Everyone Dies in the End #84
Once again, to ensure we are all on the same page of our post-apocalyptic hymnal, let me bring you up to date. Our characters, which include Susan the witch, Cindy the teleporter, Ramzke the vampire, his sister Katarina, a soldier named Zak, and several others, have converged on a post-apocalyptic Philadelphia. The common denominator in their convergence is a small time dictator named Vader (Yeah, I know.). Most of these folks want to kill Vader, by the way. Vader has ruthlessly put Philly back on its feet, using a private army, and a coven of imprisoned vampires to enforce his will (No, I'm not making this up...well, uh, actually I am, but you know what I mean.). We rejoin the story shortly after Susan the witch, has snuck into where Vader holds dispenses frontier justice in front of throngs of drunken citizens.
Susan
The desk was huge and Susan thanked the Goddess for that. The men herded the woman into the office trading lavicious comments; the woman sobbed. Susan hid behind the huge desk, her .38 in one hand, the cannibal’s butcher knife in the other. She was certain the men could hear her heart. It pounded so hard in her chest, drummed in her ear. If not her heart, then at least her breathing. She must be panting. But they paid her no mind. Their minds were on other things.
“Vader said to take her to the pens,” said one.
The other laughed. “But he didn’t say we couldn’t have some fun first.”
The woman whimpered. Susan’s hand tightened on the knife. The pentagram glowed brightly on her cheek. She had no doubt what fun the men wanted. They wouldn’t get it while she lived.
Something buzzed, and a light flashed. Susan couldn’t see the bulb, but the pulsing light filled the room.
“Damn,” the first man hissed. “Vader’s got another for us.”
“You go,” the second responded, “I’ll stay with her. She looks like she could use the company.” Both laughed.
Under the desk Susan saw a pair of tennis shoes leave the room. It was now or never.
She stood, swinging the .38 toward the remaining man, taking in the scene. The woman stood, slumped would be a better word, the man behind, groping her through the fabric of her reedy dress. His jaw dropped when Susan appeared, his eyes grew wide, his hands on the woman forgotten. He was armed, at least he had been. His eyes flicked to a small table next to the hallway door. On it laid a stubby submachine gun, dark and lethal.
Recovering from his surprise he spoke, a sneer tugging a corner of his mouth. “You won’t fire that thing,” He nodded toward Susan’s .38. “It’ll bring down the whole building on you.”
Susan guessed she should say something witty, snappy, or vengeful. That’s what a character in a third-rate novel might do, but that wasn’t Susan, and that wasn’t this novel. She didn’t know what to say, but did know what to do. She slid around the desk, keeping the gun pointed at the man. He was clean cut, amazingly so, with jelled hair combed to perfection. His hands, still cupping the woman’s breasts, were clean, the fingernails trimmed.
“Lady you put that thing down, and I’ll let you run out that door right now.” He tilted his head toward the door through which Susan had originally entered.
Susan continued to advance on the man, and he took a step back, shifting his hold to the woman’s neck and arm. He was yelling now, “You hear me? You shoot that gun and you die!”
Susan was next to him now, and the third-rate action character words came after all.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” She whipped out the butcher’s knife from behind he back. “Maybe this will work better.”
She buried the knife in his neck.
Blood spurted from the wound, hot on Susan’s hand. It ran over the shoulder and down the chest of the woman, bright red against the colorless fabric of her dress. The man gurgled, reached for the knife, and collapsed on the floor. The woman screamed.
“Shut. Up,” Susan hissed. First the man’s yell, now the woman’s scream, she might have well shot the thug. She looked toward the door. Thankfully, man number two had closed it behind him when he left for the other captive. The door was solid wood, perhaps the noise had not carried through it.
Perhaps it had. There was nothing to do about it now. Beside her the woman had stopped screaming, the cries diminishing to muffled moans. The guard was still, lying in a pool—no, a lake would be a better word, thought Susan—of his own blood. Susan didn’t know what would happen next, but she knew it would happen soon. She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, turning her gently so that she faced her. “Hey,” Susan spoke softly. The woman continued crying, looking at the floor, biting the finger of a bloodied hand. “Hey!” More urgently this time, and the urgency pulled the woman’s attention back to Susan. The woman’s red-rimmed eyes rose, focusing on Susan’s face. Tears streamed down the cheeks, and her breath came in halting gasps, but at least she was focused on Susan.
“You have to go.” The woman stared at Susan blankly. Susan shook the shoulder. “You have to go. You have to run” Susan pointed to the back door. “Out that door.” The woman looked at the door and back at Susan. “Now!” Susan almost yelled and the woman flinched, but a spark of understanding lit her eyes. Susan lowered her voice. “If you want to live, you have to run, out that door, and keep running.” Haltingly the woman nodded.
“Now,” Susan repeated, and the woman stood. Susan stood too and stepped to the dead guard. She placed her boot on his neck, bent, and pulled the knife. She was surprised at how hard she had to pull to free it, but finally it came loose with a soft gurgle and a whisper of air. The woman opened the back door, and hesitated. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Susan nodded. “Go.” And the woman did.
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