I need to explain this one. Basically, Raganoxer, who's an edgelord (but a good artist) loved The Last Loud House on the Left and suggested I do a sequel. "Can't do that, Rag," I said with strained patience, "the bad guys are dead." "Oh. Well...make me, you, and AberrantScript the bad guys." After I was done laughing at him, I started to think of what story I would do if I did write a sequel. That's how I operate as a writer: Story comes to me before characters. I came up with something, liked it, and decided, what the hell, I'll make us the bad guys, so Rag and I wrote this. I hesitate to call it a self-insert because I did not write our characters to reflect who we actually are. AberrantScript, a female in this, is presented as jealous and sadistic when, in actuality, he's the nicest guy ever. My character is a sociopathic pedophile and was written as a replacement for John Krog from the first story. Trust me, I'm no angel, but this "Flagg1991" is a piece of fucking shit. You'll want him to die as badly as I did. I hated him so much I didn't even want my name attached to his ass. I swear, guys, I'm not like him at all...except for the charming and devilishly handsome part ;)

Anyway, this isn't a true sequel - it takes place in its own continuity and is more inspired by The Last House on the Left than the first. The killers theme song, which plays randomly in this chapter, is an homage to the killers' theme from that movie. I'll post the video on my Facebook if you wanna hear it; it's really goofy given the tone of the movie, which is what makes it funny.

This story is one part serious take on the rape and revenge genre of film from the 1970s and one part self-aware parody: A couple guys having fun and writing. Don't take it too seriously. Please?

Lyrics to TNT by AC/DC (1975)


Lori Loud shoved her bag into the back of the silver Dodge minivan and slammed the hatch. "That's everything, right?" she asked, and realized she should have said something before closing the door.

"Yep," Lynn said, "that's all of it."

They were standing in the driveway of the one story ranch house on Wilson Drive where they'd been lived for the past three years, thin, amber morning light creeping over the roof and filtering through the trees. The neighborhood was still and silent save for an automatic sprinkler across the street and the passage of the paperboy on his ten speed; his name was Joey and he was in the eighth grade. Lori talked to him a few times when their paths happened to cross - he always seemed to show up just as she was leaving for work, and from the way he stammered and blushed in her presence, she surmised that he had a crush on her.

Glancing down at the gold watch on her wrist, Lori nodded curtly. If they didn't hit traffic, they could be there before noon. "Alright," she said, then looked around. "Where's Lola?"

"Inside still," Lynn said.

Lori sighed. Of course she was. Lola was eleven, and there is nothing on earth more difficult or temperamental than an eleven-year-old girl...except maybe a fifteen-year-old girl. Lynn wasn't bad when she was that age, but she imagined Lola would be even worse than she was now, and she was dreading it. She loved her little sister to pieces, but sometimes she made her want to pull her own hair out and dart blindly into traffic, and there were days when she had to go into another room and calm down before she popped off on the little girl. "Want me to go get her?" Lynn asked.

"No, I'll do it," Lori said.

Inside, she found Lola sitting on the couch, her arms crossed and a sullen expression on her face; the atmosphere was dark and tense, as though a storm were brewing...which, Lori figured, it was. When she first brought up the idea of a weekend camping trip, she expected pushback from her youngest living sister but hoped she'd eventually come around.

She didn't.

Spending two days in the woods in the heat and being eaten alive by bugs is not my idea of a good time, she said in that overbearing tone of hers; when she used it, Lori wanted to smack her, but never did, and never would. Lola, like Lynn, needed her to be patient, and though she dropped into bed some nights shaking with nerves, she always gave it to them.

Taking a deep breath, she went over and squatted in front of Lola, one hand going to the little girl's knee - she wore a sleeveless pink dress with white horizontal stripes, white tennis shoes, and pink socks. Not optimal attire for camping, Lori noted. Probably because she didn't plan to go. "Hey," Lori said softly, "are you ready?"

Lola glared at her lap as she replied. "No."

"Why not?" Lori asked, a pleading edge in her voice. She hated arguing with one of her sisters, hated it so much that sometimes being a mother to them - or as close to a mother as she could be - came difficult; her first instinct was almost always to let them have their way and avoid a confrontation. That's not what a parent does, and she reminded herself of this fact often. "It'll be fun. Trust me. There's a lake, trails, we can build a campfire and makes s'mores."

"I don't want any of that stuff," Lola retorted, "I wanna stay here."

