by J. N. Morgan
Should she swallow it? Should she somehow save it to try and put in herself later? To spit it outside would be a blatant waste… she scooted back, left breast still hanging out, and swallowed it down on the way. Emerging from beneath the blanket, she noticed he was quite still. Crawling over the ‘sleeping’ man, she put a hand over his mouth… there was nothing. “Richard?... Richard?!...” She tapped the side of his face repeatedly, quickly, trying to wake him up. “Richard!... RICHARD! Come on! RICHARD!!” Not knowing what to do, she brought her hands to his chest and started pressing repeatedly, the exposed mammary bouncing about but ignored for the moment, it was still faintly moist from his suckling of earlier.
Down she went, plugging his nose, and breathing into his mouth, filling his lungs, then the chest compressions once again. “RICHARD! WAKE UP! RICHARD!!” The rain was coming down harder now, and having gotten closer to the trees, the sound of the drops slapping against leaves rattled in Veronica’s ears; she did not hear the panicking that went on at home. She breathed in him again, crying his named crazily as she compressed his chest. “Don’t you LEAVE me!” Flinging her right arm back, she gave a savage slap along his left cheek, flinging his face to the right and his eyes shot open, mouth gaping, taking in a few great breaths of air.
“Richard! Oh my God I’m so sorry! I’m so sorrrryyyyy!” Left arm came around his head, careful not to hurt her hand which was healing quite nicely, she hugged him, and he groaned, teeth gritting, pain in his shoulder from her pushes on his unconscious body.
“What?... happened?” he gasped out, straining not to let the pain sound from him too much but failing somewhat.
“You passed out, baby, you weren’t breathing, I’m so sorry I pushed you into it…”
“The… differ… ence… between… truck… and… now… is that… you… weren’t… shot…” she laughing sobbingly into his neck as his left arm managed to get up just enough to pat her side once, then fell back down weakly.
“I’m sorrrryyyyyy…” she sobbed more, feeling ashamed for what she had just done, nearly killing him.
“Your… blowjo-… job… is… to die-”
“’For’.” She finished his joke, “You are so damn corny…” she sniffled, and he chuckle weakly. “… but I love it…”
“I… love… you…”
“Oh I love you too, Richard, I love you so much…” his woman said it so quickly, so intensely.
“I’m… glad… but let’s… save… loving… for… after…” more sobbed laughing into his neck, then she knelt up beside him, putting her pants back on properly, then going to her bra.
“Wait…” he said quietly, weakly. “Let me… feel…” his left hand rose a couple inches. She smiled sweetly at him, moving over to his left side once more. Kneeling up, she slowly brought his mostly limp arm to her, leaning down a bit to make it easier on him, then pushed the open hand onto her soft, warm breast.
“Mmm…” a rumble of a moan, and she was happy to see him enjoying her so much. “Can hardly… pinch…” only then did she notice his thumb and forefinger trying to pinch her hard nipple. She let the hand come down.
“Later, baby… you’ll have plenty of time for that…” leaning down, she kissed his lips while fumbling down at her waist; at her hip was still his holstered sidearm. He felt his hand being moved about, bring brought somewhere warm, and then there was wetness. “Plenty of time for this, too…” she whispered into his mouth, then brought herself up so her back was straight, and he seen his hand in her pants, being moved about, rubbing her, and her face was red, grinning, though with no small amount of lust. He was about to ask for mercy, not able to handle another erection, but thankfully she pulled the hand away from her hot snatch… only to make things worse. Leaning down to the hand, she licked the juices off.
“Mmmm… I’m… jealous…” she grinned again, his pointer and middle fingers in her mouth, and she brought the hand to his face. He licked it, smelling her before she did, then tasting her, and he sighed. It turned her on so much to see him enjoying her womanhood, or at least the taste and scent that came from it. Sucking his other fingers clean, she finally made herself presentable just as the door was heard.
“Ah, Nick? I’m gonna put that SPAM o-”
“Who’s there?!...” The voice was coarser than Richard’s when he had been healthy, it was rougher, and spoke of experience, of more decades of life having been lived.
