Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  “You ain’t gonna shoot me, Rebecca.” His confident voice derailed, squeaking, not so cocky with a gun in his face. “Don’t have it in you. Now, what do you say you give me the —”

  “Shut up.” She grabbed the barrel, swung the gun. It landed with a satisfying smack to his temple. His legs shot out, dumping him to the floor like the trash he was.

  He held a hand out, palm open and trembling. Pathetically begging. “No, don’t —”

  Bending over him, she pulled the gun back again. The second blow opened a small stream of blood, his yelp pathetic and tiny. She wanted nothing more than to blow him away. Like she’d done with Brad. But she couldn’t risk the Dandys hearing the gunfire. Not when they had Kyra. She had to work quietly. And quickly.

  She couldn’t leave the groveling mess at her feet conscious, so this time she brought the gun down with the muscle of both arms. His nose cracked, blood seeping from his nostrils. And his whimpering continued.

  “Shut up, you pathetic excuse for a human being.” She struggled to keep her voice to a whisper. But a whisper just didn’t work; it was completely inadequate to convey her rage. “Just shut the hell up.” Her foot drew back. A kick to the crotch, followed by another. She wanted to permanently ruin him, keep him from ever raping another woman. He sobbed, one hand covering his face, the other protecting his crotch. Curled up in a fetal position. When Rebecca thought about how many women he’d probably reduced to such a position, she kicked harder.

  One more blow to the head silenced him. Just to make sure — and because it felt damn good — she gave him one more for the road.

  She stood, out of breath. With the gun cocked in the air, she peeked out the door, saw nothing. Once she reached the stairwell, voices rose from the kitchen. The Dandys, gleeful and pitched at giddiness. Dolores even sang, nothing but good times.

  Hold on, Kyra.

  Before Rebecca lowered her foot on the stairwell, the door snapped open at her back.

  An all-too-familiar and hateful voice — a ghost — froze her.

  “Die, bitch!”

  *

  As Brad staggered down the street, he thought he might pass out. The wound had worsened, the bullet eating away at his insides like a parasite. He saw all the colors of pain; biting red, stabbing yellow. His feet jabbed out sideways, forcing him in drunken half-circles before righting their course. But he wouldn’t — couldn’t — be denied. Not before he completed his job.

  The trek took twice as long as it should’ve, but he’d made it. When he set foot on the porch, a second wind revitalized him. The worst behind him, the best yet to come. Blasting bullets into his whore of a wife would be cake compared to walking with a bullet in the gut.

  At the front door, he peered through the window. The fates smiled upon him, or more than likely, his killer instinct. He always did have great timing, a true boon to being good police.

  Rebecca stood at the foot of the stairwell, her back to him. No time like the present. But he wanted her to look at him when he killed her, his face the last one she’d ever see. For his pleasure, not her knowledge.

  Gently, he turned the doorknob. Foot up, he kicked. The gun raised, steady in both hands. “Die, bitch!”

  She turned, eyes wide. The way she always looked when he came at her, when she deserved it. A gun hung in her hand, but he had the drop on her. Confusion painted her face like whorish make-up.

  He smiled. Payback’s a bitch. The barrel honed in on her face. Slowly, he caressed the trigger, taking his time, making the moment last.

  To his right, a door swung open. The old man raced out, then stopped. Holding something in his hand. A hatchet.

  What the hell?

  Brad lost his moment, his gut acknowledging it first. The old man barreled toward Brad, growling, hatchet above his head. Brad’s forearm blocked the swinging hatchet. His finger bit into the trigger. A bullet cracked into the ceiling. Pain from Brad’s side streamed up into his arm, his head, when he punched the old man’s face. The hatchet clumped to the floor. His assailant tottered back, arms spiraling for balance, knees jerking high. The old man’s back hit the swinging door. A clatter came from behind the door, exploding dishes and jangling silverware.

  Brad swung the gun back on Rebecca. Still paralyzed, a stupid deer petrified by the great hunter. “You’ve had this coming for a long time, whore!”

  “No guns in our home!” shouted the old man.

  Brad shouldn’t have looked. As soon as he did, he knew he’d made a mistake. Four bullets ripped into his stomach, his chest, verifying his fatal mistake.

  No pain. Shock. A terrifying nothingness. His legs weakened, pliable as putty. He dropped to his knees, his gun slipping from his grasp. Blood soaked his shirt. Rushing out fast, too fast.

