Lyrics to Raspberry Beret by Prince (1985)

Vale hung suspended upside down from a wooden framework in a tumbledown barn, his chest bare and the blood rushing to his head. Velcro straps held his feet in place and his fingertips grazed the dirt floor. Missing persons flyers papered the rotting wood walls, each one depicting, in stark black and white, the face of someone, he assumed, the Louds had killed. A man in a baseball cap emblazoned with LEO (law enforcement officer?); another with glasses and blue hair; another still with a Shemp Howard hairdo and peach fuzz on his upper lip; an insufferably smug looking cat. A line of meat hooks dangled from the ceiling, each one crusted with dried blood, and metal drums filled with corrosive acid sat in a V-formation like an arrow pointing directly at him. Laika stood at a dusty workbench pushed flush with the far wall, her back to him. A flexible gooseneck lamp shone cold LED light across its surface, revealing an array of butcher's tools: Knives, meat cleavers, hammers, handsaws, drills, and a gleaming chrome meat grinder.

The woman bent, pulled a deep metal drip pan from beneath the table, and hefted it over. She sat it under him and stared down into his face. Vertigo came over him and the blood flowing to his head made him sick to his stomach. "You are lucky am not sick like family," she said, "I won't torture, only kill."

Comforting.

She turned and went back to the table, and Vale struggled to keep his composure. This was it. In just a few minutes, she would come back, slit his throat, and wait for him to bleed to death. A knot formed in his stomach and his heart beat morosely against his ribs. There was no escape, no deiverence, only the coming night.

"Have special eighties CD," Laika said, "will cover sounds of death."

Personally, he would have picked something else to die to.

Licking his lips, he favored the straps circling his feet. If he could reach them, he could free himself. That would require doing a sit up, and though he was not overweight, he lacked the abdominal strength required to pull himself up. He tried now, as if to prove to himself that he couldn't, and his stomach muscles burned like heated coils. He gritted his teeth and let out a pent up breath.

It was impossible.

Laika sat a radio on the table, popped the lid, and sat a CD in the compartment. She snapped the door closed and pushed a button, and bouncy eighties pop filtered from the speaker, the resonant dissonance of happy sounds in a hellish slaughterhouse so eerie that Vale's skin crawled.

I was working part time in a five-and-dime

My boss was Mr. McGee

He told me several times that he didn't like my kind

'Cause I was a bit too leisurely

She took a leather apron stained with gore down from a hook and slipped it over her head. Vale studied the straps, his mind working. So close, but so far away. He had to get them off...Abby needed him. If he gave up like a bitch and let that white cunt kill him, everything that happened to Abby afterwards would be his fault...all the rape, beatings, abuse, and god knows what else, all on him because he didn't even try to help.

Seems that I was busy doing something close to nothing

But different than the day before

That's when I saw her, ooh, I saw her

She walked in through the out door, out door

Laika hummed along to the music as she picked each instrument up in turn, judging its merits and demerits before putting it back and moving onto the next. Vale balled his fists, bore down on his teeth, and began to gradually rock himself back and forth like a child on a swing. Laika held up a wickedly sharp knife and the light glinted off its serrated blade. "This one good for tearing veins," she mused to herself, then held up another. "But this one too."

Vale was swinging faster now, gaining momentum. The frame creaked and he winced, expecting Laika to hear, but the music concealed it. His plan was to get as much speed as possible, do a crunch on the backswing, and rip the straps off as quickly as he could. He didn't know if that was feisible for not, but he was going to try anyway; it was better than placidly giving himself and Abby to these peckerwood motherfuckers.

She wore a

Raspberry beret

The kind you find in a second hand store

Raspberry beret

And if it was warm she wouldn't wear much more

Raspberry beret

I think I love her

The Russian sat both knives down, picked up another, and hummed her indecision like a persnickety woman comparing apples in the produce section. Vale's midsection blazed and his legs were starting to cramp, but he ignored them; he was focused entirely on the task at hand, on getting loose and getting away. The minor discomfort would be worth it, and so, so, so much better than dying at Laika's hands.

