The Brand Ch. 10

Heavy bounding up the stairs, shaking, two steps at a time. He was tall, very tall, broad shouldered, big boots, black jeans, black hoody, his face covered in a latex mask, an exhumed zombie, purple brown rotted flesh, exposed bone, black eyes staring deep into her soul, carrying a shot gun. He looked right, into the master bedroom, looked left, swung his long gun, sluggish, off guard, surprised by the blast to his throat, blood shooting like a red fountain onto the wall, the spray pulsing with his heart beat as he dropped the weapon and pawed at his neck, fell to his knees, and then dropped face down at Victria's bare feet. Putting something on would have been nice; even just underwear, but that wasn't happening now. The static silence in her ears just became louder, and her mind sped faster, thinking blindly ahead, trying to wrap itself around nothing but the unknown.

Down stairs, in the kitchen, two men stood, both with their own shot guns, two cheap Savage 310s, purchased legally down in Georgia, where they'd hatched their plan. Why not organize a trip from Macon to somewhere up north? Why not hook up with some people and find out where the rich live? Why not hook up, suggested the bird man to the exhumed zombie, get that sexy old girlfriend of yours to give us some ideas where we might hit?

They looked at each other; the one tying Melody to one of the chairs, his raven mask set on the table; the other, staring back at him from behind his toothy grinned clown mask. They both knew that it wasn't a shot gun blast that went off. The bird man finished tying the pretty girl. He glanced down at his captive. How easy that was; just standing there, and then just collapsing to the floor. Bird man looked at the other, his jaw set as he took his gun back from where he'd put it on the kitchen table. The clown stepped back against the refrigerator, looked around the corner, down the hall, to the stairs, and then back at the bird man. The bird man slowly nodded his head. The toothy clown stared at him.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" the bird man hissed, "Before they call the cops you stupid bitch! Go!"

The clown sure as Hell didn't want to go, but if he didn't make a move, he'd be cut out of the stash or even worse. He heard that Bird man was shit house crazy. The clown looked right, down the back hallway. One more quick look toward the kitchen side of the stairs, and then he stepped hurriedly, lightly, past the bathroom and into the living room. By the chaise, he felt exposed, but what could he do? The owner wasn't supposed to have any gun. He prepared to fire. He side stepped slowly around the chaise. He'd just shoot up the stairs. That's what he'd do. On three, he thought; one, two; three. The alien swung his single barrel around, aimed high and fired. He drew back, jacked another round, stepped around to fire a second blast and there she was; naked, beautiful, a gun in her hands. She fired two shots to his face. He fired wildly as he spun, slammed his back against the door, and then slid to the floor. Victria scrambled back up the stairs. At the top, she slipped on the zombie's blood, fell, gained purchase, and then scurried just behind the line of sight from down stairs.

How had they known she didn't have a home surveillance system, not one connected to a commercial service anyway? They didn't know, Victria told herself. This is random; nothing I could have prepared for. But she was prepared, thanks to Simon; go figure. Victria hadn't wanted to become one of those paranoid conservatives, zealously protective of every last thing they'd purchased with the money it still bothered them to have spent, though their gun enthusiasm compelling them to spend what it took to not only feel safe, but to preserve their right to feel "enough to equip a small army" safe.

As much violence as there was reported on the news, the likelihood of something happening in her home was remote, at least that's what she'd believed. Victria had put off the purchasing of her guns because she just never thought that anything would really happen. But, there they were, she and Melody; two men already dead and who knew how many more still breathing, either desperate or sick enough to take the time to terrorize them both rather than take what cash and valuables they could carry and just leave. Fucking liberals, what I would give for an AR "15 right now. The hairs on the back of Victria's neck were standing. To not know exactly how many more armed intruders were in her house, to not be able to dodge a well-placed shot from a long gun was dreadfully alarming.

A gun fight normally lasts for ten seconds or less, her fire arms instructor, Sergeant Macavoy, had said. Bull shit! Bull shit! Bull shit! I can't fucking hear! Fuck; how many are there? Jesus, God, I didn't need this. Okay; three rounds fired. I have four left. Melody; oh my God Melody. What did I do? What the fuck did I do?

"I will kill her right, fucking, now; if you don't throw that gun down the mother fuckin' stairs!"

It was a third man, bellowing his demand; his voice echoing through the kitchen, the floor vibrating slightly beneath her feet. Maybe they called the cops, he thought. Maybe they didn't. All he knew was, whoever was firing back wasn't talking, and not talking meant either too scared or too ready to kill him too.

