One Long Summer Night

         Boggs threw the sheet aside, looking up at the ceiling fans that seemed to be only pushing hot air around the room. “Shit,” he murmured, running a beefy hand over his face to wipe away the sweat. He wore only his skivvies and still he found no relief from what felt to him to be a near stifling heat. When his father had informed him he and his mother were going to Myrtle Beach and needed him to watch their place he’d balked at the idea, saying he didn’t want to leave his own place unattended. His father had dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand saying, “What you got that anybody’d want?”
         That had been nearly three weeks ago and, although he had spent a few nights at his own place after a late day at work or late night out drinking, he’d stayed here every other night. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice seeing as how his parents had a nice sprawling four bedroom home compared to his two room dump. Boggs had hired a gal to come by and clean-up for him but “clean” was all she’d wanted to do so he got rid of her although not until threatening to arrest her father. The ribbing he’d taken down at the station over that had been something fierce.
         “Ya damned fool,” Harvey Cruddup, one of the older deputies had said while half the
station listened on. “If you’d played your cards right that little gal probably woulda’ cleaned your house and maybe even let you have a crack at her every now and again as part of the job. But could you do that? No. You threaten to put her crippled daddy in jail.”
         “The man was a damn war hero,” Leo Sands the highway patrolman had chirped,
“and you’re gonna lock him up because his little girl won’t put out? The man rides at the head of the Memorial Day Parade with the mayor every year. Sits right next to him. Ain’t that right Bob?”
         “Mmm hmm,” Bob McDonough, the desk sergeant, said, nodding. “Every
year.”
         “Jeezus boy,” Hoyt hadn't even tried to hide his disgust. “You got to be the dumbest sumbitch in town.”
         The entire station house had erupted in laughter, even the Sheriff. Everyone except Hoyt who wouldn’t even look at him. He’d tried hiring another gal after that but none of the young ones would work for him and he had no desire to have one around his house that was too old for a good poke every now and again. The end result being his dump remained a dump. He got to his feet, teetering a bit, his head still a little light from the six pack he’d downed before bed. He felt the urge growing in his bladder and lurched off toward the bathroom, the toe of his left foot banging into one of the legs of the bed, the pain flaring up suddenly to cut through the fog of a good drunk. “Shit!” he yelped. Gritting his teeth he stumbled off into the darkness limping. Minutes later he returned with the electric fan from his parent’s room in tow, wisely flicking the hallway light on momentarily to illuminate his path before making his way back to the sofa-bed. Once there he felt for the socket, plugged the fan in, the blades pushing a cool stream of air over him. He positioned the fan at an angle that would keep a steady stream of air flowing across his body. He was sure his father would complain about his utility bill but he’d deal with that then. He fluffed his pillow and lay back hoping that sleep would quickly find him.
         He wasn’t sure just how long he’d been lying there before his eyes flickered open. He didn’t move for several minutes before he sat up. Had he heard something? He looked around the darkened room straining to see through it to no avail. He closed his eyes and concentrated trying to make out a sound but heard nothing. An unsettling sensation at the base of his neck was telling him something wasn’t right. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was but something was amiss. He looked around the room again, slowly this time his eyes peering into the darkness once again. Had it been a sound or just a feeling? A dream perhaps? He shook his head, no that wasn’t it. Or was it? He looked around a bit longer then slowly lay back scratching his cheek nervously, the sound oddly loud in his ears. He leaned over to his right and retrieved his service revolver, the weight of it oddly reassuring. He swung his feet around to the floor and began to stand freezing midway. The fan was off. He could just make out its faint outline against the darkness of the room, the blades still and silent. He reached for the lamp on the nightstand, his fingers just grazing the switch when he heard a floorboard creak. Before he could bring the gun around, light exploded behind his eyes and he felt himself drop back down on the edge of the bed before sliding down to the floor, his legs pinned awkwardly beneath him. He was vaguely aware of the gun being knocked from his hand followed by the dull thump as it hit the floor and slid across the room into the darkness. “Now hold on,” he heard himself say as he tried to rise just before his head jerked violently to the side again from another blow, this one even more jarring than the first. He brought his arms to his head, drawing himself into a ball while striving to roll away from the attack, the bed at his back proving to be an unyielding barrier.
         “Take what you want!” he yelled after a heel smashed into an exposed portion of his head followed quickly by a flurry of kicks and clubbing blows to his shoulder, arms and legs with each evasive movement inadvertently exposing a new target. He was struck in the head again and he felt a warm sensation spread across his scalp and all he could think was, “Lord, I hope I ain’t bleeding on the rug, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
         It continued, for how long he was unsure as he teetered on the brink of consciousness only to be wrenched back by a strike to his ribs. His knee. His knuckles. His wrists or his feet or ankles. It was hard to distinguish the blows apart now, his body having morphed into what felt like a single raw nerve where each new trauma seemed connected to its predecessors. At one point he thought it was over, the barrage of blows ceasing abruptly. His wildly beating heart pounding in his ears while he waited for the next blow. After what seemed like an eternity he peered up into the darkness just able make out the silhouette of a body in the faint light. Whoever it was they didn’t speak, they just stood there looking down at him, their breathing loud in his ears. Just when he was about to speak it started anew, the blows seemed even harder now, his body having been tricked into a false sense of security by the momentary reprieve.
         Boggs hugged himself tightly, wailing at the top of his lungs in fear and desperation at the unremitting savagery of this new and invigorated attack. He screamed loudly in desperation, hoping someone would hear and come to his rescue and simultaneously afraid his last act on earth would be one of cowardice. The strikes were quicker now and noticeably more frenzied, each one accentuated by an audible grunt from the attacker, their intent clear.
         “I’m going to die.” The thought popped into his head full grown quickly taking root and crowding out all others until the terror of that realization was all he knew. “I’m going to die. Jesus, God…I’m going to die.” Boggs had never known fear such as this. Had never known anything could paralyze him with such a deep, mind numbing dread. He wrapped his arms around his knees, chin digging into his chest, screaming so loud his ears crackled. He twisted instinctively and a blow ricocheted from his shoulder, striking his temple and a deeper darkness began to envelop him even as the assault continued, the sound of the blows fading until at long last the peace he'd been seeking all night found him and there was nothing but darkness.