slinked out of his reach, then lunged back like a dog. She picked up another bottle from the alley floor as one of the men decided that he'd had enough. He turned and ran, his soiled raincoat flapping behind him.
"Stay behind me, dammit!" Hemingway screamed, as he backed down the alley several feet, fearful for his best friend's safety.
Try staying behind someone you can't see, came the thoughts of the blind man.
"Then grab hold."
You say it ruins your timing.
"We won't have any timing with you dead."
The remaining three came at once. Hemingway spun, his taller frame shielding his smaller friend. "Which one is he?"
They're moving too quickly. I can't get a fix.
One of the men rushed Hemingway with a length of rebar, the dark metal easily capable of smashing his head or skewering him to the spine. Three steps and the man swung the metal in a sideways arc.
"Oh Hell," cried Hemingway, pushing Homer roughly to the ground. The larger man then sidestepped away from the blow, catching the length of metal under his arm as the energy of the swing dissipated. He growled at the pain of the impact, grasped the ridged rebar rod with his hand, and ripped the metal free from the grip of his attacker.
"Give it up and we'll let you go," snarled the woman. She might have been beautiful once, but meth had been an unforgiving mate.
Tell her we don't have anything.
"We don't have anything," replied Hemingway.
"You have more than me," she hissed, then launched herself at Hemingway.
Holding the trashcan lid with one hand and the rebar in the other, he felt like a knight from the days of old. He caught her in the side of the head with the lid. She gasped as her eyes rolled skyward. She tried to grab the trashcan lid as her balance deserted her. He swept her feet out from under her with the rebar. When she hit the ground, her head bounced twice. Her sneer slipped away with her consciousness.
Now there were only two left.
"Which one?" asked Hemingway.
The one on the left.
"Are you sure?"
Definitely.
Hemingway roared as he leaped to attack the man on the right. The rebar whipped round and round through the air then came down in an arc barely missing the target. The man lurched backwards, stumbling on the alley debris until his back struck the wall of a building. He brought his arms up to ward off a blow.
Hemingway roared again, this time banging the rebar against the trashcan lid like a demented berserker. The man bolted.
Gak!
Hemingway spun and discovered Homer on the floor of the alley, the remaining man's hands throttling his neck. Both men's eyes bulged— one from the effort to kill, the other from the effort to live. Tossing his weapons aside, Hemingway dove across the separating space, desperate to save his friend.
The big man caught the attacker in a body block, his weight carrying the man from Homer to the alley floor. They tumbled into a brace of trashcans. Hemingway scrambled to his knees before the other could recover. Larger and well-heeled in the fighting arts, it wasn't but a moment until Hemingway had the smaller desperate man in a headlock. The man thrashed for several seconds, grasping at Hemingway's iron grip. By the time he'd began to punch Hemingway, he was too weak to affect any reasonable power. His struggles swiftly grew weaker with each passing moment. Ten seconds later it was all over.
Hemingway tossed the unconscious man aside and crawled to where Homer lay gasping. He helped his friend to his feet then examined the bruising around the neck. Although the damage was slight, the muscles would ache for several days.
"You okay?" asked Hemingway.
My own fault. This is what happens when you follow the directions of a blind man.
Hemingway understood, but as always, there was nothing that could be done. Homer only saw the target in his mind's eye.
"Now what?" asked Hemingway.
Place the letter.
He reached into his back pocket and brought out an envelope that had been folded in half. He knelt before the unconscious man and slid the letter deep into a side pocket in the man's jacket. The letter identified the man by his name, date of birth, and place of birth. The oracles had dreamed of him the night before. Although they couldn't see that far into the future, they knew that he'd be of help to them sometime later on. The letter would come in handy when the man was hit by a taxi