Robert Enwalis, 39

He was a hoary old bastard, was Enwalis. Half pickled by a life time of boozing, made hard by too much sun and heavy lifting. Yard work, dock work, factory work. The kind of lean, leathery muscle that can take a swing from an iron pipe and ellicit little more than a grunt. Square jaw sandpapered with salt and pepper stubble, knuckles split from too many bar fights. Sour sweat smell, strong teeth run to yellow. Part junk yard dog, part rusted machine parts, with some tree roots and rock thrown in for good measure. 

Once, back in Cuba, he'd gone 37 rounds with El Gordo, bare knuckle fighting and drinking raw rum between rounds. Had lasted almost three hours. By the time he'd dropped the world was but a spinning deluge of crimson, smeared yellow lights and slurred screams. He'd lost the fight, but had been walking again in two days. El Gordo, the nominal winner, had remained bed ridden for the rest of his sordid life.

Nothing had ever come easy to him. Nothing had ever stayed for long in his hands. In his bed, in his bank account. Homeless now some two years, he'd thought the world had gone to hell a long time ago. 

Turns out he'd been wrong. 

Placing his hands on the small of his back, he leaned backways and heard bones pop. He grimaced. He hated mornings. No fit time for hard work. Reached down and took up a pipe wrench as heavy as sin and long as his forearm. Hefted it. 

The fucker's were come down the alley toward him. They'd killed his old dog three days ago. He'd been ducking them and running for near to three weeks. Enough. Time to step up and bat.

The first was a a young woman. Curvy, her slack, rotted face still holding hits of beauty. In the bone structure, he mused, as she shambled toward him. Good cheekbones. Stepping forward, he shifted his weight smoothly from right to left foot, put his hip and back into the blow, and ruined her cheekbones for good.

Down she went. That kind of blow kept them down. The second was an old lady, her hair plastered around her porcelain skull, her wrinkled face sagging almost off her skull. She went down easy, the force of the blow sending her stumbling to the left. A fat Japanese kid in a basketball jersey took a hammer blow right on the summit of his skull, and smacked down to his knees.

Enwalis hopped back a few steps, took a sip from his flask. There was another fifty or so of them coming. Spaced out some, but it would get intense pretty soon. The alley opened up behind him, beckoning, promising escape.

Fuck it. 

Wrench in hand, he stepped back into the fray. He'd gone three hours with El Gordo. Sure he'd been younger than. But these freaks didn't compare to that mighty Cuban, God curse his fat slarding ass.

A slender man with a ridiculous moustache and a brown suit stumbled over the Japanese kid, righted and took the wrench to the face. Lost his jaw. Second blow crumpled his brain pan in. A seven year old kid took the wrench in a swing upper cut that lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling back into the crowd. Enwalis switched the wrench to his other hand, shook out his fingers. 

The moans were everywhere. Still, he'd fucked some whores who had sounded even more bored. This wasn't so bad.

Skinny black man. Mexican dude in Lederhosen. Woman with her face torn off in beige buisiness suit. Police officer, almost six foot five, big as a linebacker. A pregnant woman, dragging a mess between her legs. A girl so skinny she had probably looked more dead than she did now. Crunch. Swing. Crunch. Down onto one knee. Crunch. Eye spouting out. Crunch, slammed into the wall. Steadily backing up. Swinging his arm to loosen the shoulder, warming up now. 

A moan from behind. Enwalis swung around without thinking, wrench cutting through the air to cave in an old man's chest. Double sided now. Enwalis looked up, gauging. Must be almost nine in the morning. He brought the wrench, slick with hair and jellied blood into the old man's face,  ended his moaning. More around him, tripping and climbing over the felled bodies. No way out.

But then, there never really had been. You can't pick what cards are dealt to you, thought Enwalis, taking a final swig of whiskey from his flask before throwing it in a fat woman's face. All you can do is decide whether you die swinging or clawed down from behind as you ran.

Three more dropped before one latched onto his left arm, teeth digging in. By the time he had knocked it off another had enveloped him in a hug, dug its teeth into the muscle of his neck. Most men might have gone down at that point. Not Enwalis. With a roar, he shook off the zombie like a bear might a drunken squirrel, and kept on swinging.

Crunch. Fall. Crunch. Fall. The ground slick beneath his feet. Breath heaving in his chest, superheated, rasping. Vision blurring. Turning and turning, bringing his wrench down, swinging even when he could no longer make out their faces.

Their moans changed. Became roars in his head, joined the rushing thrum in his ears to become old cries, old screams and encouragement. The lights were blurred, he could barely stand. Wiping his forearm across his face, clearing his eyes of sweat and blood, he grinned at his towering opponent. A mountain of a man. Pain was everywhere. Teeth slicked with blood, he laughed. A second chance to win that fight. With a final roar, Enwalis surged forward, and brought his wrench screaming around, and before the world went dark, before he lost track of it all, he saw El Gordo go down, and felt the sweet, sweet rush of a dark and thrilling victory.