  Rebecca stood in front of him, gun shaking in her hands. A smoking gun. She’d shot him. Again. He couldn’t be sure — everything twisted and spun, images swirling together — but he thought he saw her smile. He fell forward, his chin smashing onto the floor, the last pain he’d ever feel.

  And the last thing he ever heard was his adulterous wife, calmly saying, “No, you’ve had that coming for a long time.”

  *

  Winston couldn’t believe how long it was taking the accountant. Hell, even with a bad ankle, he’d practically lapped Carsten. The guy made turtles seem speedy.

  He stood before the Dandy Drop Inn’s porch, weighing the situation. As he suspected, the cop cruiser sat in the driveway. Hadn’t been there long, either, with only a light snow dusting the car’s roof and hood. But Carsten needed to move his ass. Winston’s gut — old reliable — told him Rebecca and Kyra didn’t have much time.

  Carsten finally caught up, huffing and puffing like a two-pack-a-day smoker. “Gotta rest.”

  “No time. We’ll go in quietly. Check out the place, find the girls. Do whatever it takes to save them. You with me?”

  Carsten bent over, hands on knees, acting like he’d just run a marathon. Plumes of icy breath rolled out of his mouth. “Yeah … okay … whatever.”

  “Kill anyone who gets in your way. Because they’ll kill you in a heartbeat.” The accountant didn’t answer. Just stared at him behind fogged glasses. “Carsten, you understand?” His nod looked less than convincing. “You want the front or the back?”

  “What? Why are we separating?”

  “Gives us better odds. Front or back?”

  “Back? You mean like … the cellar back?” The accountant jabbed a thumb behind him, an uneasy hitchhiker.

  “Yeah, Carsten, that’s right.” Winston had considered both of them entering through the cellar, taking advantage of the element of surprise. Making a grand entrance via the front door hardly seemed like a wise choice. Then again, better to cover both sides. And should Carsten fall to the Dandys, his sure-to-be-loud shrieks would let Winston know exactly where the old couple was at the moment.

  Carsten rubbed his chin, gazing at the briefcase in Winston’s hand. The briefcase troubled Winston. Cumbersome, surely not the best weapon to take into battle. But he had to keep it, no other option. The only thing keeping Carsten in line. Winston knew Carsten wouldn’t make a run for it without the cash. And if Winston stashed the case, no doubt Carsten would double back to reclaim it. Or worse, someone else might stumble upon it. His ticket to his family’s survival remained inside the case. Like it or not, it stayed with him.

  “Guess I’ll take the cellar,” said Carsten. No surprise, really, the safer of the two options.

  “Fine. Let’s go.” Carsten stared at him, still lethargic. Using the briefcase as a visual slap, Winston held it high and shook it. “If you’re thinking of cutting out, Carsten, just remember the money stays with me.” Of course, he had no intention of relinquishing it to the accountant. Not a dime. But Winston knew Carsten’s mindset. Never say die when it comes to money. “Go.”

  With his head down, the accountant trudged off, carefully deliberating each step, clearly delaying the inevitable. Finally,
he vanished around the inn’s corner.

  Once Winston stepped onto the porch, he heard voices from within, loud and desperate. He lowered, trying not to scrape his bad foot across the ice-chiseled porch. The briefcase clumped to the floor, so loud Winston winced. A man’s voice, an unfamiliar one, rose above the others.

  A succession of gunshots cracked. Instinctively, he tossed the briefcase over his head. His bad ankle slipped, dumping him down. On his knees, he crawled to a window. Through the thin curtains, he saw Rebecca at the stairwell, gun locked in her hands. Jim Dandy stood by the kitchen door. A body lay on the floor, blood butterflying beneath him.

  If he entered now, Rebecca would most likely shoot him. Clearly fearless, nearly deranged looking, and most definitely ready to take down anyone in her path. And never enter a gunfight without a gun. He’d wait. See what happened next.

  *

  Shit.

  Harold had spent more time walking through snow tonight then he had in a lifetime in Kansas. A long, cold, miserable way to get to paradise. Before he rounded the west corner, he snuck a peek back at Harton. The hitman had stepped up onto the porch, the briefcase gripped tightly in his hand. It probably sounded a little callous, but Harold hoped Harton would get offed by the Dandys. The only way Harold would get his money back. Obviously, he couldn’t overpower the hitman. But he had to get his fortune back somehow. The only real reason he continued with this farce.

  Harold’s bladder nudged him, full and aching for release. It’d been some time since he’d gone. Best to take care of business while he could. If his bladder blew out inside his slacks, it’d no doubt turn Rebecca off.

