by Bonds, Javan
Finally, Rawlings was fed up with the pathetic attempts at warfare. Taking a quick swing at the side of her head, he simply wanted to knock the maniac unconscious. Just before the piece of sporting equipment collided with Catharine's skull, she popped up onto her toes for an instant. The aluminum impacted her neck, popping arteries and crushing the windpipe. It would soon be finished.
Choking and gurgling, the zealot did her best to squeeze her throat with broken fingers, vainly trying to open it back up. Throughout the myriad of pitiful noises, she couldn't make an intelligible sound. Eventually, Catharine Kelly sank to her knees before collapsing onto her back. Suffocation would definitely win out over blood loss as the ultimate cause of death. It was doubtful she was aware she'd meet her maker soon, even if able to breathe. The Grim Reaper would always win, no matter what.
☠☠☠
While his comrade dealt with a crazy, Elliott had his own hands full. A man, Ralph Meta, came running at him with something large and cylindrical in his grasp. There was no time to understand what it was until the loony was right in front of him. A wine bottle! In the split second of realization, Ralph splashed fluid onto Saunders's face. It was nothing caustic, but the alcohol in his eyes made him pull back.
Wincing, he tried to clear the liquid from his stinging eyes by shaking his head. As his vision cleared, he took in his attacker lifting the vessel overhead, wine pouring from it. Without a chance to do more than smirk, he noticed his original assumption was a little off. It's not wine. It's Bacardi zombie! The comically bluish party drink came in a container just as thick, though. One of those bottles could break bones without coming close to shattering.
Meta forced it down with all his might at his enemy's shoulder. Raising his bat to block the blow, Saunders caused the thick glass to burst into uncountable razor-sharp pieces of pain. Not all were crashing to the floor, more than one shard embedded into the attacker's bare skin. Bleeding like a stuck pig, he could only stare at the intruder with blind ferocity.
Though he couldn't put his finger exactly on how Elliott could clearly see there was something peculiar about Meta's eyes. Some kind of drugs? Booze? Maybe it's just religious fervor.
The wacko yanked a large fracture of the cracked glazing from his forearm, dripping with blood. Turning his hand, he attempted to slash the unbeliever. Saunders jerked back, only getting a glancing slice across the front of his shirt. As he withdrew, he rolled the bat in both hands before lowering it. With all the strength he had, he heaved it up, between Ralph's legs.
The extremist's testicles were decimated. They were shoved up through the scrotal sac, bringing a spray of crimson along with them. Unable to even cry out, his eyes rolled up as he brought his hands down to his bleeding groin. Knocked unconscious by the overwhelming torment of the impromptu castration, the radical fell over to his side. He pivoted on the top of the baseball bat, still between his legs.
Crumpling onto stained carpet would've been quite survivable. That is if it weren't covered in fragments of that broken bottle. Before he toppled, Elliott knew the score. The Brit couldn't have saved him if he wanted to. Good thing I don’t.
Immediately, the jagged pieces of glass sliced into the deluded devotee's skin, covering him in numerous, weeping gashes. His limp body started spewing dark blood when the carotid was severed. Unbeknownst to Ralph Meta, he would die, sinking into a crimson stain that pooled in a perfect oval on the plush white carpet.
Fortunately, the agony wouldn't be experienced. At least, luckily for him. For the sadistic gratification of The Screenwriter and The Audience, though, suffering would be visited upon others this night. Thirst for delicious torture would never be quenched.
☠☠☠
Lidstone stood ready between her two compatriots, simultaneously confronting her own assailant, Mary Ann Coronado. She didn't really want to murder the nutcase running at her with an unearthly scream, so she simply smacked her in the shoulder after she got close enough. Maybe due to some illness from before the collapse, malnutrition because of the strange eating habits of the cultists since May Day, or possibly just from the angle the axe hit her, her arm popped out of joint. Looking down at her dangling appendage, she let out a near-deafening cry.
"I'm sorry! I really didn't mean to do that. I thought you were just going to hurt me. Maybe–" Jenny began to apologize.
