Four Live Rounds (16 page)

“Hey, switch it up higher than that.”

“You didn’t say how high it had to be when we
made the agreement.” Hutson spoke fast, relying on the mobster’s
warped sense of fairness. “Just that I had to keep it on for ten
seconds.”

“It was inferred it would be on the
hottest.”

“I can put it on low and still follow the
deal to the letter.”

Little Louie considered this, then
nodded.

“You’re right. You’re still following it to
the letter. Leave it on low then.”

It didn’t matter, because already the burner
was firey orange. Rocko leaned over and spat on it, and the saliva
didn’t even have a chance to drip through the coils before sizzling
away and evaporating.

“It think it’s hot,” Rocko said.

Hutson stared at the glowing burner. He held
his trembling hand two inches above it. The heat was excruciating.
Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the hair above his knuckles curled
and he fought the little voice in his brain that screamed get your
hand away!

“Well, go ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold
pocket watch. “I’ll start when you do. Ten whole seconds.”

“Sweet Jesus in heaven help me,” thought
Hutson.

He bit his lip and slapped his hand down on
to the burner.

There was an immediate frying sound, like
bacon in a pan. The pain was instant and searing. Hutson screamed
and screamed, the coils burning away the skin on his palm, burning
into the flesh, blistering and bubbling, melting the muscle and
fat, Hutson screaming louder now, smoke starting to rise, Little
Louie sounding off the seconds, a smell like pork chops filling
Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond intense, screaming so high there
wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it there anymore, jesus no more no
more and...

Hutson yanked his hand from the burner,
trembling, feeling faint, clutching his right hand at the wrist and
stumbling to the sink, turning on the cold water, putting his
charred hand under it, losing consciousness, everything going
black.

He woke up lying on the floor, the pain in
his hand a living thing, his mouth bleeding from biting his lower
lip. His face contorted and he yelled from the anguish.

Little Louie stood over him, holding the
pocket watch. “That was only seven seconds.”

Hutson’s scream could have woken the dead. It
was full of heart-wrenching agony and fear and disgust and pity. It
was the scream of the man being interrogated by the Gestapo. The
scream of the woman having a Caesarean without anesthetic. The
scream of a father in a burning, wrecked car turning to see his
baby on fire.

The scream of a man without hope.

“Don’t get upset.” Little Louie offered him a
big grin. “I’ll let you try it again.”

The thugs hauled Hutson to his feet, and he
whimpered and passed out. He woke up on the floor again, choking.
Water had been thrown in his face.

Little Louie shook his head, sadly. “Come on
Mr. Hutson. I haven’t got all day. I’m a busy man. If you want to
back out, the boys can do their job. I want to warn you though, a
thirty grand job means we’ll put your face on one of these burners,
and that would just be the beginning. Make your decision.”

Hutson got to his feet, knees barely able to
support him, breath shallow, hand hurting worse than any pain he
had ever felt. He didn’t want to look at it, found himself doing it
anyway, and stared at the black, inflamed flesh in a circular
pattern on his palm. Hardly any blood. Just raw, exposed, gooey
cooked muscle where the skin had fried away.

Hutson bent over and threw up.

“Come on, Mr. Hutson. You can do it. You came
so close, I’d hate to have to cripple you permanently.”

Hutson tried to stagger to the door to get
away, but was held back before he took two steps.

“The stove is over here, Mr. Hutson.” Little
Louie’s black rat eyes sparkled like polished onyx.

Rocko steered Hutson back to the stove.
Hutson stared down at the orange glowing burner, blackened in
several places where parts of his palm had stuck and cooked to
cinder. The pain was pounding. He was dazed and on the verge of
passing out again. He lifted his left hand over the burner.

“Nope. Sorry Mr. Hutson. I specifically said
it had to be your right hand. You have to use your right hand,
please.”

Could he put his right hand on that burner
again? Hutson didn’t think he could, in his muddied, agony-spiked
brain. He was sweating and cold at the same time, and the air swam
around him. His body shook and trembled. If he were familiar with
the symptoms, Hutson might have known he was going into shock. But
he wasn’t a doctor, and he couldn’t think straight anyway, and the
pain, oh jesus, the awful pain, and he remembered being five years
old and afraid of dogs, and his grandfather had a dog and made him
pet it, and he was scared, so scared that it would bite, and his
grandfather grabbed his hand and put it toward the dog’s
head...

