Dark World: Hit the Road Jack

 

Part of the dark world series. Dark world is the collection of stories that are far more violent then the other stories and often have brutal beat downs, sadistic fights and unforgiving knock outs. Great for your looking for a fight with more gritty tones. All stories take place in the same world.

The empty incongruous place of worship reeked of dust and abandonment, what ever deity desperate for worship having long since left this grotesque city. The electricity no longer worked, not that it did well to begin with. What little candles remained (or haven't been stolen) have long melted down. The only source of light came through cracked stained glass, painting jagged shapes across the pews like bleeding wounds. Silence owned the room, until Comhraic's boots echoed down the aisle.

Jack backed toward the altar, shirtless (having already lost it previously), chest rising fast. He clung to his gloves, the gloves of a fighter, like it meant anything. But this fight was long since decided, before the two had met, before the two had faced off, before the first punch was even thrown. He clutched at bruised ribs, eyes darting like a cornered animal. Comhraic, all muscle and menace, approached slow, bare-chested, fists clenched, body dripping with intent... and stained in more blood than just Jack's.

"You thought this place would protect you?" Comhraic sneered. “Only thing holy here’s the hole I’m about to put in you.”

 

Despite the futility of it all, Jack tried a desperate jab. If he could just daze the crazed man, if he could find a opening to run, Jack might live for another day... one more miserable day. Comhraic weaved under the sloppy display, driving a sledgehammer of a fist straight into Jack’s solar plexus. Jack’s breath whooshed out in a choking gasp, knees buckling. Next Comhraic hooked his arm under Jack’s and planted a brutal uppercut into the middle of his already battered stomach, once, twice, three times. Like a hammer tenderizing meat, Jack's stomach would continue to take a pounding. Six, eight, twenty. Jack shrieked, spitting blood as he collapsed to one knee.

“So damn soft” Comhraic judged, as if this whole display was a waste of his time. With a sigh, he grabbed Jack by the hair and yanked him up again. A waste it may be, but Comhraic would not leave the job half finished. He drove his knuckles like pistons into Jack’s stomach, rapid-fire,with no mercy.

Left

Right

Left

Right

Uppercut

Hook

Hook

Each punch sinking in deep, each blow making the skin ripple and turn purple. Jack convulsed with every blow, gasping, coughing blood down his chest. Another hook. Another body blow. Comhraic slammed a fist into Jack’s sternum, and Jack folded forward with a dry, ugly wheeze. His stomach was beaten to jelly, chest caved in and struggling to expand.

“You done kid?” Comhraic asked.

Jack answered with a weak swing and a even weaker curse. Comhraic grabbed Jack's wrist, so small, so pathetic, and twisted. With a sickening pop, the arm snapped at the elbow. Jack howled in pain, dropping like a puppet with cut strings. He cradled the ruined limb, as if he could will it to be normal once more. 

 

It never would be, for Comhraic didn’t stop.

Flipping the sad excuse of a man onto his back, Comhraic mounted Jack. The sick look of a man who lost his moral code long ago (or never had one to begin with) was still clear as day. Sure this was a paid job, but Comhraic enjoyed the work. Enjoyed the pain, and pain he let fly. Comhraic fists hammered down on Jack's chest and gut, each one making wet, sick thuds. His chest shifted and jerked, almost like Jack was bouncing his pecs to show off, but now just the result of violence unleashed. His stomach no longer even tried to flex, the blow sunk in torturing skin, muscle, and internal organs alike.

Blood sprayed from Jack’s mouth, his body twitching under the onslaught.

Thud.

Thud.

THUD.

The pews echoed no longer with the power of prayer, but with the dead cries of pain. When it was done? When it was done, Jack was barely breathing. His ribs were shattered, broken beyond what medical would call “salvageable”. His stomach was several shades of red, blue and purple. They were swollen, welted, bleeding and bubbling with bruises. Where once was muscle, was now a crime scene. His chest sunk and motionless, only the slightly sign of life showing. One arm bent the wrong way. He was a broken shell, and now the job was done. Comhraic stood, covered in sweat and blood, breathing heavy.

“Disgusting.”

He turned and walked out the doors, leaving Jack broken beneath the cracked crucifix. Not a single additional thought paid to the savage display played out.

 

 

Five days later.

The church was still quiet, stained with dried blood and cracked faith. Jack had been found, someone didn't mind their own business. Jack was barely breathing, bones shattered, body a wreck. Paramedics whispered he should’ve been dead. But the bastard clung to life.

And Comhraic? He heard, and was not happy.

Comhraic stood now in a dark hospital hallway, hoodie pulled low, fists clenched inside his pockets. The security guard at the door never saw the elbow coming, Comhraic plowed into the man's stomach like it was wet paper, easily folding him. Next, Comhraic broke the guard's nose with a single strike and let the man crumple. Like everything else in this city, the guard was weak, useless, for display purposes only. The nurse at the front station didn't even question when Comhraic randomly grabbed at papers looking for a name, they had learned long ago not to stand in the way. Then but a moment later, Comhraic found what he was looking for.