Giving no warning, Mary Ann, with her still working left arm, shoved a fork into the intruder, just above the collarbone. Twisting and pushing the piece of silverware down, it finally broke free, a chunk of bloodied meat hanging from the tines. Jenny now felt violently accosted.
"What the fuck, lady?" she pulled back in shock.
It was clear to her, after that outright attack, these people wanted to hurt her and her friends! All we did was wind up in the wrong place. She turned one of the blades to Coronado, slicing down into the left from just above her right arm. Steel drove into her shoulder muscle, shattering the collarbone as it passed through.
The already disjointed extremity now flopped loosely, ripping the wound open wider with the pull of gravity. The wielder of the axe jerked it violently free from the ragged tear, swing being halted by a now fractured sternum. Only out of necessity, she had just defeated the lunatic before her.
Slamming the top of the axe head into her torso, the Canadian heard more than one rib crack. She was blindsided by the other member of Miss Cassandra's flock toppled onto her back. In a writhing caterwauling jumble, Mary Ann Coronado relentlessly fought unseen demons until losing consciousness from blood loss. Soon enough for her, she would be experiencing the tortures of the underworld. If the unbelievable agony she was experiencing while awake wasn't enough, she would be receiving it tenfold in just a few minutes.
☠☠☠
Between Coronado and Kelly, came a familial trio, Jim and Barbara Ouderkirk, accompanied by their daughter, Ellie Hutcheson. The couple both carried steak knives, while their child brandished a drinking glass. In the minds of most, the third weapon was far from deadly. If used correctly, though, it could break bones. That's precisely what Hutcheson intended to do with it. Emptied of liquid, she had her fist jammed all the way to the bottom of the drinking container.
First up to bat, the child of the other two tried to punch Karen Barker in the jaw with her improvised glass boxing club. When the target ducked out of the way, her blow only impacted the left shoulder. Barker screamed as bones were shattered, and blood was drawn. Already understanding these crazies deserved nothing but violence, Karen thrust her spear straight out. She impaled Hutcheson between two of the ribs on her left side, the jagged end spike protruding out her back. Their eyes grew wide as they looked at each other with equal hatred.
"My baby!" her mother cried, rushing forward with a knife at the ready.
As Barbara pushed her away, repeatedly stabbing her blade into the Brit, Karen was jostled to her left. Moving to her left, Ellie's right, caused her staff of rebar to skip along the ribs. Exit and entry wounds were elongated until the sternum stopped the path. Not letting go of her weapon, Barker’s spear crashed against the other's chest bone, causing the sharpened end to drive into the back of her arm.
"Mom, make her stop!" Ellie screamed in terror.
"I'm trying, honey!" the older woman yelled in a panic as she continually slashed and stabbed the other.
The rebar stake pulled the descending aorta away from the cardiovascular muscle, meaning every drop of blood pumping to her heart would now be shooting into her chest and out the gaping wound. None of them realized it, but her left lung was also nicked, slowly deflating like a balloon with the smallest leak possible. She was getting very weak, very fast.
Standing was growing tiresome. Ellie's knees simply gave way, dropping her full weight onto the metal sticking through her. Not nearly strong enough to hold an entire person’s body weight, the bar broke free from Karen’s grasp. As Ellie Hutcheson collapsed into an unconscious pile, Barbara screamed her name over and over, to no avail. The b
ereaved mother holding a steak knife was standing in front of the now defenseless killer of her offspring.
“You’ll pay for that, bitch!” With that, she slammed her meat cutting utensil into Karen’s chest, squarely in the crook of her collarbone.
The attacked woman tried to scream, coming up with only clucking gurgles. Barbara continued forcing the knife in, ripping innards and gore with each pull. Though alive for the moment, Karen was dying, and she knew it. So did her assailant.
Ceasing the onslaught, Barbara Ouderkirk watched as Karen Barker stumbled backward, bumping into a doorknob and falling to the side. She just avenged her daughter for what it was worth. The woman could only stare into the other’s eyes as she gulped in vain, trying to get a breath.
She cackled mirthlessly. “See? I told you you’d get what you deserve!”
Just as she finished speaking, Paul turned to her back. His battle with Catherine Kelly had just concluded. Not feeling any remorse for his victory, he realized the enemy had to be dealt with harshly. Us or them!