When he had enough push, he ground his teeth and curled like doing a sit up. Burning agony filled his stomach and a groan escaped through his teeth; blood crashed against his temples and his skull swelled with pain. He brought his arms up and reached for the straps, but fell back, wagging back and forth like a pendulum on speed.

At the workbench, Laika picked up a meat cleaver and considered it with a hum, her dry lips scrunching. "Should be sharp or dull?" she asked herself. "Sharp make death quick, dull make more work."

Vale's stomach quivered like a plate of jelly and every muscle in his body violently seized, but taking a deep breath, he clinched, bared his teeth, and steeled himself. He'd have to quick and precise, two things he wasn't sure he was capable of.

God, please, he prayed, let me do this right.

He tensed, then curled again, swung his arms up, and went for the strap around his left ankle in one fluid motion. Velcro brushed his fingertips, and his heart rocketed into his throat. He grabbed the flap and yanked; with a tearing sound, it came apart and he dangled from one foot, his ankle twisting and agony shooting up his leg. He moaned, then the bracket holding his other foot gave way, spilling him to the ground in a heap.

For a moment he lay there, too dazed by his own triumph to move, then adrenaline surged through him and he got unsteadily to his feet. Laika, none the wiser, looked between two different knives. Going after her was not a conscious decision - his body simply carried him forth, driven by mindless primal instinct and the will to survive. Laika was a threat and if he didn't stop her, she would come for him.

An ax with a splintered wood handle leaned wearily against the wall, its dull blade glinting in the light. Vale watched himself grab it, unthinking, unfeeling, numb and operating on animal fear alone. He lifted it over his shoulder like a batter on the mound, the world slowing to a crawl, the only sound the mad beating of his own heart and the only thought in his mind Abby, chained to a chair in a den of wolves and at the mercy of monsters.

Built like she was

She had the nerve to ask me

If I planned to do her any harm

So, look here

I put her on the back of my bike

And we went riding

Down by old man Johnson's farm

Laika turned just as he brought it down, a scream of animal fury erupting from his throat. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in surprise, then the blade smashed into the center of her face. A jarring vibration ran up his arms and Laika fell back against the edge of the workbench, wet gurgles tearing from her blood-filled throat. Some splattered Vale's cheeks and stung his eyes, but he didn't notice and wouldn't have cared if he had. He wrenched the ax free, panting now, crackling with power like 50,000 volts; broken bones and twisted bits of cartilage poked through the red mess that was once Laika's face, her punctured eyes mixing with blood and sliding down her paling cheeks.

In his twenty-three years of life, Vale had never hit someone with an ax, and didn't know what to expect. He anticipated her toppling to one side and falling still, or maybe her dropping to her knees and trying to hold her head together with trembling hands. He did not, however, think she would let out a phlegmy battle cry and charge him. Arms outstretched, fingers grasping, Laika threw herself at him like a cemetery nightmare; she hit him and the ax flew from Vale's hands, landing in the dirt with a pufft. They fell back in a tangle of limbs, Laika on top, her fingers blindly clawing in search of his throat. Blood oozed from the gaping crater in her face and dripped onto Vale like fat droplets of rain. He stared up at her in open-mouthed shock, then wheezed when her grasp closed viciously around his neck. His paralysis broke, and he raked his nails frenziedly across the backs of her hands. She redoubled her grip and dug her thumbs into his larynx, cutting off his air supply. His eyes strained in their sockets and darkness edged the borders of his consciousness. Panic consumed him, and he tried to toss her off, but she braced her knees on either side of his hips, clinging to him like an overgrown monkey to the side of a building. "I die," she spat lowly, "you die too."

His ear were ringing and warmth spread through his dying brain. He tried one last time to roll, but

Laika held fast. His gaze went to the yawning slit down the center of her face, and acting on reflex, he jammed the fingers of both hands into it and pulled, prying her skull apart like a man might a stubborn crab at Red Lobster. Her arms locked and she shook, sounds of agony blasting from her mouth, and giving it everything he had, Vale yanked. Laika's face opened up with a sickening crack, and her brain dropped onto Vale's face with a wet plop. She jerked, then fell limp against him, dead.