  He braced himself, then unzipped. The cold gripped his genitalia like a fist of ice. Leaning against the side porch railing, he closed his eyes, focusing. Ocean waves licked at Caribbean sands. Splashing, rising, receding. Roaring water. He pushed harder, straining. When his bladder felt at full painful capacity, success kicked open the door. The stream trickled at first, then ferociously hissed like a rattlesnake. Steam rose, welcome warmth from his waste.

  Then the sound of gunshots stopped him, a massive bladder block. Urine dribbled onto his shoes, down his pant leg.

  Dammit.

  Oddly enough, his soiled trousers bothered him more than the gunshots. Weird, really. Maybe the violence had desensitized him. But urine down his pants? Completely unacceptable.

  Goddammit.

  He grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed down the wet spots, achieving nothing but spreading it.

  At the cellar door, he hesitated. Maybe he’d just wait it out. Tell Harton he’d gone inside, found nothing. Safest bet. But the temperature had dropped, and the damn snow wasn’t gonna stop dropping anytime soon. He felt miserable, his pant leg freezing and chafing his skin. Crazy, but his best bet on surviving the night would be inside. Maybe he’d just hide on the cellar steps.

  Harold entered the cellar, pulling the door closed behind him. He swiped at a top step and sat down. Folding his arms around him couldn’t stop the shakes. His teeth chattered, clack, clack, clacking enamel away. Cold inhabited his bones, a very unwelcome traveler. And the dark threatened to drag him under.

  Carefully, he moved down the steps on his bottom, the way children slide down stairs. Children. Something he’d never had, never wanted, probably never would. He thought of Kyra, how she’d treated him with kindness, no judgment.

  He hoped she’d be okay and make it out alive. Well, after he survived and got his money, he hoped she’d be okay. Priorities.

  *

  Intentionally or not, Jim Dandy had saved Rebecca’s life. His sudden appearance had surprised Brad, the distraction she’d needed to blow his life away. For the second time. As she stared at her husband’s lifeless body, a sliver of satisfaction dug into her. For better or worse, to death do us part.

  No way he’s coming back from that.

  It’d been close, though, too close. For a few delirious seconds — when everything had happened fast as a wink — she actually thought Brad had returned as a vengeful ghost. Fear had gripped her, cementing the gun at her side. Jim’s shouting had triggered her into action, though. Seemed so easy pulling the killing trigger, she barely remembered doing so.

  She had a problem, though. A big one. After she sent the four bullets into Brad, she’d pulled the trigger again. Which ended with a despairing, empty click. No more bullets. In the confusion, she didn’t think Jim’d noticed. She hoped not, at least. And she intended on keeping it that way. Call it leverage. Particularly since the Dandys have a strange aversion toward guns. Just not toward murder by hatchet.

  Farewell smoke drifted from the gun barrel, Brad’s undeserving funeral pyre.

  Jim stepped over the body and gave a swift boot to Brad’s gun. It scattered across the floor like a mechanical toy mouse, seeking refuge beneath a sofa. Far out of reach.

  “No damn guns!” Jim bellowed. “Rebecca, you stop this foolishness right now, y’hear? Ain’t no way to treat your folks!”

  Folks?

  She raised the empty gun, turning it on him. His lips twitched, a trace of fear. Good enough. “Get your hands up, Jim. Now, dammit!”

  His hands raised, not much, barely to chest level. Behind him, Dolores appeared in the doorway. She carried an empty silver serving tray in front of her like a shield. “You okay, Poppa?” Her eyes flit between Rebecca and her husband, barely alighting on the corpse. Apparently not a big deal in their world. “Now, Rebecca, put down that gun. We don’t cotton to them things. Not one bit.”

  “I don’t know what in the hell’s going on. But I’m getting my daughter, and we’re leaving. First one of you tries to stop me gets a bullet between the eyes.” She nodded her chin toward her late husband. “Proof’s on the floor.”

  “Land’s sake, child, just —”

  “Shut up, Dolores! You’re both sick. Where the hell’s my daughter?”

  They shared a look, an uncomfortable one, one loaded with hidden meaning. Dolores said, “Top floor. But, child, listen to —”

  “I’m done listening!” She nudged the gun toward them. Jim’s shoulders bunched up, his hands covering his ears. “Get in the kitchen. Stay there. First one comes out is dead.”

  “Don’t do nothin’ you’ll regret,” said Dolores, as they backed through the kitchen door.