Jack Tomson, Room 203.

Jack lay in the hospital bed, more war zone than man. His arm once twisted and broken now lay in a natural angle, a thick cast protecting and keeping it in place. Bandages were wrapped around his ribs and chest, trying to reset what was badly broken. Various machines were beeping softly, trying to monitor the recovery of Jack, if one could call it that. But he was alive, right? Jack stirred slowly, as if something was telling him... something was off. He opened one eye, trying to will the bad feeling not to be true. Yet no power could will away the sight he beheld.

Comhraic. Back. Bigger. Meaner.

Jack tried to move, tried to scream, but Comhraic was already across the room, hand clamping over Jack’s mouth.

“You survived” Comhraic growled. “You weren’t supposed to.”

With destructive baneful speed, Comhraic slammed his fist down into Jack’s bandaged ribs. The ribs once healing were now broken, now shattered again. The room filled with a muffled shriek as Jack arched off the bed. Comhraic leaned close, whispering through clenched teeth.

“I’m gonna finish what I started.”

He pulled the blanket back and drove an open palm strike into Jack’s once healing stomach, making the bruised muscles spasm and buckle. Jack gagged, machines beeped wildly. Comhraic didn’t care as his palm continued to slam down again and again. Three time, five times, ten, eighteen.... what little muscle had recovered would be beaten and diminished, no return to health would be granted or awarded this time. Comhraic grabbed the casted arm and yanked it straight off the bed, snapping the bone again right through the cast with a horrible crack. Jack screamed behind Comhraic’s hand, eyes wide in agony.

Jack begged for mercy, it was quickly cut off.

Now came another series of brutal body shots, hammer fists to the diaphragm, elbows to the sternum, knuckles grinding into the soft belly like drills. Jack’s body twitched under each hit, muscles trembling, breath ragged. His body went limp, the fight being beaten out of it long ago at the church. Now? He was no longer a man, he was a punching bag.

“You’re gonna die boy” Comhraic muttered. “No one defies my will.”

Comhraic lifted Jack slightly off the bed, just enough to slam his elbow deep into Jack’s solar plexus, driving the last ounce of air out of him. Jack passed out instantly, body collapsing back down like a broken doll. Comhraic stood over him, breathing deep, gaze cold.

And just like before, he walked out silent, vanishing into the night, leaving only chaos behind.

 

 

Three weeks later.

Jack limped down the back alleys of the dying city, hoodie pulled over his battered face, duffel bag slung across his good shoulder. His ribs were taped tight, his chest still a mess of bruises, and his arm? Re-broken, barely held together. His face bore the horror of surviving not one, but two massive life ending beatings. Every step was pain, but pain was better than death. He had made it, barely, but he was leaving tonight. He as moving slowly, towards a bus station on the edge of town.

No more pain.

No more running into monsters.

No more Comhraic.

Or so he thought...
 

As he rounded a corner toward the bus terminal, a cold wind cut through him. He paused, something crawling up his spine. The street was too quiet, no cars,  no voices, no nothing. It was like Death stood watch, waiting to claim another soul..... Then the sound of footsteps behind him. Slow. Heavy. Familiar. Jack turned, heart sinking, there he was.

Comhraic.

No words. Just that dead stare and those fists. Shirtless again, like always. His body littered with dried blood and scars. He was Ready. He was hungry. Jack didn’t beg. Didn’t run. It was far to late for that now. He just dropped the duffel bag and lifted his fists. He was shaking, he was broken, but he was still fighting. Till the end, which would probably be in the next several minutes.

Comhraic smirked. “Took you long enough to stop crawling.”

It was a blur of speed that happened next, giving Jack no time to act. The first punch shattered Jack’s jaw, a sickening crack that twisted his head sideways and dropped him to his knees. Blood poured from his mouth. Comhraic grabbed him by the hair and slammed his knee into Jack’s face, breaking his nose with a crunch.

“You should’ve stayed down in that hospital.”

Jack tried to stand, when a thunderous right hook slammed into his gut, folding him instantly. He fell to his hands and knees, coughing thick red onto the pavement. Comhraic hammered a boot into Jack’s ribs producing more cracks, more screams, more blood and pain. Then another came, then another, and another, All until Jack was on his back, writhing.

"You were never a fighter. Just a scared little rat."

Comhraic mounted him, pinning Jack's arms down with his knees, and started driving fists into his chest. One. Two. Seven. Ten. Every blow caved in his chest, crushing what was left inside.

Jack's breath turned to wheezes… then gurgles.

One last punch. Straight to the heart. A final, deep strike, knuckle meets bone meets silence.

Jack stopped moving.

Comhraic sat there for a second, breathing deep. Blood smeared across his fists. Across Jack’s lifeless body.

Then he stood.

The city swallowed him as he walked away, leaving Jack behind on the cold pavement—body broken, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

Jack’s luck finally ran out.

 

 

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