"Don't kill me, please don't kill me." I watched, bile rising in my stomach, as Mike raised a rifle, aiming for Kristy's head. Her face was running with tears, mucus and blood. I forced myself not to look away, to let the anger build in me, to let the moment of revenge ripen. That bastard.
That BASTARD.
I cast around the yard, scattered with car parts, rusting rubbish. How could I get him outside? There was our hatchback, next to it the container of petrol. Petrol. Not allowing myself the time to think or panic I doused the inside of the car and threw in a match from the pack in my back pocket, cursing each one that wouldn't light. But, once I found a dry one, the seats caught quickly, and went the fire reached the fuel reserves, an explosion rose up six feet high.
I watched, under cover, and sure enough that fat fuck came waddling out of his shed, cursing and spitting. Without his gun. Without his gun.
Inside the stench of blood almost knocked me over. I've read animals can smell fear, and I'd never quite believed it, but that room stank of it, no doubt. Blood and fear and man-sweat and desperation. Kristy was slumped on the ground by the beam. Her nose was broken and her face was a dark mask of blood. In a second I was holding her, comforting her. Combing the clots from her hair with my fingers and feeling the cuts and bruises.
That BASTARD.
I could here noises in the yard – it seemed the fire was nearly out. With a wrench I let go of my friend and hid under the table, holding my breath and the gun.
I watched, bile rising ever further, as that bastard hissed gloats over Kristy. I tried not to listen, not to let myself remember the things he was saying, but inside some dark part searched for the trigger that would let me loose control.
…"You're all weak as piss."
I leap out of my hiding place.
That bastard, bastard, BASTARD!
I knew I was shaking, I knew I couldn't draw my breath, but inside I felt wondrously calm as he wheedled with me. I knew the gun was loaded. Was this how he felt, I wondered? Listening to his victim's pleas, knowing he would break them. Knowing they would die, feeling that power. Power – I took hold of that terrifying feeling, and with gritted teeth, pulled the trigger.
The Bastard's eyes rolled up into his head as the bullet passed through the side of his neck. And with a sickeningly heavy thug, he was floored.
I blocked out Kristy's screams, and stood over his prone body. My hands were trembling violently, and I couldn't not reload the rifle with the second shot I so desperately needed. Brimming over with frustration, I held the body of the gun with one hand, and pressed the palm of the other over the end and drove the barrel into his head. I felt the skull crack. Not Enough. Again and again until I could feel the rifle hitting the dusty ground, separated by a membrane of slippery skin and cartilage.
Only then did I fall back, only then did I feel the blood and brains splattered over my face, arms and chest. Only then did the fire die down and I reached for Kristy. Both of us sobbing with relief in the dirt by a dead body. It was Kristy who spoke first.
"Where's Ben?"