Lori hung her head. "Lola, you can't stay by yourself."

The first time Lola brought the possibility of staying home, Lori's heart blasted against her ribs. Call her overprotective, but in an instant a million terrible scenarios flashed through her mind - a fire, carbon monoxide, Lola falling down and hurting herself, someone breaking in...no, eleven was far too young. She wouldn't even be entirely comfortable with it if she were older.

"I'm eleven, I should be allowed to," she said.

"No," Lori said firmly, "you're not staying by yourself and that's final. Get your things and come out to the van."

Lola looked up at her with narrowed eyes, her pink lips pursed tightly. Lori thought she was going to give her more grief, but instead she got to her feet, brushed past, and went into her room. Lori waited for the door to slam, but it didn't.

Standing to her full height, Lori put her hands on her hips and shook her head slowly. Five years ago, her family, save for Lynn and Lola, was killed when a drunk driver barreled into their lane one rain swept night and hit the van head-on. Lori was barely eighteen, an airhead girl whose world revolved around cute shoes, gossip, and her boyfriend; after the accident, she had to grow up quick because her sisters needed her, and there was never a moment she imagined doing anything else but taking custody of them. It was a challenge, both then and now, but she never regretted it, and over time, she came to love them more deeply and fully - they were all she had in the world, and they meant everything to her.

Even if sometimes she wanted to give dropkick Lola into next Tuesday.

Outside, Lynn leaned against the van and stared down at her phone, her lips scrunched thoughtfully to the side. "What's that look for?" Lori asked.

"I think a boy just asked me out," she said.

"You think?" Lori asked and lifted her brow. "That's not the kind of thing you think about. Either he did or he didn't." She held out her hand, and Lynn looked at her funny. "Let me see."

An embarrassed blush touched Lynn's cheeks and she jammed the phone into her pocket. "Uh, no, nevermind, he didn't."

Lori laughed. Lynn, despite being pretty and outgoing, had never dated; as far as Lori knew, there weren't even any boys she was seriously interested in, or who were interested in her. That always puzzled Lori, and though Lynn vehemently denied it the one time Lori asked, she suspected it had something to do with the accident, or rather, lingering feelings caused by it. In the five years since, she, Lynn, and Lola had become especially close, and Lori wondered if Lynn wasn't hesitant to bring someone else into her life. Lori certainly was; she hadn't been on a date since her last one with Bobby Santiago. Such a sweet guy...until she told him she was going to raise her sisters. He didn't like that...so to the curb he went.

She'd be a liar if she said she didn't miss him sometimes, but family comes first.

Presently, the front door opened and closed, and Lola came down the walkway with a bag in one hand and a pink, heart-shaped pillow in the other, her brows knitted in an angry V. She stalked past Lori and Lynn without so much as a word, slid the side door open, and climbed in. "She looks thrilled," Lynn said sarcastically.

"She is," Lori said.

Most of Lola's attitude was hormones - she was becoming a woman, and Lori knew first hand that the transition between childhood and adulthood was a rough one - but she couldn't help taking it personal. She tried so hard for them and more often than not, she felt like a failure. She worked three jobs, but they never had much money; she was shit at giving advice; and no matter what she did, she had the deep, foreboding feeling that she was wrong.

Like this camping trip.

Maybe it was a bad idea and they should just stay home - Lola could go hang out with her friends at the mall, Lynn could go on a date with her guy friend, and she could sit home and enjoy her weekend off.

Maybe.

And maybe she was just too sensitive.

Sighing, she went to the driver side door, slipped in behind the wheel, and snapped her seatbelt on as Lynn did the same in the passenger seat. In the back, Lola wedged her pillow between her head and the window, and snuggled into a comfortable position, whereupon she crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Lori stared at her in the rearview mirror for a moment, and was surprised - and disturbed - by the aching loss in her chest. When Lola was younger, and still had nightmares about the accident, she would sometimes crawl into bed with Lori in the middle of the night, and Lori would cuddle her til morning. That didn't happen anymore - she would barely let her hug her these days - and in that instant, Lori missed it so much it made her sick.

Turning the key in the ignition, she shoved those thoughts away, backed the van into the street and swung right. A man walked a big white dog down the sidewalk and a Royal Woods Power Company truck ambled past, its driver looking left and right as though he were lost. "Alright, guys," Lori said, "thus starts our big adventure."

Lola made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "I'm really looking forward to this," Lynn said with a grin, "I'm gonna show you guys how to spear fish."

