Fuzzy Navel

10:49 P.M.
JACK

I’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to-

She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.

Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.

I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.

Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.

I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.

I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.

Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.

Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.

“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”

Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.

Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.

Another BOOM. A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.

Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.

“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”

Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.

She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.

Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.

Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.

I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.

“Wrong target!” I scream at him.

I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.

“Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

But the garage – I have power tools in the garage.

I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.

“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

She dodges it.

I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.

I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

Then she’s on me.

Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.