Having just straightened up her pants and done up her shirt, she stared at her injured man with terror in her eyes, and he stared in shock back at her. Neither of them recognized the voice.
CHAPTER 6
“What are you doing in here?!” Loud footsteps brought the man inside, an SKS-45 in hand; Rich would recognize it anywhere as he craned his neck in order to look to the entrance for the living room. The rifle wasn’t shouldered and was pointed down at the floor, safely, though close to the younger man’s feet and harsh blue eyes jumped between the couple who was down on the floor; Tiff was just on her way to getting up from kneeling, one foot on the floor with the knee of her other leg still down, not knowing what to say.
“WHERE’S CHARLIE WINTERS?!” The Newfie’s eyes closed, head flopping down onto the cushion beneath him. He was dead, but it was obvious that this man wouldn’t want to hear it.
“Sir…” he spoke weakly.
“WHERE’S MOM?!” Those closed eyes squeezed tight in a pained expression… this wasn’t going to go down well. Tiffany had her arms raised, terrified that he would shoot them. The bayonet under the barrel was folded forward underneath the 20” length of rifled steel in spite of being capable of folding backwards to make it more handy and compact, and his finger was on the trigger. Whether the safety was engaged or not, he had not been able to tell.
“I’m sorry… sir… when we got-”
“What are you saying?! SPEAK UP!”
“He was shot a few days ago, sir; I’m sorry…” he was looking back and forth between them rapidly, the head with hair dotted white both on his head and from the thick scruff on his face, was growing redder with anger.
“WHERE ARE THEY?!”
“Dead…” both the armed man and Tiff stared at him; she was scared that his bluntness would make the man murder them. The sound of friction was heard as the older man tightened his grip on his SKS, skin rubbing against the wooden stock, bringing the barrel up at his hip to aim at the one who lay on his parent’s living room floor.
“What did you just say?...”
“Please sir, don’t, he’s injur-”
“SHUT UP!” He roared, the muzzle being brought over to point at her, to which she recoiled back in fear and Richard shuddered.
“Hey!” Came his wheezed voice from on the couch cushions. “There’s… no need to… point at… anyone!”
“Just tell me what the FUCK happened to Charlie and Denise!” They couldn’t tip toe around the subject any longer, it was time to be direct, and so with tears coming from Tiff’s eyes, terrified that she would end up as bad, or worse, than her man, they listened as he explained. They arrived at this house about a week ago, if not longer, and Charlie was on the porch outside. It was early morning, he was cold. Inside was Denise, she had changed, and he didn’t have it in him to put her corpse to rest. Then gesturing to his bayoneted rifle with a nod of his head, it was explained that he was going to use the spike bayonet, or as the old man called it, the ‘pig sticker’, but requested that she not be neutralized with that. Amazingly, the armed man stayed quiet in all this, but kept his rifle, scarily, trained at his hip on the wounded fellow. Needless to say, it made him incredibly nervous, uncomfortable, and scared of experiencing for the second time in a week the sensation of being shot.
When she was shot outside, not wanting to specify ‘in the backyard’ or ‘out in the back’ as though it was like putting down a dog, Charlie appeared to suffer a heart attack and collapsed to the ground when he was previously sitting on the front porch’s steps. The attack was fatal, an
d so the same respect was shown to him; a shot to the head to make sure he didn’t reanimate instead of piercing his skull with the ‘pig sticker’. The man’s face shuddered in a mixture of rage and tears as he heard that they were buried in the backyard.
“Don’t move… don’t you DARE move!” He went to the backdoor, found it locked, unlocked it quickly with ease, and seen the mound of dirt with the ‘grave pan’ sticking out of it. Inside, Tiff gestured to her hip as the sound of a somewhat high-pitched gasp of a sob was heard.
“Richard, should I?...” he shook his head with wide eyes, telling her not to draw it for when he comes back, anticipating that she in no way knew how to properly shoot a pistol, so would likely just miss and end up getting shot.
