Sick Of Surviving by J. Cordova (best fiction books of all time TXT) 📖

movement on his right in nearby bushes, but it was too late, the bottle had already broken on his left ear. "Mother fucker!" He stumbled onto one knee and swung the hammer wildly, hitting nothing but air. The figure began to take shape, another baldy about Odd's height but with more muscle. "I’m gonna fuck you up.” It seemed like he saw it in slow motion, maybe due to a slight concussion. The figure swung his leg back; Odd saw it coming straight at his face. It took little effort, just reflex, to bring the hatchet into the kicker's shin. With the force of the kick, the hatchet was completely imbedded in the leg and couldn't be removed.
Regaining his composure, Odd smiled and laughed at his attackers lying on the floor so helpless “Tell me something Skinny, how does it feel? Huh? I can't hear you. It's ok; you can tell me when they grow back. I need my hatchet back.” Odd put his foot on the kicker’s ankle and yanked the cable with both arms, retrieving the hatchet along with a nice chunk of flesh. "The loud moans will definitely attract more of the bastards, gotta get the fuck out of here." he thought. He ran down a dark residential street with cul-de-sacs that ran east and west. Eventually the street led him about a quarter mile to where the stores and the bald guys awaited.


Part Three

PST was written in black spray paint all over the buildings surrounding the shopping center. Psycoe Street Thugs, that’s how they spell it. It started about 7 years ago as a small graffiti crew consisting of about 8 teenagers. Their numbers had grown once they started selling weed to the local middle school and high school kids. Within two years they grew to nearly 60 members, controlling a square mile section near Odd's apartment. 3 years after they controlled 4 square miles and their numbers grew innumerable, all members varied between the ages of 10 to 25. In that time period Odd noticed their scrawls all around the neighborhood grow, along with a larger number of crack and meth addicts stealing at night and begging for money during the day. For what this gang had done and caused, there will be no mercy for any of them.
He reached the back alley when he noticed a guard unzipping his pants near a dumpster. The guard hadn’t seen Odd, just seemed too preoccupied with taking care of business. Quickly Odd walked up behind the guard, "What the fuck?!" The guard turned his head into Odd’s hammer. The blow caused the gangster’s head to bounce off the dumpster with a loud crack. Odd chuckled as the thug fell with dick in hand, but was surprised to see him slowly rise and stumble out the alley.
Holding his head, the guard drunkenly made his way into a section of the shopping center’s parking lot. His moans caught the attention of a stoned pair of guards who stared at the bleeding hunched over figure through bloodshot eyes. Both of them looked like they hit puberty the week before; one covered in acne, the other with a small mustache. It took them a few seconds to realize what it was they were watching, "Oh shit, I think that's Mayhem." "Who's that?" said the other. The pair looked up at Odd swing his sling shot at them; the closest one got hit in the throat, fell to his knees and struggled to breath. Mustache boy whistled and bolted into the darkness.
"Fuck him. I'm tired of running...” Odd told the acne boy. “I got a question, what did you think you would get by joining this gang?" Odd asked as he began soaking the young scout with the spray bottle. "What?" he managed to squeeze out of his throat. The kid could smell the liquid, and tears began running down his face. “What are you doing?” asked the boy through a choking sob. "I thought you wanted the thug life? Anyways, I won't kill you. That’s between you and the flames." A dozen PST members arrived to a ghastly scene scored by an unearthly language consisting of high-pitched screams echoing through the shopping center.
Odd made his way around the block to the bushes where the food lay hidden. "How am I going to carry all this shit?" Looking around quickly he spotted a bent shopping cart that was lying on its side. Quickly he realized why it was being used as a seat, the front wheels shuddered and shook making a commotion that grew louder the faster he pushed. He ran away from the shopping center as fast as he could. Someone whistled; they’d spotted him. Two blocks away Odd slowed down.
Odd noticed the duffel bags came with detachable shoulder straps. Odd felt his heart beat harder and harder, yet he ran fast and gained a block lead. Removing a strap and soaking it in alcohol, he stepped up to a parked truck on the sidewalk and twisted off the gas cap. They were two blocks away. The strap was stuffed into the gas tank with a piece hanging out. One block away. His lighter clicked and lit the strap. Ignoring sore legs, pounding heart and fatigue, he pushed the cart as fast as he could.


It had been two years ago when he saw the homeless man with a concave skull. He had gotten off of work late from the metal shop; the bus picked him up an hour later. After getting off the bus, he waked to a nearby liquor store to get a drink. There in the parking lot, a man lay on his back in a pool of blood by a dumpster. "What the fuck you looking at?" said a 6 foot and a half, 300 pound gorilla wearing a plain white t-shirt. He showed off the Louisville slugger he held in his hand. "I don't see shit." Alberto replied and walked straight home. "P.S.T.!" barked the savage. That image stayed etched into his memory.
The next incident took place a couple of months later. Walking home late from a nearby taco place, Alberto was followed home by a pair of kids. He was ten feet from his door when one of them came beside him and pointed a gun to his face. "Empty your pockets." he looked and saw the fear in the gunman's eyes, but the gun made the kid feel comfortable. "Hurry up!" said the lookout. Alberto took out his wallet and gave him the five dollars he had for the next day's bus pass. "Chump." said the teenager as he grabbed the money and ran.
One of his neighbors was a hard working landscaper with a family of three. He would warm up his pickup with all kinds of gear in the bed every morning while Alberto walked by on the way to the bus stop. Then one day the man wasn't there anymore. A few days later Alberto found out through Irma that the landscaper was shot. The man was at a nearby doughnut shop one morning, getting some coffee for the day ahead, when two young men approached his pickup and told him to get out. "No, I got to go to work." he said. They pulled him out, beat him, and then shot him in the head. The pickup was found a mile away from the doughnut shop without any of the equipment.
"You know, when I met you I though 'He's a bit weird, harmless, but definitely odd'. Now you're more....Odd!" Irma told Alberto after telling him the story of the landscaper. "Guess I am." That’s was the last thing he said before cutting off contact with anyone for a month.

The force of the shock wave threw the tired figure into the cart. His feet seemed to lift over his head toward the side; the cart defied gravity with him and landed on his shoulder. Screams and moans slowly replaced the deafening ring in his ears. Dizzy and nauseated, Odd forced his body to put the bags back into the cart. His eyes stared into the fire when a figure moved on the floor near him. The charred, bald figure was small, maybe five feet in length. It just shifted its head side to side, with rolled back eyes, jawless.
His stomach heaved, his nose and mouth felt like he was drowning. Odd’s eyes couldn’t focus; everything was blurry with double images. He vomited. It hurt to stand; when he tried to put some of his weight on the cart he felt his right shoulder snap. Vomiting again, he noticed this time it was blood. “What the hell is that in my rib?” feeling a five inch piece of shrapnel in his left side, he laughed as his vision narrowed and grew darker and darker. With legs shaking he pushed the food. Somewhere in the darkness the smell of dirt followed by the pleasant feeling of cold concrete on his cheek. “You didn’t beat me. You couldn’t win. You bastards where scared. You didn’t beat me…” He felt himself smile. Then he heard a whistle.


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Publication Date: 07-24-2009

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