At the end of the street, Lori turned right - trees overhung the sidewalk and wavered in the summer breeze. "Spear fish?"

"Umhm," Lynn said, "that's where you sharpen a stick then throw it at the fish instead of using a pole. It's pretty badass."

Lori's nose crinkled. "Oh, God, Lynn. Seriously?"

"What?" Lynn asked defensively.

They were on the main drag now, approaching the interstate. "That's inhumane."

Lynn stared at her for a moment, then laughed. "Lori, you gotta kill the fish to eat them anyway. Duh."

"I know, but still." The idea of chucking a spear at a fish and seeing its eyes widen in agony when the point pierced its body disturbed her greatly. She imagined the look on its face - shock, drawing horror - would be identical to the expression on her father's face as the Jeep crossed into their lane, all headlights and hurtling metal and…

She shivered violently, then stole a quick glance at Lynn to see if she noticed. She didn't - she was looking out the window. The image stayed with her for the next ten miles, and nothing she did could shake it. Finally, she turned on the radio to drown out the memories: Katy Perry belted her way through Firework and Lori winced. Once upon a time, that was Leni's favorite song.

Damn it, Lori, don't do this. Not now. This is supposed to be a relaxing vacation with your sisters, not a PTSD parade.

Reaching out, she changed the station, settling for one playing a newscast. "...Washington today for a summit with President Trump," a dry, generic voice said. "In other news, the FBI has entered the search for three suspects accused of committing a string of violent murders across the Midwest. FBI spokesman Joe Mason says that over 1000 agents have been added to the manhunt for Flagg Ninetyone, Rag Anoxer, and Abby Script. Flagg is described as tall, muscular, and handsome with sandy brown hair; Rag as short with messy black hair, his head always donned with a long black hat; and Abby, Flagg's common law wife, as having short blonde hair and freckles. They are considered armed and extremely dangerous."

A commercial for an auto shop came on, and Lori changed lanes, falling in behind a Toyota with Canadian plates. She was tense now, and her stomach sour. If this kept up, she'd be in danger of having a full-blown panic attack.

And that goddamn Jeep in the rearview mirror wasn't helping. It was red where the one that killed her family was black, but seeing it...knowing it was there...like a bad omen…

She forced her eyes back to the road.

She wasn't going to have a panic attack.

She was going to have fun…

That's what she told herself for the next two hours, her mantra never changing even as the world around her did, the sprawling suburbs of lower Michigan turning to open farmland, then to dense forest the closer they got to the Upper Peninsula. She kept her breathing tightly regulated, and began to calm, her concentration on the endless chant and on the open road ahead.

They stopped twice, the first time at a Burger King drive-thru in Richfield Township for breakfast, then in St. Ignace for fuel. The first settlement along I-75 after crossing the strait separating lower and upper Michigan, St Ignace reminded Lori of picturesque towns she'd seen on the back of postcards, its narrow, tree lined streets presided over by quaint brick storefronts and its skyline defined by water towers and church steeples. As she pumped the gas, Lynn sat in the passenger seat with the door open, her legs dangling over the side and her eyes glued to her phone, thumbs flying across the keyboard. "You saying yes?" Lori asked and playfully batted her lashes.

The younger girl shook her head.

"Why?" Lori asked. "You really should."

"Eh," Lynn said.

"Eh?"

Lynn shrugged. "I just...I don't know if I'm ready for all that, you know?" She looked up and Lori saw something like fear in her eyes.

She considered her response very, very carefully - this was one of those things she could bomb on like that. She wanted Lynn to date, but she didn't want to push her if she genuinely wasn't ready. "He's not asking you marry him," Lori said at length, "right?"

Again, Lynn shook her head. "He wants to see a movie."

"Then see a movie with the guy."

Lynn opened her mouth to reply, hesitated, then lifted one shoulder.

"Is something wrong with him?" Lori pressed.

"No, he's fine, I'm just not ready for a relationship, especially now with me going off to college in the fall."

Lori took the nozzle out of the slot and returned it to its cradle. "I can see that," she said, "but still, it's only a date."

"I'll think about it," Lynn said.

"That's all I ask," Lori said and flashed her sister a smile.

Fifteen minutes later, they were back underway, stately pines looming over the highway and wavering in the warm August breeze. North of Castle Rock, the interstate angled west and disappeared into thick forest that rolled on forever. At Lava Falls, Lori took the off ramp and followed US20 northeast. The campground was another thirty miles off, the only thing between her and there woods, lakes, streams, and open two lane blacktop.