“Under cush… ion… left side…” he whispered urgently though slowly to her, breathing heavily. He seen her unholster it, put it down on the carpet over on his left side, and slid it under the blanket and cushion at his waist. He seriously doubted that he could use it, but it would keep him from finding it if he tried to search his woman.
He came back almost immediately after she sat back down on the younger man’s right. “August or September?! What is this?! Ma used to serve Christmas TURKEY on that tray!”
“I’m sor… ree-”
“Sorry?! You’re… you’re SORRY?! Would that be an adequate apology if I killed you just as you killed them?! GET OUT!” He bellowed in a voice that seemed accustomed to speaking loudly.
“I can’t… sir-”
“He can’t, he’s wounded and lost A LOT of blood! Please sir, he won’t make it out there!” She pleaded with him.
“That is none of my concern! Now GET UP!” The rifle was jabbed towards Tiff, who stood up, arms still raised, and then brought the muzzle round to the naked fellow under the blanket. The fact he was nude was explained to the enraged new owner of this house, but he didn’t want to hear it.
“Get up or I swear to Christ Himself that I will do you in!” He was sobbing desperately now, the rifle shaking in his hands, and he was brought suddenly to the floor. He had left the front door open, through which Nick had crept in unseen as the older man stood in the entranceway between kitchen and living room. Hooking and arm around his neck he was quickly and efficiently swung around to her right, down to the ground, and onto his right side, rifle in under him. A click sounded as he fell, and he groaned from the impact.
“GET OFF ME, FOR GOD’S SAKE GET OFF ME!” He was bawling, lying limply beneath her, she did not have to strike or hit him, he seemed to submit, but she struck the side of his head with a savage punch anyways. That was for Tiff, she thought to herself, looking down disgustedly at the armed male, and the rifle was pulled out from under him, his hands to the floor, slowly pushing himself up as Nick backed away from him, rifle aimed. Somehow the sight of her with the rifle put Richard less at ease than when this shattered man had held it… would he be experiencing this fright every time he seen her handling a rifle? Was this normal for people who get shot? Such anxiety…
She grasped the bolt of the SKS as he was slowly making his way up, pulling the silvery chunk of metal back by its handle and seeing no round chambered. Pulling it all the way back to strip a round from the magazine, it only resulted in locking said bolt to the rear, meaning the rifle was empty, the guts of the magazine showing no rounds to speak of.
“What the-?... it’s empty!” She said to those in the living room, moving past the hurting middle aged man towards the coffee table. With one hand she ripped open one of the thin green cardboard boxes, exposing a 10-round clip of 7.62x39, and put it on the rifle to push the rounds in. Her friend wanted to beg her not to shoot, fearful that the strain of it would cause her Newfie man to pass out again or stop breathing, not to mention she didn’t want to watch another man die like Charlie had, but words would not come to her. Richard was too afraid to say anything, everything was happening too quickly. Half the rounds of the clip went into the pinned 5-round magazine that was supposed to be 10 rounds in capacity but limited due to Canadian law. Six rounds had come off the clip, so when the clip was removed with four rounds remaining and she pulled the bolt back and released it; the round sitting on top, not in the magazine, flipped to the side and jammed the firearm. Pulling the FMJ cartridge out, the bolt clapped home; round chambered. She went back to the kitchen where the man had remained on his knees instead of standing, though he’d never left her sight while she was loading the rifle in the living room.
The rifle was leveled on him, on his head. “NICKY, DON’T!” Tiff cried out, and she must have learned for when she moved her face to the left to look at the older woman her finger was off the trigger. He did not seem bothered by the rifle, merely let his fists come down to the tiled floor of his parent’s kitchen, head lowered, and his tears dripped down between his hands. He was hunched over pitifully. The muzzle lowered to keep itself pointed at his skull.
“He was going to kill you, tiffy…” she said through clenched teeth, looking at the man as though he were scum.