"If I hear sirens," the bird man yelled, "I'm a blast her head off. Throw; the mother fuckin' gun down the stairs I said!"

Victria didn't know if he had his own shot gun or something else. But, whatever it was, she was sure it was pressed against Melody's head. Mother fucker, she thought. Fuck! How many more can there be? How much shit did they think I had to carry out of here? Meanwhile, bird man was scanning the ceiling, as if he could see up into the second floor, raised his Savage, aimed it where he guessed the upstairs landing was, braced himself and fired. The blast tore through the rug in the master bedroom. Victria covered her mouth and screamed into it.

The bird man slowly stepped away from Melody, who had started in her seat and moaned once he'd made the shot. Peering down the hall, he saw the zombie's body laying limp against the front door. He jacked another round, set the long gun to her shoulder and waited.

"On three." He shouted, "Throw your gun down or I will kill this bitch. One; two; three."

It was on three that the bird man saw the arc of the pistol, and then as it bounced, clanging and landing in a puddle of the zombie's blood. He walked down the hallway then, his gun raised, ready to shoot. As he aimed his long gun toward the top of the stairs, the bird man kicked Victria's .45 down toward the kitchen. There she stood, at the top of the stairs, naked, her hands over her sex. She descended the steps, never taking her eyes off him, he never taking his aim off her. Victria took him in, tall, broad chested, a square head, maybe Slavic or northern European descent, his brown hair cut close, his forehead ridged, his brow heavy, his eyes wide set, the whites clear, his expression serenely crazed; ready to rape, pillage and burn without the slightest remorse. Looking into his eyes, his having taken his mask off, if he had one at all, she knew he would kill her.

"Oh, so you two got a thing," he said, "Is that it? Well ain't that sweet: dikes in love."

"Let her go." Demanded Victria, her tone tremulous.

"Sure." He said, "First thing's first. Come and join us in the kitchen."

The bird man beckoned as he slowly stepped backwards down the hall to the kitchen. Victria descended and followed. She advanced down the hall. He kept his gun at her chest.

"Stop right there."

She did. He eyed her without smiling, head tilted, interest clear.

"Turn around."

Victria paused.

"Turn around I said.

Victria turned, facing her back toward him.

"Nice, very nice. Now, let me see the front."

Again, Victria did not comply directly.

"You're not funny bitch." He growled, "Turn the fuck around.

Slowly she turned. The big man took her in, head to toe, liking, watching, her monse exposed, a slight glint beneath her right hand, his gun held loose, he fired suddenly. Victria screamed and fell to her knees as the man jacked another shell. In that instant, she fired, placing the shot in his gut, then a second, lower, into his groin. He too fell, the long gun still in his hands, his teeth clenched, raging, grunting, lowing deep like a roused bull. In agony, her legs burning, the floor slick around her knees, she fell to her elbows, groaned, reached her gun hand up, pointed her little .380 at the man's face and fired, emptying the magazine into his forehead, mouth and neck.

Oh my God, she thought. What did he do to me? The neck shot started a sudden cascade, then gouts and gouts of dark red blood, drenching his clothes, the wood flooring around him. The man fell back finally, awkwardly, his legs ben underneath him. Victria dragged herself forward, pulled herself through his blood, unable to get around it. Melody; Jesus Melody. She grunted and growled, her legs fiery hot, her breaths rapid, racing to keep up with her pounding heart.

She saw Melody, her eyes wide, lost, her mouth drooling, her mind gone, vacated, rolled up inside some safe little place, God only knew how far back, how deep. I don't see any blood! What the fuck did they do to her? My phone; I left my phone, I always leave my phone here. Victria looked up at the table and was startled by the sight of the raven mask placed there. Jesus God, I don't think this is very funny at all. Fuck, this hurts! Victria continued to drag herself across the kitchen floor, to the edge of the counter where she thought she'd last left her cell. She reached, groped and knocked it to the floor before her. I should look down at my legs. No; fuck that.

Victria took the phone, dialed 911 and hit send. Writhing in agony, body twisted, she laid her head on her left arm, the phone against her right ear, reaching her fingers, clutching Melody's toes, stretching for the chair leg, pulling Melody closer, agonized, bleeding, looking up into Melody's lost eyes, the trail of spittle down her chin, gripping her ankle, finding the strength to pull her closer, stroking the top of her foot, and then bringing her lips to press against it.

"Melody, honey," Victria cried, "Please! What happened? Where did you go? Oh God Mel I'm so sorry. This never would have happened- Jesus, this fucking hurts! Mel; God damn it, talk to me! It's over. I killed them. It's over. Come back! Hello? Hello?"