Crying out in revulsion, Vale whipped his head to one side, and the organ landed in the dirt. He heaved her off of him, got to his feet, and staggered away. At the door, he slapped one hand against the frame and caught his breath. He looked around for his shirt, intending to wipe the blood (and, oh God, whatever else) from his face, but landed on a long wooden crate instead. Shoved against one wall and partially covered by a green tarp, it wouldn't have drawn his attention if what looked like the barrel of a gun hadn't been jutting over the edge. He pushed away, went to it, and drew the tarp back.

A veritable arsenal lay before him like Thanksgiving dinner. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, Uzis, and AK-47's all lumped together like slimy snakes in a subterranean den. Vale scanned the offering with awe and trepidation. Guns, and what they were capable of, had always unsettled him, and the few times he'd seen one in person, black, slick with grease, and sinister, his heartbeat quickened apprehensively.

Even so, he reached in and withdrew an M4 carbine with an extended magazine. It was oily and warm in his hands, like an eel, and lead filled his stomach. He looked up at Laika, who lay face down in the dirt, and licked his lips. He turned the rifle over and examined it from every angle, trying to figure out how to even work the damn thing. He found the safety just above the trigger guard and ficked it off, then gripped the magazine and yanked it out. The light flickered over a wicked looking brass cartridge terminating in a pointed round.

Vale's throat went dry and his hands began to shake.

He knew what he had to do.

Slamming the magazine back in, he went out into the night.

The girl of the hour sat primly across from Abby, her big brown eyes just as dull as Lemtard's and her teeth even more crooked. Her forehead was sloped in that distinctive Loud way and butterfly clips held her white hair in jaunty pigtails that seemed to mock Abby's anguish. Clad in an oversized sweater, black knee socks with a pink and purple zigzag pattern, and nothing else, Loli appeared far younger than her eighteen years. She stared straight ahead with an inscrutable smile upon her glossy pink lips and a faraway gaze; a ribbon of drool dribbled from her chin and onto her empty plate, and her scent - dirty and unwashed woman - pinched the back of Abby's nose. She tried to breath through her mouth, but the gag Logan tied around her head blocked her airways, so she was forced to inhale through her nose.

Not that she cared; she was numb to it all, her pink rimmed eyes shimmered with unshed tears and her throat was raw from screaming. Having Vale taken away and being left alone with them was bad, but worse was when Loli came in wearing cracked and bent sunglasses.

Flagg's sunglasses.

The realization that he was truly dead hit her and she broke down crying, her lament rising until she shrieked with rage, hatred, bereavement, insanity, and a thousand other emotions. She pulled at the rope lashing her hands to the chair, tossed her head from side to side, and screamed at the top of her lungs, giving voice to the gnashing pain within. She was so excited to tell him about the baby, was looking forward to his eyes lighting up and his strong arms closing around her in a loving embrace. They were going to be a family...they were going to take road trips and go to amusement parks, take lots of pictures and grow old together and...and they took it away from her.

Deep inside of her, resentment stirred like the cold, windswept ashes of a dead fire, and she sniffled. If she made it out of this alive - a pretty big if - her baby would never know its father. It would never be cradled safe in his arms, never squeal laughter as he gave it piggyback rides through the backyard, never snuggle up to him and drift peacefully off to sleep as he read it bedtime stories.

The water in her eyes brimmed over and streaked down her face.

At the stove, Lori stirred the contents of the pot, tapped the spoon on the rim, and turned. Lyah, now with a red apron over her coveralls (KISS THE COOK in white) slathered butter on each piece of cornbread and paused to take swigs from a bottle of beer. Logan sat with Bed in his lap and his fingers laced across her stomach, Bobby Jr. sat in the seat recently vacated by Vale, and Lemtard sat at his dead father's right hand, rocking back and forth in his chair and giggling to himself as if at a joke only he could understand. Lucy - that was the comically tall woman's name - favored Abby with a blank expression, her lips a tight white slash across her sallow face. Abby couldn't see her eyes, but she could feel them; hot, heavy, and appraising, as though she were sizing her up and finding her deficient. Beside her, Lacy dumbly licked her lips...and the lips of her gruesome mask.