  A shriek ripped out. Far away, yet long and terrifying. Unmistakably Kyra. Ice ran down Rebecca’s back. She twisted, her toe catching on the bottom step. Her knees, then her chin, banged onto the steps. Kyra screamed again, driving Rebecca into a crawling sprint. Her hands clawed the stairs, pushing her to her feet as she climbed.

  Halfway up the stairs, a hand snagged her ankle. Dolores.

  “Stop now!” Jim Dandy’s croak echoed up the stairwell. Rebecca dropped. She kicked back, her foot contacting Dolores’ face. Dolores tumbled, rolling down the stairs, a deep drumbeat.

  “No! Not again, it can’t happen again!” Torment twisted Jim’s voice.

  Dolores lay at the bottom of the steps, her dress flipped up over her chest. Moaning, still alive. Beside her, Jim dropped into a squat.

  “Mother! You all right? Tell me you’re all right. Dolores, talk —”

  “I’m fine.” She coughed, sounding less than fine.

  Rebecca didn’t stick around to find out. The next shriek propelled her up, around the landing, vaulting two steps at a time to the third floor.

  *

  Darkness encased Heather, a tight humid tomb. But the brighter God’s will burned in her, so did her determination, enabling her to sense her way through the dark. Another power bestowed upon her by the Lord. She had swept through the horrible cellar where the evil couple had chained her. She’d raced down a long corridor until she literally tripped onto a staircase.

  Up she went, her flats whispering over the wooden steps. From somewhere within the inn, she heard voices shouting. Mostly the little devil spawn wailing like a demon. Her shrieks sounded just on the other side of the wall. Reaching
upward. The only place anyone should aspire to go. Too late for the little girl, though.

  On the third floor, Heather fled down another narrow passage. The hall ended with a door to the right, small and barely visible. Upon pressing the paneling, it bounced open with a minuscule click.

  She stepped over the threshold and into a trap. Objects dangled from the ceiling, swinging, bouncing into her. Something — ribbons, strings? — entangled her like webs. She felt hair, harsh and coarse; miniature plastic faces. Dolls.

  Another door in the room opened. She grabbed the moving dolls, stilling them.

  And she waited. Waited for what seemed like hours while the old couple cooed and made a fuss over the mewling little demon. Lapping at the cloven feet of Satan. Talking about new beginnings. How right they were; they just didn’t know yet the nature of their new beginnings. But she couldn’t deliver the three at once into Hell. Even with the knife, they outnumbered her. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy her work if it happened in a hurry. Sometimes good things come to those who wait.

  The lamp winked out, and the Dandys left. Soon, like a moth drawn to Heather’s inner flame, the sinful spawn came toward her. Inch by inch …

  Heather parted the dolls and dove out. The lamp dropped from the girl’s hands. She screamed. Heather screamed, too, hers an exhilarating battle cry. Her foot tripped on the bottom of Mabel’s fur coat, sprawling her to the floor. She looked up. Behind a bed, the hellish girl cowered. She hurled a doll at Heather, falling far short of her target. Then another and another, dropping to the floor like fallen souls.

  Heather climbed to her feet, shedding the coat like a serpent’s skin. She twisted her knife, admiring how her eyes reflected on the blade.

  “Mommy!”

  The Devil answered the girl’s summons. The Whore of the Midwest burst through the door.

  *

  Rebecca rattled the doorknob before she saw the key hanging in the lock. She twisted it and flung open the door.

  She took one look, didn’t stop to think. The blonde bitch, Heather, carried a knife, stalking Kyra across the room. Steeped in adrenaline, fear, and anger, Rebecca roared. She ran toward the woman, gun out at arm’s length. The sight didn’t faze Heather. Ignoring Rebecca, Heather turned back toward her prey. Rebecca drove her arms into the blond woman, carrying them both into a bookshelf. Objects rained down, an avalanche of dolls and toys. Rebecca gripped Heather’s knife-wielding hand and banged it into the bookshelf. Heather’s eyes, the wild orbs of a rabid dog, glowered. She bared yellow teeth, snapping them. And she possessed a likewise animalistic strength. The knife wavered, the point gravitating toward Rebecca’s face. The blade lowered, deadly metal inching closer to Rebecca’s right eye. One chance. Rebecca dropped the gun, grasped Heather’s throat. Squeezed. And still the knife drew closer. But Rebecca knew she had the weight advantage, hoped gravity wouldn’t let her down.