Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill Page B

in his right hand. He reached up, wrapped his left hand around the doorknob, turned it slow, made sure it wasn’t locked. Swallowed. Counted to three. Pushed the door open, stepped into the trailer.
    His heart double-jabbed and right-crossed his chest. Burnt ammonia gagged his inhale. Moistened his eyes. Mixed with the sour waft of three kids on a red vinyl front seat pulled from a ’77 Monte Carlo. Their unwashed hair clumped and matted. Shirts that matched their soiled bodies and mud-bogged underwear. Their mouths and cheeks textured the shade of liver.
    Whalen aimed his Glock down at a female in a rayon nightgown trying to stand up from the floor of wadded paper. Empty plastic baggies. Coleman canisters. Everything flung in disarray.
    She’d a twisted nest of hair the shade of water-contaminated engine oil. Her complexion was the hue of cottage cheese. Her braless sags pressed against her gown as she stood up. Scratches and buckeye bruises stretched about her ginseng-veined arms and legs. She screamed at Whalen, “The fuck you staring at, swine?”
    Whalen demanded, “Show your hands!”
    To Whalen’s right, empty boxes of Sudafed and jugs of distilled water lined a kitchen counter where a man hovered over a stove, holding a wooden spoon. An orange flame heated liquid into bubbles within a clear glass bowl. The man’s belly, chitlin-white and covered in mossy curled hair, peeked from beneath a T-shirt two sizes too small and rested over his red plaid pants. Black elastic straps ran over his bald head, securing a gas mask. Cylinders connected on each side of his mouth for Darth Vader–style breathing.
    The man looked at Whalen, his eyes fogged behind two circles of Plexiglas. His muffled voice yelled, “Go ’head and shoot, watch us all flame up, porky.”
    Whalen told him, “Step away from the stove.”
    The woman hollered, “He don’t have to do shit! Can’t you see we’s cooking?”
    Whalen had a cockfight in his chest and told her, “Lady, shut your mouth! Sir, step away from the fucking stove!”
    In his Darth Vader tone, the man said, “Don’t talk that way to my wife. Got kids in the house.”
    Losing his patience, Whalen said, “Sir—”
    Before Whalen could react, the female grabbed at the kitchen counter. Turned. Lunged Lizzy Borden–style at him. Whalen raised his left arm to block the oncoming blur. Took a gash from the blade of a butcher knife. Yelled, “Shit!”
    He hooked his left hand around the woman’s wrist. Kept the knife controlled. Pounded the butt of his Glock down onto her forehead. She dropped to her knees along with the knife. Whalen released her wrist. The woman screamed, “You fuck!”
    Quivering like the adrenaline cooking on the stove, the man rushed Whalen. Whalen fired a round into the man’s right thigh. The female hollered, “No!” The man fell forward onto Whalen. From the car seat in the living room the kids started barking like hounds on a coon trail. Then Whalen felt pain stab into his left thigh. Gritted out, “Dammit!” The man pushed his weight against Whalen, grabbed for his gun. Whalen glanced down. The woman was on her knees. She grabbed the butcher knife again, drove it into Whalen’s leg. While Whalen wrestled the man for control of the gun, the lady hollered for the kids. “You little bastards get in here, help your mother and father!”
    Whalen held tight to the Glock. The man had both hands wrapped on top of Whalen’s, prying and pulling at his grip. Then the woman stood up. Bear-hugged and pushed at Whalen and her husband. Whalen backpedaled, lost his footing. His back hit the floor. The weight of the man and woman slammed down on top of him. Took his wind. Fatigue set in. Whalen huffed for air, didn’t know how much longer he could keep control of the gun, fight the man and woman. Then he felt three sets of teeth dig into his shin and thigh, gnawing like rabid hounds.
    *   *   *
    Liz’s knees mashed into pasty fibers. Elbow balled his