Everyone Dies in the End #85

Again with the Story

Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve been slack. But not really. Sentence fragmentation aside, I’ve been busting my ass, I just haven’t been posting the result of my fragmented rear, here. I ought to be a rapper. If they have middle-class, old, white-guy rappers. But I digress.

We left Susan the Witch in the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, a dead, and very bloody, henchman at her feet, the woman she had saved running out the door. It seems life might have given Susan a break at this point, but it was not to be. Dead henchmen’s buddy was soon to return with yet another prisoner sentenced by Vader (Not that Vader…my Vader). The story resumes…by the way…more Kat on Wednesday. It’s time to wrap this puppy up.

Susan

       Susan nodded. “Go.” And the woman did.
       Susan crept to the hinge side of the hallway door. She waited. And waited.
       Much longer than it would take a man and his captive to walk from the altar—or was it a stage—she had seen, to the door behind which she waited. Unless, of course, the man had done a bit more than walk. Unless the man had stopped to have a private party with the captive he had been summoned to retrieve. She nodded. That made sense. Or perhaps he was taking the woman directly to the pens. The thought chilled her. She had come to do good. Every bit of good she could, not to stand waiting while another was taken. She would find them. She reached for the doorknob. But no, what if there was another way into this room? Susan’s eyes swept the room looking for anything she might have missed. There was nothing, only a seriously dead and bloody dude, no other way into the room. No way except the back door. She bit her lip, undecided. At least ten minutes had passed since man number two had left. On impulse she darted to the back door. Pressing her face to the pane of glass that defined the upper half of the door, she looked out into the gloom. And then the door opened.
       Not the one to which her face was pressed, but the heavy door leading to the stage. The one where she had waited in ambush, but she wasn’t ambushing anyone now.
      The second man stood there, as scruffy as the first had been well-groomed. His arm around a woman. A smiling woman, clad in loose peasant dress. There was no time to plan, no time to speak, no time. Susan aimed the .38 as the man pulled his own pistol from his holster.
      And then the shooting started.