The Englishman hit her in the back of the head so hard; it probably gave her a concussion. She would never know, though. Her skull was crushed inwards, just at the base, causing her cerebral cortex to be demolished, not to mention the severed spinal cord.
The impact was so intense; gray matter squirted from her nostrils and ear canals. The woman was now clinically brain-dead. The pain of death wouldn’t be realized for another of Cassandra Machemer’s insane congregates. Barbara Ouderkirk got a ticket on the easy road to eternal suffering.
Voiding her bowels, she collapsed in a twitching heap. Jim let out an insane cry in such utter shock at seeing his only known living family members murdered in front of him. Enraged, he lunged at Rawlings. Before Jim could bring his blade down on his enemy, a dull Bush knife thwacked him in the side, just below the extended left arm.
After watching her friend suffocate in bleeding, silent horror, Opdycke wanted some payback. Her swing made him reflexively drop his blade. He wouldn’t be picking anything up with that arm for the rest of his life—So...not for the next couple of minutes.
Crashing into Paul, Ouderkirk knocked him to the floor and landed on top of him. Rolling from the top of his foe, he deftly, he scooped up the knife with his good arm and started moving at Lynn. Her initial strike didn’t put him out of commission.
By the time he was about halfway between her and Rawlings, the man with the baseball bat was already on his feet once more. He stepped forward and took a hard swing at the back of the nut’s skull. Moving away, the berserker only received a slight grazing, knocking him loopy, but still conscious. Regardless, he remained on his intended path.
When he collided with the machete bearer, the steak knife still stuck in her throat and was dragged down by gravity with the crazy. Arteries, esophagus, trachea, larynx, and any other vital connection were broken free from the encapsulation of dermis and muscle. A river of blood started gushing from Lynn Opdycke as she dropped her weapon, sinking to the floor. She was going to die the same way Karen had, in noiseless torment. One of her greatest nightmares was now happening.
Trying to stand, Jim, rose onto his hands and knees while looking up at the enemy he just killed. About to laugh at her, he lost his mind... and pretty much everything else above the shoulders. Having just finished with Marianne Coronado, Jenny Lidstone turned and slammed her fire axe onto the back of his neck. The man died without knowing it.
Cleanly beheaded, his muscles tensed before going slack. Crimson rocketed from the ragged stump where his cranium was once attached. If not experiencing final torture in this life, Jim Ouderkirk would surely receive it to the extreme on the other side of the gate he was now entering. It was going to be endless!
At this point, their original team of five dropped to only three, all while snuffing out a total of six enemies. The ratio wasn’t dreadful, but considering their numbers, made it beyond frightening. There was no way any of them would be leaving this hotel without a miracle. Hopefully, their luck wouldn’t run out.
It felt like they entered the second-story hallway hours ago, yet they hadn’t passed ten doorways on either side. They were chopping, bludgeoning, and stabbing enemies with each step. Seeing no point in leaving suitable weapons to remain unused, both Rawlings and Saunders picked up Karen’s rebar spear and Lynn’s machete, respectively. Everything that could defend their lives was needed if they planned to get out of the Loews.
“Why the bloody fuck are we even doing all this shite?” Elliott raked his bat and machete together, sloughing some of the remains from each.
Putting his foot against the chest to wrench his spike from another maniac’s eye socket, Paul laughed. “You really think we can turn back now? Only a few hundred more to go between Miss Cassandra and us.”
Jenny snickered, yanking her axe from a halved cranium. “Yeah, well, she better be worth it.”
☠☠☠
16
Watch As
They All Fly
Away
Fourteen... fifteen hours after, I got to work, and I said: “Fuck it!” Sako’s not coming back! And damned if I wasn’t right. Sure as shit, we never got a fucking whiff of the bastard. Abso-goddamn-lutely nothing!
Maybe he and his wife, Karen, just got fucking freaky last night, and he turned his radio off...could still be on silent. Even more fucking unlikely, Mike Brown was telling the truth, and he split town after almost killing the motherfucker. That’s bullshit! I know it, and he knew I knew it when he fucking told me. At least to me, it’s looking more and more like the mayor’s kid was telling the truth.