Ten miles on, and five miles from nowhere, the engine started knocking, bringing Lori from her reprieve. "Uh-oh," Lynn said, "that doesn't sound good."

Moments later, the wheel shook in Lori's hands, and thick black smoke belched out from under the hood. Oh, no.

"Smells like the carburetor," Lola muttered from the back, her head still propped against the pillow and her eyes closed. One of the ways she coped with losing Lana was by taking an interest in the things her twin enjoyed in life, like auto maintenance. It helps me feel closer to her, she admitted to Lori once. She wasn't very good and eventually moved on, but she knew a little - more than Lori did.

Great.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled to the gravel shoulder and killed the engine. She pulled the hood release, then got out into the dry summer heat with Lynn and went around to the front. She lifted the hood, and a wall of smoke rushed out, choking her. She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face; Lynn crinkled her nose; and Lola, who had gotten out too, sniffed the air. "Yep. The carburetor's shot. We're pretty much screwed." She sighed, cocked her hip, and crossed her arms. "Guess we'll have to camp here." There was a mocking inflection in her voice that grated on Lori's already fraying nerves.

Damn it. They were literally in bum fuck Egypt, a thousand and one miles from home...and the van broke down. Perfect. Just perfect. So much for having fun.

Luckily, they had AAA, so it wasn't the end of the world.

She took her phone out of her pocket, held it up...and her heart dropped.

"No service," she said aloud, and laughed humorlessly. Lynn and Lola looked at each other, then both took out their own phones as though by some magic, theirs would have bars.

They didn't.

Lori turned, leaned against the front end of the van, and slipped her fingers into her hair. A tension headache was beginning to form above her left eye.

"I hope someone comes along," she said with a sigh.


A battered white convertible sailed down a two lane highway like a ship at sea, its top down and its tires humming smoothly over the pavement. A man with wild black hair and fevered eyes sat behind the wheel, one hand at 12 and the opposite arm bent on the door; he wore a baseball cap with an extra long bill and spiked shoulder pads. Next to him, a man with a fifties style hairdo, his eyes hidden behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses, occupied the passenger seat, a cigarette jutting from his lips. A woman dressed in a tight white T-shirt and jeans sat in his lap, the wind rushing through her short blonde hair. There was a fourth passenger in the trunk, a woman kidnapped from a shopping center in Detroit three days ago. She was curled on her side, bound, gagged - and dead.

Kazoo driven music played over the scene.

Flagg and Abby

With Rag too

You better watch out

For this murderous crew

There's no stoppin'

Them on the prowl

Duck your head

Cuz here they come now

Got knives in their hands

And death in their hearts

You better cover up

Your lady parts

They're one righteous band

And they're always on hand

So give them a call

And they'll throw you a baaa-aaa-aaall!

Flagg reached behind the driver seat, opened a cooler, and slipped out a can of beer. He tapped it against Rag's shoulder pad; Rag took it with a silent nod, hand leaving the wheel for a second. Flagg grabbed another and cracked it open, taking a deep drink, white foam spilling down the sides of his mouth. Abby turned to watch him...then frowned. "Gimme some," she whined. Flagg pressed the can into her hand and took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke dispersing on the hot air.

They were six miles from the center of desolation and so lost they didn't know which end was up, but they didn't mind - that's why they came to Michigan's rural, forested Upper Peninsula: To hide.

They'd been tearing across the country since early June, starting in San Francisco and working their way east. In Lake Tahoe, they robbed a bank, Rag herding tells hostages into the safe and shooting each one in the back of the head execution-style because the walls look like they needed a fresh coat of paint. In Salt Lake City, they kidnapped a lone schoolgirl and dragged her in the car and kept with with them for twenty-five miles before dumping her lifeless body in a revine. Her fingers and teeth were nipped off haphazardly and semen was found in a makeshift hole in her stomach...among other places.

Making their way to Kansas, they ditched their previous car to mislead authorities and hitchhiked through a sparse forest.

Upon reaching the other side, they flagged down an unsuspecting teenage couple in a white convertible. Ten miles later, Flagg leaned forward and headlocked the driver as Rag took the wheel. They pulled to the side of the road and dragged the girl kicking and screaming into a field while Abby held the boy at gunpoint.

