Love and Other Wounds by Jordan Harper Page A

stay and watch them boys?” It sounds like Little Bird. “Bumbaclots going nowhere—dead don’t walk.”
    â€œYeah, them boys is going to move.” That’s older brother Birdie. “Them coming with us, once we fix them right. Got to get them ready for travel—for easy packing. The rest of us is goin’ to make a run to get the tools.”
    Water plugs my nostrils—it takes all I’ve got to stop from blowing out. I take little tastes of air with the high side of my mouth. I’ve got less than a minute before that’s gone too.
    â€œWhat tools?” Bird asks.
    Kody’s forearm blocks the drain. I get my hand under, so it’s my palm blocking the drain. It might slurp and that’ll get Birdie and Little Bird’s attention. Or might not. I tense up and get ready to chance it.
    â€œCutlasses. Machetes. We going take these Brooklyn boys to pieces and leave Devin with a mystery, see? So you sit tight, little rudeboy, until we come back with the proper.”
    The drain slurps, one quick burst. I piss one warm trickle. My breath comes back in short hard draws as I wait for Birdie to come poking. But there’s nothing but the shower static.
    I can’t make out much in the front room. It sounds like it happens the way Birdie said. Him and the posse leave to get carving tools to chop up me and the boys like jerk chicken. I’m blind and half deaf at the bottom of the tub with no idea if Little Bird is out on the stoop or sitting on the shitter three feet away. But I do know they left him with something, which puts him up on me.
    But now’s better than never, and never is showing up when Birdie comes back with the machetes. You can’t play dead through a dismemberment. My body’s aching all over from ice water and dead weight all pressing on me. I pull in my arm, playing Twister with stiffs. My elbow pops—I wait for the bullets—the bullets don’t come. I raise up from under Skinny, not looking at his face. His half-a-face. I break out to the surface. Pushing Skinny aside sets something loose. He barks a death rattle. For a second I think it’s mine. I look around. The bathroom is empty. I live a few more minutes at least.
    I’m standing in the spray, stepping out of the tub. Our clothes are gone. The yardies stole my drawers. The door is open. I can’t see Little Bird. I’m looking for something to split his dome. Looking and seeing nothing. I don’t have long. Birdie has to have his machetes stashed someplace. I don’t think the yardies are at the hardware store shopping right now. I take a peek through the doorway. Little Bird’s sitting in the same chair I was in thirty minutes ago with his back to me. He thinks any threat to him is coming through the door, not from the tub full of corpses. Maybe he’s right. Back in the bathroom I can’t find anything to kill him with. I could rip off the towel rack, but it’s flimsy fake brass. There’s one old toothbrush. It’d work to shove that through the eyeball straight into the brain, but that’s crazy kung fu shit and I can’t take that kind of chance. That leaves a bottle of shampoo and a dirty-ass towel. Even covered in the blood of my friends I can’t think of anything murderous to do with a shampoo bottle, so that leaves the towel.
    I soak the towel over Dap’s body. I twist it tight into a rope and come creeping on Little Bird. My feet stick as I go through the kitchen. We kept it sloppy here. Real sloppy. But that’s over now. I cross my arms, slip the towel over Little Bird’s neck, and straighten my elbows like I’m ripping something apart. Heclaws at it. He makes noises like a busted radiator. He kicks his life out onto the dirty linoleum.
    His drawers got piss in them, so I wear his baggy jeans commando and slip on the fat flannel shirt. Baggy gear means everything fits everybody. I’m ready to make a