Setting the spoon aside, Lori came up behind Loli and laid her hands on the girl's slender shoulders. Loli looked up at her and gave a big, stupid grin. Lori smiled at her then looked around the table. "Supper's ready, y'all, but before we get started, we got a very special event. Tonight, Loli's gon' become a woman. She's gon' follow in all our footsteps and take her daddy into herself."

"Log," everyone said in unison.

A pleased look settled upon Lori's features. "Riding the Log is a family tradition that we've all done and all liked...some of us more than others." She looked at Logan, who smirked and ducked his head to hide the blush coloring his cheeks.

Abby's sight was drawn magnetically to the corpse at the head of the table; a spider scurried across its cheek and disappeared into one socket.

"It started when I was seventeen," she continued. "Lincoln was eleven and the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen." She took her hands away from Loli's shoulders and walked slowly around the table, her fingers trailing along the surface. "I was torn for a long time about my feelings. He was my baby brother and it was wrong to want him the way I did." She stood behind the corpse now, her fingers brushing through the sparse white hair covering its skull. Lyra hugged herself tightly and shook; Bed squirmed uncomfortably in Logan's lap, as if trying to get away from something prodding her. ""Finally, one night, I gave in," Lori said. "I went in his room and had sex with him. All my sisters followed suit, and so, too, did every other woman." She kissed the top of Lincoln's head and swished back to Loli. "Now it's your turn, suge."

She cupped Loli's cheek in her hand, and Loli preened, as though having sex with her father's dead body were a great honor. "Every girl belongs to Lincoln," Lori explained patiently to her niece, "they might wander here 'n there, but they always come back to they daddy. We wouldn't have it any other way. Why be different when you can be the same?"

"Same," everyone responded in a low, monotonous chant.

"We do things a certain way here," she continued, looking directly at Abby, "and it's good enough for us. A lotta family don't like it and they moved on. Well, if you ask me, they're no family at all. We talk to them, we smile at them, but once they chose to go outside of us, they stopped bein' real family. We are the real Louds, the true heirs to Lincoln's legacy. Us. Not them. Us." She swept her arm out to indicate the gathering. A sagging puddle of flesh; a girl who wanted to be her mother; a girl who believed she was a man, and whom everyone else humored and encouraged; a grinning loon named after his uncle, not his daddy; a genetic freak with a chainsaw sitting in his lap like a Bond villain's hairless cat; a fat pedophile leering at the back of a little Asian girl's head and grinding his erection into her butt; a seven foot tall goth.

"God said in the Bible, John 5:16, that He would send His son back, sailing with the rock, like Independence Day. Well, let me tell you, the rock came back in Lincoln. He was the return of the Son of His Father and he filled us will his holy seed. We're the chosen ones, y'all, and we was mighty blessed to have Lincoln."

Everyone nodded solemnly, like a congregation to the infallible word of its head. A deranged gleam crept into her eyes and her smile took on a crazed cast, surprisingly Abby. She thought Lori the sanest member of the family, but if anything, she was the most disturbed. "We gotta keep up what Lincoln built. We gotta keep going forward and expandin'. If we do, one day, He'll come back to us." She glanced from face to face. "He'll make manifested in one of your children, or your children's children. He's a'comin', mark my words, he might even be inside one of you now."

Abby thought of her baby and shivered.

Turning to Loli once more, Lori asked, "Are you ready, hun?"

The girl nodded eagerly, her pigtails rustling. Lori took a side back and regarded her with the hazy smile of a mother seeing her daughter off to prom. "Stand up."

Lemtard, Logan, Bobby Jr., and Lyah all leered at their sister -cousin like dogs as she got to her feet, their eyes caressing her naked legs. Lyra, head hung, squeezed her eyes closed in dread anticipation of what was next, and Bed wiggled fruitlessly to escape Logan's lap. "You're just makin' me harder, little girl," Logan said in a husky whisper and pulled her tight against him. Lori sat in Loli's chair, lifted the hem of the white haired moron's sweater, and dragged her white panties down her shapely legs, bunching fabric scraping warm, creamy skin. She let them drop around Loli's ankles, then got up and took her hand. Loli allowed herself to be lead to her waiting father, his skeletal grimace bellicose and depraved in the light of the overhead lamp.