Don’t know why I believe him. Guess he just seems honest. Plus, the story is just too fucking ridiculous to be bullshit. A ten-year-old wouldn’t be able to think up twisted shit like that! Well, most ten-year-olds. I was a sick little bastard when I was his age.
Sergeant Shawn Salzman walked into the dingy hotel room he used as an apartment. Honey, I’m home! Without flipping the lights on, taking his clothes or even shoes off, he collapsed onto the bed. A couple of hours of sleep was all he would get until he had to get up and get ready for the next shift. Fucking joy!
☠☠☠
17
The Angel of Death
The three subjects of The Hand left a trail of blood, human remains, and broken bodies in their wake. Most of which weren’t their own. Though scraped, bruised, nicked, and exhausted, they were mostly whole. Their target was now within sight. There were only a few more handfuls of her deluded followers to get through before reaching the finale.
“Why is she still here? She could’ve gone to one of the other floors... Or I’m sure there’s an emergency exit.” Saunders questioned incredulously.
After destroying another skull, the other Brit shrugged. “Ahh...This is just the way it’s supposed to be.”
If she hadn’t remained, it wouldn’t have been as climactic for The Audience. The Screenwriter doesn’t disappoint.
☠☠☠
A physically fit, widely balding wacko, Phil Kessler, was next in Rawlings’s sights. Since he was running full tilt, straight at the Briton, Lidstone focused more of her attention on her clear comer. Besides, from first glance, it didn’t appear he had a weapon on him. Dumbass deserves what Paul is gonna do to him!
Several arm lengths from his obvious target, he stopped in his tracks. Without any type of signal, still looking at the man in front of him, his hand flew out in the direction of the woman with the fire axe. As a final act, Jenny Lidstone turned her gaze to her left.
One eye strangely black, she questioned. “Paul?” At that, she lifelessly dropped.
A long, metallic stick extended from her ocular cavity. Kessler had spiraled a meat skewer into Jenny’s eyeball. Though there was no time to investigate, her comrade assumed it was now lodged in the back of her skull. Dropping her axe as she crumpled, Jenny Lidstone never got the chance to understand what killed her.
Rawlings looked up from his downed compa
triot, snarling at Phil. “That was pretty stupid, mate. Now you got no defense.” After an instant of contemplation, the indoctrinated psychotic started walking backward, realizing his enemy was right.
Quickening the reverse ambulation, he started to turn. Just then, the interloper threw his bat, underhanded, at the retreating murderer. It hit him square in the kneecaps, causing him to collapse with a shout.
Paul hurried to sit on his chest. “Now, you’re gonna get the same thing you gave my buddy. Just a lot slower!”
After a second’s glance, he saw he had at least a moment free from attack. And Paul was going to make sure to make it last as long as possible. Raising the rebar staff, he slowly lowered it over the other man’s face. Gently, the point touched the screaming, supine Kessler’s closed eyelid.
It didn’t matter how hard he clenched them shut; the razor-sharp iron broke through. As he pleaded for help from the distant Cassandra, God, The Protectors, and even his mother, the intruder on top of him twisted the point. In no time, blood replaced tears in double the amount pouring from his eye. Peace with his maker would never be made.
Until Phil Kessler discontinued fighting and went slack and silent, Paul continued screwing the spear downwards. Satisfied, he was at least brain-dead; Rawlings rose to go pick up the fire axe. Jenny Lidstone, though not known well, was a comrade. Now, she had been avenged!
Elliott gaped at his friend. “Holy shite, mate. I think it’s done with now!”
Paul smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, well.” All he could do was shrug.
☠☠☠
Insanely driving straight at enemies with countless of their dead, or otherwise immobilized associates, on the floor behind them, Steve Silverthorne and his wife, Marie, two of the British tourists under the charismatic sway of Miss Cassandra, teamed up on Saunders as they closed. Both carried broken beer bottles as armaments. Versus a baseball bat and a machete, regardless of how dull it may have been, they didn’t stand the highest chance of survival against weapons with considerably more reach.
