Nothing Is Impossible (Part II of IV)

Cargo Shorts was leaning against the door, the collisions head and shoulder first, had taken their toll. His eyes were rolling, the top of his head already growing a crop of welts. He was on hands and knees catching his breath, a stupid smile spread across his face. 

Baldy came around behind Cargo Shorts; it appeared he was helping him up when he hefted Cargo to his feet only to then throw his cohort into the door again. Derick winced at the dull hollow sound Cargo’s head made as it smacked against the door, like striking the flat part of a shovel against damp ground. The action partially removed the door from its frame and left a two foot gap at its lower right side.

Baldy was now trying to force the gap wider with both hands. Derick could see Cargo Shorts and Chlorine, the pair seemed to sway as if they were leaves being blown by a gentle wind. Standing idle in the driveway their eyes were blank vacuums. They seemed not to register the scene at all, and at this juncture seemed neither capable nor willing to assist Baldy with his assault.

Through the hole in the door, a kick would come in occasionally. Derick awed as the breach slowly widened. Derick’s desperation to keep the group out matched theirs to enter. He hoped.

Overzealous Baldy shot a hand through, apparently trying to gain purchase on something, anything inside. It was then Derick brought the butcher knife down through the center of the man’s left hand. A wild snarl that turned into whimper broke free from Baldly as he continued to thrash, and punch and kick. As Baldy pulled back his hand Derick saw the knife’s blade carve a swath in the flesh between Baldy’s ring and middle finger. The blood flow was immediate, heavy and gushing onto Derick’s beige carpet. 

Though that’s not what amazed him. What caught Derick’s attention was Baldy showed no signs of quitting. The man blinked at his hand and then looked to Derick, as if to say, Is that all?

From the bedroom, Derick could pick up traces of Vanessa’s call to the police: What do you mean you have no available officers? How is that possible? I need to speak with someone else.

Swiftly, Baldy was right back in it, beating and flailing against the door- absent of any regard for his own body. Derick watched as Baldy began kicking the door relentlessly. The shots were hard, fast and of a rhythm that was all too predictable. Derick brought the knife down again, three successive blows, the last of which tore into the meat of Baldy’s Achilles tendon. The muscle snapped and then seemed to roll up like an overextended shade at both ends. Baldy finally retreated, pulling his torn foot back through the ever-growing hole in the door.

Derick didn’t know it but a strangely satisfying smile had bloomed on his face.

Outside the door, Baldy stood, eyes still dull, but defiant. He smirked at Derick. The unnoticed smile wilted immediately. Derick’s mind, battling disbelief and horror, tried to conceive of a way to stop, or even slow this maniac.

Baldy then stepped backward, preparing to charge at the door once more. When his right foot hit the patio, he toppled forward, his jawbone creating a sickening crack as it made contact with the  landscaping bricks.  

Cargo Shorts and Chlorine looked on as if they didn’t know Baldy at all. If they did, they showed no concern for their downed comrade, and instead began pounding the door relentlessly. Cargo Shorts was struck by something at least close to an idea as he picked up a landscaping square from the yard and began hammering against the patio door. The dents were successive, large and the clanging sounds they caused rattled Derick’s teeth.

Derick’s eyes rested on the ever-weakening door. He knew the door was more decoration than security, and he had to act.

Derick waited for Cargo to back up and prepare for another charge, when this occurred Derick took a deep breath and rushed forward unlatching the screen door. As Cargo Shorts met him at the entrance of the anteroom, powered by epinephrine and fear, Derick planted the butcher knife in the meat of Cargo’s neck. The man dropped the landscaping square, shattering it into large chunks. At the same time, Cargo feebly groped at the separated flesh where his neck and shoulder met, and tried to replace the large plume of blood that had begun escaping. The gesture was futile, and Cargo Shorts soon dropped to the ground in a ragged slump. This time, Derick noted the lack of any sort of audible scream.

Derick’s protective rage had served to numb, and then awe him. As he surveyed the aftermath of his actions, he shuddered under their weight, blinking away the gravity of the situation. The woman Chlorine- who had barely moved through all this violence- was gone. Derick wasn’t allowed much time to question her disappearance, as he noticed three more men approaching from the driveway.

One by one they entered his field of vision, as if stepping onto a stage from a darkened alcove. The first, a tattered old man that could’ve passed for a ventriloquist’s dummy. Next, a scrawny bare-chested teen boy. They were being followed by a stocky Hispanic, who although in the rear, seemed to have command over the other two.

Derick’s heart sunk, for he had no hope that they were concerned citizens, a cavalry here to help him guard his wife and home. He knew they were reinforcements.

He jumped back inside; latching what was left of the door. In a flurry he retreated again, and shut the French doors on the interior side of the patio room with a crash.

Derick saw the now group of four, refreshed, their ranks bolstered. He also saw something that his mind couldn’t quite comprehend: From outside, the stocky one made a minute gesture with his hand. No sooner than Derick had slide the bolt across on the door, he saw the entire locking mechanism fall to the ground in a clatter of assorted pieces. The screen doors swung open.

Fear gave way to sheer panic as Derick bolted to the bedroom. “Are the police on the way?” There was still emotion in his voice but not much, as exhaustion had seemingly drained it.

“They said they would send a unit as soon as one was available. My God, what happened out there?”

As Derick dodged the question, he searched his top dresser drawer for his missing .38. “Did they say why they didn’t have a patrol available now?” No gun, no bullets either…Derick left the drawer hang open.

Vanessa was about to answer, when Derick began talking again. “It doesn’t matter, we have to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

Wishing he had time to explain away the confusion on Vanessa’s face, Derick answered, “Out the window, into the alley.”

Derick didn’t have a vantage point of the living room from where he stood, but he heard the French doors creak open. The sound was slow, casual, as though the group of home invaders were in no hurry.

In the living room, the group traipsed across the carpet, heading straight for the couple’s bedroom. Until, the stocky one raised a hand. The soldiers of the group halted immediately. Stocky’s eyes scanned the room. Whether impressed by his surroundings or not, his expression never changed. Stocky alone marched forward; leaving the remaining members paused on the living room behind him.

Vanessa noted the gore that dripped from the knife in Derick’s hand. Repulsed more by the idea of asking stupid questions amidst a surreal emergency, than the sight of viscera, she did as her husband instructed.

“You have your phone?” Derick wanted to ask about the police, just how explicit had Vanessa been with them when she described what was going on? He quickly decided now wasn’t the time for to bring it up.

Vanessa hoisted up the window after undoing the latches, “Yes, in my pocket…” white-knuckled, she clutched the survival knife in one hand.

“G-” Derick’s voice seemed to fail as he turned to lock eyes with Stocky as he passed through the threshold of their room. He wanted to cry out to Vanessa to run, just go as fast as she could. Instead, he swung the butcher knife in a heavy arc at Stocky’s face.