Leaning to the side, Lyah snatched her sister-cousin's underwear from the floor with a lewd smile, held them to her nose, and sniffed deeply.

"I-I-I wanna smell t-too," Bobby Jr. said indignantly.

Lyah tilted her head back, face covered by dingy white, and thrust her hips lavisciously back and forth.

Bobby Jr. reached over the table. "I-It's my turn now, Lyle," he whined.

Lifting her arm, Lyah held up her middle finger, and Bobby Jr.'s face screwed up as though he were going to cry. "A-Aunt Lori…"

The woman ignored him as she guided Loli to her destiny.

Sighing, Lyah grabbed the panties and threw them at her brother with a sneer. "There, you little twerp."

A big, dumb smile spread across Bobby Jr.'s face.

Abby swallowed thickly and rolled her hands, the rope pressing hard into her wrist bone. The right was looser than before, and if she worked it, she could get out. She couldn't think of what would come after, wouldn't, because if she did, she would freeze. The chances of getting away were virtually nil, but if she stayed here, they were nil full stop. So concentrating entirely on flexing her hands, ignoring the rope chafing her flesh raw, Abby worked with single-minded determination. She'd worry about later when she got there...if she got there.

Kneeling next to Lincoln, Lori wrapped her hand around his mummified dick. "C'mon, hun," she said and shook the appendage enticingly.

Loli bit her bottom lip apprehensively and came hesitantly forward like a virgin bride to her wedding bed. Abby flexed her wrists faster, heart crashing a frenetic tempo and her guts twisting and knotting.

Laying her hands on her father's shoulders, Loli settled onto his lap, Lori bringing the tip to Loli's opening with a breathy, "Push down, sweetie." Everyone watched, enraptured, like ancient Jews basking in the presence of Christ. A revenant hush fell over the table, and in that moment it became a church...a church in which the holy spirit dwelt in the form of a mummy with white hair. Loli sank onto the Log like her brothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, nephews, and nieces before her, and a gasp squeezed from her throat. Lori stood up and stepped back, her arms crossing proudly over her chest. Abby tugged and flexed, tugged and flexed, the rope coming looser. She tried to pull her hand out, but it wouldn't come.

Next to Abby, Lyra sobbed openly, and Bobby Jr. favored her with a devilish grin. "D-Don't w-worry, s-sis, y-you can ride r-rocket later on."

That triggered something deep inside the girl, and throwing her head back, she shrieked as loud as she could. Lori's lips fell into a deadly frown, and Lyah narrowed her eyes. Tossing her head crazily from side to side, her hands tearing madly at her hair, she wailed, all of her pain, misery, and suffering coming to the surface and flooding the world. Skulls watched indifferently, and demonic shadows danced across the wall as if to the beautiful music she made.

Lori's mask of motherly affection slipped, revealing the monster beneath: Features distorting, lips pulling back from her teeth and her eyes narrowing to reptilian slits. "Shut that bitch up," she hissed. Bobby scrambled to his feet, bent over Lyra, and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back. He jammed the panties into her face, grinding them, and giggled merrily.

"L-Let me d-dry them tears," he laughed. Lyra thrashed back and forth, her screams muffled and her hooked fingers clawing desperately at his face but coming up short. Bed started to sob and Logan roared with sadistic laughter. Bobby Jr. glanced up at him, then at Lyra. "Hush, little b-baby, d-don't say a word…"

Loli bounced up and down on her father's rod, her face flushed and a look of perfect bliss upon her visage. Abby pulled harder, twisting, tearing skin, blood sluicing down her fingers and greasing her skin. Tears flowed from her leaking eyes and hysteria threatened to overcome her; a great weight crushed her chest and she could barely breathe. It was hot, too hot, and the walls were closing in, looming, pushing, towering, getting closer and closer, the air less and less. Pain snaked up her arms but she didn't care, didn't care about anything but getting away from this awful fucking place.

