Angry Jasper: Twenty-nine

CHAPTER THREE
IN A WORLD OF HURT.




This crap was getting old, jazz thought from the tiny holding cell. He was crowded together with a hand full of corporate soldiers from the ship. Several had been wounded, and one of those was very near death. The ship’s pilot, a salty old cuss, with the look of a discontent at the end of his career, cradled the dying man’s head in his lap. There were tears in the commanders taunt and straining expression. His lip quivered terribly each time the dying soldier grimaced in mortal pain.

The room was small and dingy, like an old basement that had not been cleaned in years. There were no windows, and only one heavy iron door. Jazz curled up close to the door, apart from the others, and the blood slowly covering the cold hard floor. The room was dark, with just a bit of pale light leaking through gaps around the door.

The pilot stared at Jazz. It was a contemptuous glare. The man seemed to be muttering under his breath. Jazz looked away. There was no sense in picking a fight, and making this situation any worse. But Jazz couldn’t escape that burning stare. It was soon too much to ignore. He met the man’s dark eyes.

“Do I owe you credits or something?” Jazz said.

“Keep thinking how we should have shot you and that bitch first off.”

“Might have been doing me a favor,” Jazz replied.

The dying man coughed. His breathing was slower and more labored now. The anguish of watching the man die was evident in everyone’s mood.

“The both of you ain’t worth one of these men,” the pilot’s voice choked with emotion.

“You mean this room full of heroes?” Jazz should have kept his mouth shut, but that was a lesson he just had never learned. He was hopelessly outnumbered, but it was far too late for recriminations. His mouth and piss-poor attitude was about to cost him one hell of a whipping.

There was an odd moment when it might have blown over, even though he knew it wouldn’t. The others waited to see what the pilot was going to do. When he lunged at Jazz the fight was on.

Jazz was ready for the man. He stepped aside and sent the pilot slamming face first into the wall. The impact made a sickeningly loud clapping noise, like two planks smacked together. The pilot was out cold before he hit the floor. Jazz was still regarding his handiwork when someone’s fist smashed his left cheek.

“Shit!” Jazz cried. The punch spun him around. Blood and snot and spit spattered the wall in front of him. He was still reeling when a kick to the back drove the air from his lungs.

So much for a fight. Jazz could only curl himself into a ball and hoped the louts exhausted themselves before they did some real damage. They kicked and stomped him with the unhinged intensity of men who had nothing to lose any longer. Jazz prayed for the cold numbness of unconsciousness, and even a bit for a quick painless death. It was quickly apparent that neither would come soon enough. Only once did he attempt to fight back, but caught the heel of a boot in the forehead instantly.

The cell door opened suddenly and several guards joined in the melee, swinging sticks and clubs at Jazz’ attackers. Still the frenzied prisoners persisted. For a long, painfully brutal moment Jazz was at the center of the storm, still fighting for air, and still fending off blows.

At last the prisoners had been pummeled into a heap. Jazz sat up, gulping air into reluctant lungs and pressing himself into a corner. He looked up at the guards and tried to speak, to offer some sort of thanks. That gratitude would be short lived, though. They grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him from the room, dumping him heavily on the floor outside the cell.