13 October 2008

Fatal Cure - Chapter 49

I defiantly stare down the spiral scored barrel. I must not die snivelling for mercy to this friendless trash.
Large objects move beyond my killer’s shoulder, unfixing my attention. I focus thanklessly on new troubles being crammed into the moment. Sweat ices my skin and I suddenly need to take a dump.
Two men approach our tableau. One white, one black, both Creeps. Mr Rapist, ignorant of their presence, covers my prone form with blued-metal. He stands over a moaning semi-naked girl.
It’s the kind of dramatic cover art you see on crime story comic books.
The Creeps are unhurried. They wear Gold’s Gym muscle shirts and look fit enough to be worthy of the clothing.
I marvel at Death’s buffet style. A veritable Chinese menu of choices. I pick one bullet from list A, no more entrees and definitely no dessert.
“Go ahead you scum-sucking shit-bag, take your best shot.”
I got that from a movie. A shot in the head is an attractive proposition compared to barehanded tearing of flesh or paralysing fangs from a venomous face hugging Parasite.
I grin at Rat-face’s extended gun when his loosened pants fall, exposing an erection that bobs ridiculously.
The Creeps loom behind him. I pray he shoots straight before they take him.
“I see why you don’t like men, Krissie.”
It’s nothing pithy, my final farewell.
The Creeps halt. My voice has posed a new threat to easily distracted senses. Their expressionless eyes lock onto me.
“Maybe she just need’s the right cock, fatty.”
The Rat strokes his dick and chuckles, reabsorbing the Creep’s alien attention.
His evil expression droops as fast as his penis as I smile in anticipation of what he will soon receive. Humour, instead of blubbering, makes him uncertain and angrier.
“Laugh this off, fucker.”
Snarling, he pulls the trigger.
Jesus Christ, I almost messed myself. Close sphincter, open eyes.
The gun is silent. He thrusts it at me again and the trigger clicks four more times. This low angle shows no danger from a misfire. The magazine is absent. The grip is hollow.
Three cheers for unforgivable forgetfulness on my part.
Rat-face is infuriated by the gun’s deception. I snicker. The barrel creases my head twice, knocking me sideways. I’m laid out, sick and dizzy.
“We kin do it slow then.”
A reach for his favoured huge knife is blocked by a gripped elbow.
“Huh? Git orf me! SHIT GLOOMERS!”
He adapts quickly. The baby machete whistles through the air on its way to separating a Creeps head from its body. The blade is confiscated mid-swing by the other Creep.
Rat-face screeches like a banshee when parted from his toy. He’s held tight, in a dedicated clinch, mouth open so wide I hear the jaw joints click.
I know the strength of Creep’s muscles is compromised by slowed reflexes. I have used this to my advantage before. Still, I’m disappointed when they fail to hold the adrenaline injected, psycho contortionist. He wriggles free, kicking entangling pants from fleet feet.
Hell’s teeth, he accelerates like a drag car. I watch events from my rock-like vantage point with sorrow.
“Seeya, suckers!”
Bugger me sideways, he’s getting away. Karma, you suck.
Karma shudders at my lack of faith. Its balance teeters with our heavy load of bad energy towards a long delayed equalisation.
Kristine, its groggy puppet, is given the foresight to see an opportunity for revenge heading her way. Spillages, ungathered from previous deliveries, provide unlikely weapons for the astute. Groping hands close around a large wok. I would have chosen the pointy candelabra.
The molester leaps to clear her prostrate body. He doesn’t count on a rapidly ascending wok meeting urgently fleeing knee. A hollow gong marks the collision, overlaid by a new scream. Of agony this time. The kneecap dislocates, and the ground receives his tumbling body with firm embrace.
The prolonged yowling is joyful to my ears. Try to run on that mess, buddy.
I restrain a whoop of glee. The Creeps are heading away with a deliberate step. Engrossing them with shouts would be unwise.
I shake my head wildly behind turned backs. Kristine nods and sinks back into the mess of clothing around her. She holds her nerve even as Creeps brush by, eyes locked on their sobbing, pants-less prey.
The damaged man gains his good leg to hop away energetically, imploring and swearing at the hosts to leave him alone. They ignore both abuse and entreaties.
Kristine crawls away on all fours; scrambling behind a concrete potted plant. She clings to its edge, watching the Creeps shuffle off. Moments later she turns and runs.
I’m stunned into morose resignation, and shrug stiffly. Who can blame her for reaching the point of uncontrollable panic? With swapped roles I’d be in the same zone. Instead of alarm I’m experiencing a strange calm that is hampering a proper freak out. There’s no precedent to take a measurement from. If inescapable death enables cowards to die with dignity who am I to complain?
Watching the Creeps eat our mugger would be hard, if somewhat satisfying. Then I put together a plan for their inevitable return. I’d bash my head against the bricks until I’m unconscious.
Plan made, I struggle to turn on one side to better view the show. My bucking movements are arrested by a hand that clamps strained shoulders. I draw breath for a really good scream only to be stopped by Kristine’s whisper.
“Shhhhhh. It’s only me.”

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