Folding her arms in a gesture of smug satisfaction, Lori leaned back against the stove and smirked at Loli: The girl was nearing her peak, trembling exhalations puffing from her lips and breathy moans of, "Daddy," quavering from her throat. She hugged the corpse, lifted her hips, then came down hard, the agonizing kiss of his tip battering her cervix knocking a moan from her saliva slathered mouth.

Abby's hand was almost free; the skin was raw, pink, and bloody, ragged tatters of flesh peeling off onto the rope. She bore down on her teeth and pulled her hand back; the rope slipped over her knuckles and she was free. She stared dazedly down at her seeping wound, unable to process what she was seeing through her traumatized brain. Bobby Jr. pushed the panties deeper into Lyra's face and laughed, he he he he he. Lacy chewed her mother's lips; Liena looked mournfully down at her plate, waiting for it to be filled; Lucy gazed at Loli; Logan rubbed one of Bed's breasts through her dress and licked the slope of her neck; Lyah grinned; Lemtard drooled, one hand absently stroking the chainsaw blade. Lyra arched her back, and Bobby Jr. swung one leg over her, shifting into her lap and holding the underwear over her mouth and nose. "You want the r-r-rocket? I'll g-g-give you the r-r-r-ocket."

He reached one hand down and fumbled at his belt. Behind him, Loli's movements quickened as she reached her climax. "D-D-Daddy~"

When the window over the kitchen sink exploded in a shower of glass, Abby started. Bullets pelted Lincoln's head and arm, kicking up puffs of cemetery dust, and one tore out Loli's throat in a mist of blood. A hail of gunfire hit Lori in the chest, and she jerked, spun, and slumped over the stove before falling, the pot clattering to the floor and spilling thick, meaty chili across the tiles. "The food!" Liena screamed. A round took her high in right temple and the chair collapsed under her spasming weight. Lemtard dropped out of his chair and held his arms protectively over his head; Logan shoved Bed aside and dove under the table, crying out when a round hit him in the ass. A furious rain of bullets dug into the cabinets, the stove, the wall, glass shattering, metal pinging, wood cracking. One hit Bobby Jr. in the shoulder and, yelping like a trod upon cat, he toppled off of Lyra and curled up on the floor. Lyah fell to one side, maybe wounded and maybe not, and Abby ducked her head, heart slamming so hard it hurt, and closed her eyes, waiting for the maelstrom to stop.

Lincoln's magical dick, like an aged and powerful holy relic, jutted broken off from Loli's core, her dying body contracting greedily around it. Lucy, on her stomach, gasped. "The Log!" She reached for it, but yanked her hand back when a bullet tore off three of her fingers. Blood spurted from the mangled stumps like geysers and sprayed Lacy, who crouched next to her.

The gunman raked fire blindly back and forth as if reveling in the simple act of destruction and not caring who or what he hit. Somehow, the stove was on fire, flames licking from the burner in long, shimmying stalks, and rubble littered the floor, raining down on the backs of the huddled psychos. A bullet grazed Abby's shoulder, and she screamed, certain she'd been shot head on; another hit a skull on the counter and it disintegrated; the dangling mobile above dropped, its string severed by lead, and landed neatly on Abby's plate, the bones giving themselves over to the same fate as the meat that once clung to them. Lyra held her face in her hands and wept bitterly like a lost and frightened little girl and Bed sought shelter under her chair.

As quickly as it started, the shooting ended, and deafening silence crashed down around Abby, broken only by low, injured moaning. The wall behind the stove was beginning to bubble and char as the fire grew, thin black smoke hazing the air. Under the table, Logan cried and Lucy sucked sharp gasps of breath through her teeth; Lori lay motionless on her stomach, blood spreading around her, and Liena was beached on her side, her breathing labored and raspy.

With a jolt, Abby realized this was her chance.

She worried at the rope tying her left hand to the chair arm, shudders wracking her body. Someone was whimpering and muttering incoherent prayers - she was only vaguely aware that it was her.

Lemtard jumped to his feet, the chainsaw in his hands, and yanked the cord; the motor caught with a heart-stopping rumble and Abby's center crumpled like an aluminum can. He held it high over his head with a guttural roar, revving it, high, low, high, low, then turned and kicked through the back door in search of the interloper.

