Schism

Chapter 10 part 2

The Hunter whirled to the other men and William followed.

They had all stopped fighting. Each was watching William, with nervous glances at their former opponents.

He stepped forward, looked at the gaping men.  This must have been getting the attention the voices had talked about.

One of the men walked toward him, stopped, arms out.  His skin was darker in the fog, African American.  He looked older than the others, had been the only one not fighting one of the whites.  "Hey.  Just hold it a second."

The Hunter glided in front of William, swept arms out at one of the man's outstretched hands.  One left a target on the blade of the hand, near the pinkie.  The other pointed to the outside of the man’s elbow.

"Just back off."  The hand came nearer.  "I don't know who you are, but just back off.  Or else.  I mean it."  The black man reached out to shove him away.

William reached over the shove, grabbed the top of the man's hand, his palm down as he made contact, and jerked the side of the hand up, turning the pinkie and then the palm to face the broken streetlight overhead.  As the man's elbow raised in reaction, William lashed out with his free arm, kept it from coming up.  The man grimaced, his teeth bright outlines in the fog as he pawed at his bound, contorted wrist, tried to free himself.

But William's grip was tight, unmovable.  He followed the Hunter's directions again, pushed the elbow down and turned the palm of the hand up further.  He felt the wrist began to separate under the pressure.

The man sank to his knees.  "Stop.  Stop."  William gave one more sharp twist on the wrist and downward push on the elbow.  The man's wrist popped and his voice cracked into an inhaled gasp.

William let go.

He turned to the others, four of them.  All of them stood there, frozen, eyes locked on him.

Down the street, another Caucasian with more hair than the others hurried toward them, his hand buried inside his jacket.  That made five.

William dully wondered what the hell he was doing here.

 As he stepped around the man with the broken wrist, one of the two whites near him pulled a knife from his pocket and locked the blade open with a thumb.  The other watched, his face tight, then drew a metal rod from his back pocket.  With a flick of his wrist, it expanded into a short baton.

The two remaining black men looked from William to the weapons to the man advancing toward them, they took a step back, scurried behind William, picked up their injured companions and pulled them away from the whites.  None of the voices took notice of them as they left and William was glad that they wouldn't make him fight those men.  Maybe he had done all they needed him to do.

Then something struck him as he stood looking at the two young white men. 

Both of their heads were shaved.

Skinheads.  William realized it through numbed thoughts.  The whites were skinheads.  This was a racial attack.  What did this have to do with protecting Jess?  Why would the voices want him to get the attention of a group of racist idiots?

The third white man stopped by the other two, drew a handgun from beneath his jacket.  Its outline was sharp and bright in the fog.  The shape of the Beretta was easy to make out and identify, even though William hadn't seen a gun for years.

The others turned to him, the colors around them calmed in his presence.  "Race traitor?" one of them asked.

The new man shrugged, eyes locked on William.  This man, Beretta, had hair.  He was dressed in simple dark clothing and looked like he was about to take his dog for a walk, rather than try to put a bullet into William.  "Take him."