at the Lady Daphne's School of Ballroom Dancing? That' d be original, anyway. All right? Anywhere but a bar. You don't want to get in a rut."
    He wasn't much for sarcasm or talking. He was, however, heavily into growling at the moment. It came from down deep where the real darkness hides. With a roar he swung at me, wide, hoping to take my head off with one shot. I side-stepped and felt the breeze of his fist pass by my chin. He was faster than he looked.
    Crew cut charged and caught me low, aiming for my groin but catching me in the left thigh. It took me back a few feet before I could set myself and break his grip. He charged again and nailed me square in the stomach and I went over backward, falling hard against a window, my elbow shattering a blinking neon beer sign. In books and movies you're supposed to be able to turn an opponent's leverage against him, so when he charges you can just trip him easily and let him go slamming headfirst into the wall.
    He grabbed a beer mug by the handle and smashed it against the bartop ; it made for a competent weapon, all that jagged glass waiting to tear open a throat. I was still bewildered it had gone this far.
    I dodged and backpedalled. Too slowly. He brought the mug down across my chest and I screamed, watching the blood burst from me like a leaping, crimson animal.
    And so it happens.
    Like the pin pulled from a grenade, it happens. You feel the rage consume you where there wasn't any an instant before; the humor flees and the