After raping the girl, Rag, shaking in the throes of his bloodlust, strangled her to death, slamming her head violently against the ground. Flagg stabbed the boy in the throat just once, allowing blood to paint the once white back seats in a sick coat of crimson. After the deed was done, they dumped the bodies in the middle of the road and headed off. Something was spelled in the road in the boys blood but officers couldn't make it out.

The next night, they broke into a farmhouse and rounded up the family inside: Two parents, three boys, and four girls. Flagg shot the sons and made the father watch as he and Rag raped the women.

Look at me, pop, Flagg said as he rutted into one of the weeping girls - she lie prone on the floor, her face buried in the carpet and her night dress hiked up around her hips. Flagg stared at the old man, who sat tied to a kitchen chair, his eyes filled with hatred and one of his daughters' underwear shoved into his mouth. Flagg laughed and slapped the girl's bare butt as hard as he could, the meaty thwack resounding through the house. I'm fucking your little girl. What'cha gonna do?

Rag knelt next to another one of the girls, a straight razor pressed to her throat and a wicked grin on his face. He held her by her long black hair and kissed the side of her neck, reveling in her tears and soft pleas for mercy like a pig in mud. Watch this, Dad, he said and jerked his wrist; the blade flashed across the girl's jugular and let loose a gushing torrent of blood that splattered the front of her night dress and Rag's face. He laughed madly as she gurgled and wept; her father squeezed his eyes closed and turned away.

Abby watched from the doorway to the kitchen, eating a sandwich and staring daggers at the little blonde girl Flagg currntly knelt behind: Her face was red and wet with tears, and when she tried to speak, her words came out in a strangled sob. She was eleven, maybe twelve, and Flagg liked them young...liked them more than her, Abby thought.

Grinning, Flagg smashed her face into the coffee table, reached under her dress, and yanked her panties down. No! She cried in alarm. Please, don't! Please, God! Flagg ran his hands over her back, his pink, lizard like tongue swiping obscenely across his bottom lip. Abby sneered.

Shhh, princess, Flagg said, I'll make it good for you.

Flagg never called her princess, Abby thought.

Snapping, she threw her sandwich down and stalked over. Flagg looked up at her just as she pulled the .38 from the small of her back, jammed it against the girl's head, and pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

Her little body jumped.

Abby flashed Flagg a mocking, tight-lipped smile, wheeled around, and went into the kitchen. Flagg watched her go, not knowing whether to be mad at her for breaking his toy before he could or satisfied that she was jealous.

Later, after butchering the remaining daughters, Flagg went out to the barn and searched for something to finish off the father with. He found it in the form of a Husqvarna 440 chainsaw. Inside, he grinned at Rag, who sat at the kitchen table with a slice of pie and a glass of milk. Wanna play Leatherface with Farmer John?

Rag snickered darkly. Let's.

Dad sat in the middle of the living room, his head hung and the floor around him heaped with his dead loved ones. Abby sat in his lap, running her fingers through his hair and planting faux-tender kisses on his forehead, one eye on Flagg as she did it.

He ignored her.

Alright, daddy-o, he said, and the man looked up. It's your turn to die. He lifted the chainsaw, yanked the cord, and smiled devilishly when the motor coughed to life. Abby got up and stood next to Flagg with a smirk on her face; Dad squeezed his eyes closed as Flagg lifted the saw over his head, then brought it down, the chain tearing through his scalp and splattering the three deviants with blood like holy water from a baptismal specter. Dad let out a blood curdling howl against his gag and thrashed, a chunk from the top of his head falling to the floor and exposing his pulsating brain. Dad twitched and jerked spasmodically, his eyelids fluttering and his ruined head turning back and forth.

Flagg cut the saw and tossed it aside, then considered his work, his hand going thoughtfully to his chin and his brow arching critically. Not bad, he said. Rag pulled a handful of brains from the now limp man's skull, looked at it...then flung it at Flagg with a dry, hitching chuckle. It hit the front of Flagg's suit with a wet plop and dropped onto the floor. Flagg looked at the blood smeared across his clothes, then up at Rag.

Got'cha, Rag said.

You son of a bitch, Flagg said. He reached into the man's head and grabbed his own handful. Rag snickered and started to run away; Flagg threw the brains and it hit Rag between the shoulder blades. He stumbled exaggeratedly forward and threw his arms out.

Ahh! you got me.

Damn right I did.