“Yeah and I was going to kill Richard too, but I didn’t, and I could not be more happy that I didn’t.” This went through the tall woman’s mind as she aimed the rifle on the top of salt and pepper hair where his head hung. She had shot a man near her age yet hoped he did not die, in spite of wanting her friend to herself. She could do him in quickly though, like she had done the others, and without seeing their pain and suffering she figured she would feel no remorse. Still the middle aged fellow did not attempt to beg for his life but merely sat there on his knees, fists to the floor, head hung, eyes closed, quietly weeping.
“Please… Vera-… Veronica… let him… be…” she quietly growled at the request, not wanting to obey a man’s wish but the muzzle lowered. The crouched man took no notice. “What’s your… name?” he called, and looking up, the defeated fellow’s red face showed pain at looking to the one who shot his parents, then went outside, not caring if he was shot in the back as he went, the door closed behind him without a name given.
“He might have a hidden pistol…” Nick pointed out, and rightly so.
“I don’t… think so. Let me… see… Ess-Kay-Ess…” looking at him strangely, a look of sympathy being shown to Tiff who was wiping her eyes beside him, she lifted the rifle up as she stood at his feet, showing him the right side of it. “Closer…” he nodded his head left where the lounge chair beside him was. Outside, that stranger was heard saying something; it was in a strange tone, and in a strange tongue. That or it was just too muffled to understand the words. Sitting down next to him with a scoff, not knowing why he wanted to see it, she held it closer.
“Tab behind… trigger… is the… safety. Push it… forwards.” She looked at it, seen the little piece of metal, and pushed it up. “Blocks the… trigger… from pulling. Test it.” Giving an apprehensive look to him, she pulled at the trigger with her finger, it clicked against the bar of metal that blocked it from coming back. It was a very simple, very crude safety, but it did the job. The design had working prototypes tested in the capture of Berlin by the Russians in WWII and went into mass production in the late 40s or early 50s. Production ended in the mid-50s since the AK-47 and later AKM were generally considered superior but the SKS was kept on as a 2nd Line rifle for some time. It was a bit more accurate due to the longer barrel and sturdier construction, so while those with AKs could close with the enemy and use the assault rifle like an SMG, those with SKSs who used the exact same ammo could try and pick them off from a bit farther back.
“Base of… bayonet. Push forward.” She listened and pushed a piece of metal just below the muzzle forward, seeing a hoop of steel come off from around the muzzle itself, and found that the bayonet could now swing downwards. “Swing ba-” he started, but she had already pushed the fixed bayonet backwards until it now rested in a groove of the wooden stock pointed at the shooter rather than at the end of the barrel pointing where the rifle pointed. He nodded, telling her she had done it right. “Star or… triangle…
”
“Where?” She asked, looking around the firearm.
“Dust cov-… cover. Behind… bolt.”
“Neither.” He looked at her funny.
“Check left… side of… receiver.” Once more, she checked.
“Triangle, and some kind of Asian language.”
“Ah… Chinese… it’s still… a good rifle… though.” It was made in China but they were still of good quality. Maybe not quite as good as the Russian-made ones, but he had not heard anything particularly wrong with the Chinese SKSs. In fact he had seen a video on Youtube of a shooter taking such an SKS to either 500yd (460m) or 500m (550yd). Either way, very good shooting, and a testament to the accuracy capable from the SKS design, from Chinese manufactured firearms, as well as from the 7.62x39 which many seemed to believe was inherently an inaccurate cartridge.
‘Vera’ looked at the rifle interestedly, now knowing more about it. “Probably… made in the… nineteen six-…ties to… eighties… if I had to… guess…” The Chinese still manufactured these rifles to his knowledge, if his memory served him right, but it was his belief that most of them were made within those decades. She got up and headed towards the kitchen.
“Veronica?...” it was as much made a question as it was a tone of warning from Tiff. She didn’t want to see more death. The younger woman was peering quietly through the window of the back door. There he stood, in his pressed brown pants, button-up light blue dress shirt, and over that the now somewhat disheveled black pea coat. His greying hair looked quite unkempt, and she had the feeling that it was longer than this man was used to. He stood at the side of the grave, eyes closed, his arm motioning before him in the sight of the cross, speaking something that definitely did not appear to be English.
