Getting Home

Part 7

"Well, well, well," one of the hoodied men called out in a sing-songy way. "Lookie what we have here."

The two men behind us came up close.

"Got us something real nice," one grunted, then put his face right near mine. He inhaled, deep and loud.

Oh my god.

I pulled out my cellphone.

He immediately slapped it down out of my hand. It skittered along the ground across the alley.

I've always imagined what I would do in a situation like this... everybody does, or at least should. Kick the attacker in the balls, stab at his eyes, claw at his face, whatever you could. Scream. Anything and everything.

But you know what I did? Do you know what I did when I found myself in that terrifying position? After all the bravado and courage I imagined I'd have and how I'd get away?

You know what I really did?

I froze.

His hand shot out, grabbing the back of my head by my hair and violently yanking me backwards almost completely off my feet. My back was arched painfully—I would have fell flat on my back if he hadn't been holding me up by my hair.

I heard the dog yelp, followed by the frantic scurrying of paws.

Then I heard the loudest, sickening crunch I've ever heard—it sounded like a gunshot went off in the alley. I heard a male voice gasp in pain, and the overwhelming tidal wave of panic finally came over me.

Oh my god, Henry, I'm so sorry.

I'm so sorry I did this to you.

I was suddenly dropped.

I fell flat on my back. I immediately lost my breath and couldn't get another one. So this is what it feels like having the wind knocked out of you, my mind babbled. I landed in a slimy pile of wet muck, making a splash of sludge.

Henry...

I tried to raise myself up on my elbows. Across the alley, one of the men was holding Henry up against the brick wall of the building. He pressed Henry back against a bare spot between a dumpster and a bunch of wooden pallets resting against the wall.

But something looked seriously off—it took a few moments for my brain to figure it out.

The man held Henry against the wall by the throat with one arm, but his other... the man's other arm looked backwards, like his elbow and forearm were facing behind him.

Like he was reaching out to shake hands even though his back was to me.

Oh my god.

Henry didn't seem to be in any distress, or even afraid or unsure. He slowly reached up with one hand, grabbing the man's other forearm that was still pinning him against the wall.

And squeezing.

It sounded like a bundle of dry tree branches slowly being broken in half as the man's forearm crumpled like a ball of paper in Henry's fist. I've never heard a man scream like that—in fact, I've never heard anybody make a sound like that, real or fake.

Ever.

It was one the most disturbing, frightening things I've ever heard.

Henry continued moving slowly. Casually.

He stepped forward, still holding his attackers arm—then spun, pulling the man around him like he was flicking a whip. The man slammed into the brick wall—hard. I heard the bricks shatter where he hit. A cloud of red brick-dust puffed out, then hung suspended in the air.