They stayed the night, sleeping in shifts. Abby was first; she sat on the couch and absently watched a show about two overly religious parents and their eleven messed up kids. Rag took the second shift, exploring the rooms of the recently deceased home occupants. He drew moustaches on family photos and carved his name on the furniture and walls. He found an ant farm in one of the boys rooms, opened the top, and released his bladder for a mighty thunder piss. My pee-pee needs to wee-wee! proclaimed Rag. Flagg took the final shift, chain smoking and staring the little girl's body with bitter regret. Fucking jealous ass Abby.

They left just past six the next morning after debating burning the house; Flagg wanted to leave the carnage for the police to find. A little something to remember us by, he said around the filter of his cigarette.

Presently, Flagg leaned forward, turned up the radio, and sat back with a sigh. He turned to Rag, who was driving back slouched and eyes violent. "Where's this campground ground you were talking about?" he asked and took the can from Abby, who was sitting on his lap without a seatbelt, how reckless!

"Fuck if I know," Rag said and snickered, "we are L-O-S-T, lost."

Flagg hummed dismissively. They were relying on an older map Rag picked up. They chose not to carry any phone in fear of being tracked. Abby was reading the map and dictating directions. There was a campground somewhere, and they were vaguely planning to rent a spot and pass a few days roasting marshmallows, telling spooky stories around the campfire, and swimming in the lake. Flagg hoped there were lots of sexy little girls, and Rag wished for a couple sexy little boys (and girls too!).

The current song on the radio ended and a newsbreak came on. "This just in breaking news. Law enforcement officials are continuing their search for three thrill killers who, they say, are responsible for upwards of thirty murders across the country."

"That's us!" Abby cried happily, and bounced in Flagg's lap like a giddy schoolgirl. Rag cracked a proud smirk, and Flagg took a dispassionate drag of his cigarette.

"...armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information is asked to contact the FBI."

Rag chuckled. "They got the feds after us, Flagg; they mean big business."

"A thousand homos in windbreakers," Flagg said, "I'm shaking."

Abby plucked the can from his hand and took a drink. "You're also getting hard," she said and half-lidded her eyes.

It was true, Flagg was sporting a full chub thinking about all those little girls splashing around in that lake, their wet, sun-kissed bodies barely clad. Flagg was a staunch supporter of third wave feminism: We can wear as little as we want and you just have to deal with it. Right on, honey, right on.

The newscast went off, and music replaced it, ominous guitar and low, brutal chanting. Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!

Rag turned the volume all the way up and tapped to the tempo on the wheel. When the lyrics started, Rag bobbed his head back and forth and joined in; sounded like a cat being murdered.

"See me ride out of the sunset

On your color TV screen

Out for all that I can get

If you know what I mean"

Abby slammed the rest of the beer and tossed the can over her shoulder; the wind took it and knocked it to the pavement. "I like this song," she said. Flagg knew - AC/DC turned her on, and they often fucked to it, wild, animalistic sex with no passion. She started to sing too, and Flagg rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

"Women to the left of me

And women to the right

Ain't got no gun

Ain't got no knife

Don't you start no fight"

Flagg flicked his cigarette out and blew a plume of smoke. Abby slipped one arm around his shoulder and kissed his forehead. "Come on, babe. Sing."

"No," Flagg said. "I don't sing."

"Oh, come on, it's fun," Rag said.

"So's your mother," Flagg spat.

Rag rolled his eyes. "Hur hur, good one, Fagg."

Flashing, Flagg punched him in the arm, and he released a girly cry; the car swerved into the other lane and nearly went off the road. Wide eyed and pale faced with terror, Rag spun the wheel and corrected; Abby swayed and nearly fell off of Flagg's lap (and from the car entirely), but Flagg snaked his arm around her hip and held her up.

She glared at Rag. "You almost killed me, jackass."

"It was him!" Rag cried and pointed to Flagg.

"You're worse than a goddamn Asian behind the wheel," Flagg growled.

Rag sighed loudly. "Whatever."

Ahead, the road went around a bend then over a rocky creek bed. They hadn't seen another car for fifteen miles and Flagg was beginning to think they wouldn't see one ever again, but, as luck would have it, they did - in the distance, a silver minivan sat on the shoulder, a blonde girl leaning against the front end and smoke pouring out of the engine block. Flagg flipped his sunglasses up and craned to see around Abby, his breath catching when he saw the little blonde in the pink dress, a queenly tiara perched on top of her head. She was eleven, maybe twelve, and her body would be just beginning to blossom.