Hutson put his hand back on the burner.

“One...............two...............”

Hutson screamed again, searing pain bringing
him out of shock. His hand reflexively grabbed the burner, pushing
down harder, muscles squeezing, the old burns set aflame again,
blistering, popping...

“...............three...............”

Take it off! Take it off! Screaming, eyes
squeezed tight, shaking his head like a hound with a fox in his
teeth, sounds of cracking skin and sizzling meat...

“...............four...............five...............”

Black smoke, rising, a burning smell, that’s
me cooking, muscle melting and searing away, nerves exposed,
screaming even louder, pull it away!, using the other hand to hold
it down...

“...............six...............seven...............”

Agony so exquisite, so absolute, unending,
entire arm shaking, falling to knees, keeping hand on burner,
opening eyes and seeing it sear at eye level, turning grey like a
well-done steak, meat charring...

“Smells pretty good,” says one of the
thugs.

“Like a hamburger.”

“A hand-burger.”

Laughter.

“...............eight...............nine...............”

No flesh left, orange burner searing bone,
scorching, blood pumping onto heating coils, beading and
evaporating like fat on a griddle, veins and arteries
searing...

“...............ten!”

Take it off! Take it off!

It’s stuck.

“Look boss, he’s stuck!”

Air whistled out of Hutson’s lungs like a
horse whimpering. His hand continued to fry away. He pulled feebly,
pain at a peak, all nerves exposed–pull dammit! –blacking out,
everything fading...

Hutson awoke on the floor, shaking, with more
water in his face.

“Nice job Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie stared
down at him. “You followed the agreement. To the letter. You’re off
the hook.”

Hutson squinted up at the mobster. The little
man seemed very far away.

“Since you’ve been such a sport, I’ve even
called an ambulance for you. They’re on their way. Unfortunately,
the boys and I won’t be here when it arrives.”

Hutson tried to say something. His mouth
wouldn’t form words.

“I hope we can gamble again soon, Mr. Hutson.
Maybe we could play a hand or two. Get it? A hand?”

The thugs tittered. Little Louie bent down,
close enough for Hutson to smell his cigar breath.

“Oh, there’s one more thing, Mr. Hutson.
Looking back on our agreement, I said you had to hold your right
hand on the burner for ten seconds. I said you had to follow that
request to the letter. But, you know what? I just realized
something pretty funny. I never said you had to turn the burner
on.”

Little Louie left, followed by his body
guards, and Bernard Hutson screamed and screamed and just couldn’t
stop.

BLAKE CROUCH
is the author of DESERT
PLACES, LOCKED DOORS, and ABANDON, which was an IndieBound Notable
Selection last summer, all published by St. Martin's
Press. His newest thriller, SNOWBOUND, also from St. Martin's,
was released in June 2010. His short fiction has appeared in
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
,
Alfred Hitchcock's
Mystery Magazine
,
Thriller 2
, and other anthologies,
including the new Shivers anthology from Cemetery Dance. In 2009,
he co-wrote "Serial" with J.A. Konrath, which has been downloaded
over 250,000 times and topped the Kindle bestseller list for 4
weeks. That story and DESERT PLACES have also been optioned for
film. Blake lives in Durango, Colorado. His website is
www.blakecrouch.com
.

Blake Crouch’s Works

Andrew Z. Thomas thrillers

Desert Places

Locked Doors

Other works

Draculas with J.A. Konrath, Jeff Strand and
F. Paul Wilson

Abandon

Snowbound

Luminous Blue

Perfect Little Town (horror novella)

Serial Uncut with J.A. Konrath and Jack
Kilborn

Serial with Jack Kilborn

Bad Girl (short story)

Four Live Rounds (collected stories)

Shining Rock (short story)

*69 (short story)

On the Good, Red Road (short story)

Remaking (short story)

Visit Blake at www.BlakeCrouch.com