Dirty South

70

“We need some weight,” Christian yelled to Teddy. “Teddy? You listenin’, man? I said, we got some weight?”

“You’re right, Malcolm. It’s all right. We get the weight. Sweet Jesus. We got that weight.”

Christian started laughing. “Stone-cold crazy. Stonecold. Malcolm. Yeah, boy.”

The speedboat cut hard and picked up speed. I felt the water beating hard on the hull and slapping us up and down with the chop. I kept my eyes closed, growing nauseous.

Christian kept rapping along with the radio station in his khakis and sandals. I peeked back at Teddy standing by his side. I looked over at Trey and the way his head bobbed, his body slapping down with the hull every few seconds.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

I got to my feet. Everything shaking. My balance teetering, head swimming in long Olympic strokes. I held on to the rail and, without any great stealth, made my way, trying to get the revolver Christian wore tucked in his belt.

I was within a few feet when he spiked the throttle and threw me onto my back with a thud. He laughed. Teddy peered down at me – but it wasn’t Teddy in his eyes – and he looked away. Dumb and mute.

Christian slowed the boat. A constant chugging from the motor.

He stood over me and kicked me hard in the head.

He kicked me again.

I curled into a ball and then rolled to my hands and knees.

I used the rail and got to my feet, puking all over my shirt.

Everything felt like it was spinning and turning.

“Teddy,” I said. “Come on, man. What happened? It’s still you. It’s still you.”

He slowly twisted his head from side to side. “No.”

“Come on, man.”

Christian leveled the gun at my head, the biggest wicked grin forming on his lips. Green eyes slanting. A pink, blue dawn sliding over the black water, framing his body.

He jumped and fell.

On the deck, Trey’s hands wrapped around Christian’s ankles. Blood poured from his mouth and he made a gurgling, croaking sound.

Christian fired off three rounds into Trey’s head, sending misting blood across the white fiberglass of the hull.

I leapt for him, grabbed his throat, and head-butted him. I plunged my thumbs into his voice box and he made a muted shriek as it cracked in my hands. The gun clattered to the ground.

Teddy never moved as Christian fell. I picked up the gun.

Without hesitation, I aimed it at Christian’s head and pulled the trigger.

Click.

I pulled it again.

Click.

I heard another click and turned.

Teddy was back. Or some part of him.

He had the hammer thumbed back on his. 357 Magnum. His eyes and face were dead. No light, no feeling. His black skin slick with sweat. He aimed the barrel toward me and said in his deep voice, “Sit your ass down till we find a good and dark place to kill you.”