"Now you're really hard," Abby giggled.

Rag spotted them and leaned over the wheel. "Hey, check it out," he said.

Abby squinted, saw the little blonde, and tensed.

She knew why Flagg was so hard now.

The older blonde looked up, and relief washed across her face. A third girl, her thick brown hair in a ponytail, came around the front end and waved to them.

"Keep driving," Abby said tightly.

"Stop," Flagg said back

Rag looked between the two, as if he didn't know who was in charge.

Abby's eyes narrowed. "Keep. Driving."

Flagg sneered. "Pull up."

Abby spat louder. "Don't stop and keep go-"

Flagg snatched her by the hair and dragged her head back - she let out a sharp yelp. "We're stopping, bitch, and if you don't like it, you can get the hell out and walk."

"Let go!" she moaned.

Flagg pulled harder, and tears sprang to her eyes. "Ow, Flaggy, please!"

"Tell him to stop," Flagg snarled, his dick getting even harder.

Abby sneered defiantly, and Flagg yanked her hair again.

"Oh, stop, Rag!"

Flagg grinned. "Ask him to stop."

Rag looked from Flagg to the road, then back to Abby. his heart slamming and his peepee twitching from the violence. Abby swallowed hard. "P-Please stop, R-Rag."

A dark grin crossed Flagg's lips, and he looked at Rag. "You heard the woman," he said.

"If she insists," Rag smirked.


Lori was just starting to think they were going to have to walk when she heard the swelling sound of an oncoming car. Lynn, sitting in the passenger seat with her feet on the ground, perked up, and Lola sighed. "Finally," she said.

They'd been stranded for close to half an hour by this point, and not a single car had passed - save for a pick-up truck whose bed was stacked with cages and cages of chickens. The old black woman behind the wheel said she'd come back for them, "In an hour or so, chil', I gots things I gots to do." Lotta help that was.

A white convertible appeared ahead, and Lori looked up at it, her eyes squinting; the August sun glared on the windshield, and she couldn't see who was inside.

Lynn came over and waved. "Wonder if they have room," Lynn grumbled. She'd been studying the map since the breakdown just for something to do, and she figured that the closest town was Edgeville fifteen miles back - and that was three houses, a church, and a general store. As long as there was at least one phone, Lori would be happy.

The car pulled to the opposite shoulder, its tires kicking up dust, and came to a halting stop. A man in a long baseball cap sat behind the wheel, and as Lori started over, he looked at her, his eyes bloodshot, beady and black like a weasel's. Her step faltered and her heartbeat sped inexplicably up - for the first time she was aware that she and her sisters were alone, three women, three beautiful girls, and that sometimes, bad things happen to girls.

When she saw the woman in the passenger seat, her arms crossed, she relaxed a little. She crossed the road, Lynn at her right elbow and Lola at her left, and came up to the car. The driver looked up at her with a smile, and the woman looked away. There was another passenger, a man in sunglasses smoking a cigarette. They all looked rough, and an anxious ripple went through Lori's stomach.

"Car trouble?" the man behind the wheel asked.

"Our carburetors shot," Lola said.

The driver giggled, and Lori thought she detected a mocking note. "Is that so?" He looked up at Lori, his eyes full of something... was that lust? His grip on the wheel was harder than it needed to be and his smile, so obviously faked, was crooked. A shiver went down her spine and she began to feel cold.

They were not taking a ride from these people, she decided.

"Do you have a phone?" Lori asked before Lynn or Lola could speak. The man flicked his eyes up and down her body, slowly, and she could feel the slime of his gaze.

He shrugged one shoulder. "We do, but it ain't got no service." He nodded toward the back. "Hop in, we'll give you a ride."

Lynn started to speak, but Lori cut her off. "No, that's fine." The man's brow knitted, and she fumbled for a convincing lie. "We don't wanna leave the van."

"Then you come with us and your friends stay here," the man in the passenger seat said around the filter of his cigarette. "Problem solved."

"No, I'd rather not leave them," Lori said. "Thanks anyway."

She started to turn, but the driver clicked his tongue and breathed in through his teeth. He reached in between his crotch and whipped out a CZ-75 pistol and aimed it at her head, his thumb cocking the hammer back with a cold, metallic click - her heart dropped into her stomach. Next to her, Lynn stiffened and Lola gasped.

"Get in the car," he said.