Fire spread up the wall and lapped at the ceiling, tripping an alarm: a piercing beep-beep-beep cut through Abby's brain, urging her on. Lyra covered her face with her shaking hands and hitched, and on the floor, Logan chanted, "My nuts...my nuts…" in a pitiful moan.

Abby dug at the knot but her nails broke and bent, so grabbing the rope with her free hand, she drew it back just far enough to slip out. She ripped the gag out and started to get up, but paused when her gaze locked with Bed's. The little girl stared up at her with tearful eyes, her lips quivering and her shadowy face rippling with child-like terror.

She couldn't leave her.

Reaching out her hand, Abby said, "Come on," her voice quick and panicky.

The little girl didn't move. Behind her, Logan rolled side to side on his back like a fat turtle, his hands clutching his bloody crotch, and Lacy, sitting Indian style, picked one of Lucy's severed fingers up and tossed it into her mouth as though it were a tasty treat.

They didn't have time for this. Abby snatched the little girl's hand and pulled her to her feet; Abby's knees were weak and shaky, and for a moment she wobbled. She bent over Lyra, "Honey -" her words cut off in a yelp when someone wrapped their arms around her from behind and yanked her back. Bed's hand ripped from her grasp, and the little Asian balled her fists defensively to her chest. Abby screeched in animal fury and threw her elbow back, hitting her captor in the stomach and knocking his breath from his lungs. His grip loosened, and she pulled away and stumbled toward the back door, but he was on top of her again, holding the back of her shirt. Cold, hard steel swiped across her back and stinging pain streaked into the center of her skull. Flashing, she drove her leg back and connected with Bobby Jr.'s knee. His foot slipped in a puddle of blood and he went down with a grunt. A hand shot out from under the table and grabbed Abby's ankle; she screamed, danced back, and lashed out, Lucy's nose crunching wetly.

Bobby Jr. struggled to his feet, grabbed her and wheeled her around, his teeth baring like a dog and excited pants blowing from his lips. Abby kicked her legs and shrieked. "Y-You ain't rid the r-r-rocket yet," Bobby said into her ear, his hot breath burning her skin. Unthinking, she threw her arm back, wound it around his neck, and dragged his face to hers; her teeth clamped down on his nose and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. He screeched and dropped her. Stumbling, she launched herself blindly into the living room - no longer thinking of Bed or Lyra or Vale or even Flagg, but only of getting away, of one day holding her baby.

"You fuckin' dog d-dick!" Bobby screamed, blood oozing between his fingers. He let go, raised a straight razor, its keen edge refracting the light, and gave chase.

Abby didn't stop as she bolted toward the front door, didn't register the room around her: The lampshades and couch cushions made of mottled human flesh, the wall-mounted picture frames made of bones and boasting photos of generations past, each one a little less inbred the farther back the year. She reached the door, fumbled hectically at the latch, ripped it open, and staggered into the sultry Texas night.

Outside, Vale scurried away from the kitchen window at a crouch, the rifle clutched in his hands. A fire alarm sounded from inside and so, too, did the blood-freezing revving of a chainsaw.

His mind raced as he hurriedly tried to formulate a plan. He could circle around to the front of the house and go in through the living room. If he met anyone, he'd shoot them. There was no telling how many people the Louds were holding prisoner and it was likely he might come across one, but all that mattered was getting Abby and getting the hell out of here. They could send help back later.

He went back to the cop who dragged Abby into the kitchen. The Louds had some kind of sick, inbred monopoly on the area. How far their influence and kin stretched, he didn't know, but he didn't trust anyone.

Behind him, the back door slammed open and Lemtard ran out with the chainsaw jutting before him like a giant, throbbing phallus. Vale ducked to the left and ran alongside the house, hunching forward as he passed living room windows blazing with low lamplight. He reached the corner, pressed himself flat against the clapboard siding, and peeked around. The porch lamp was on, its feeble rays bathing the weather stained wood. The chainsaw revved louder, closer, and Vale glanced back; he couldn't see Lemtard, but he could hear him, the ominous buzz swelling like the rising grumble of an onrushing tank.

The front door crashed open, making Vale jump. Abby dashed down the steps and tripped on the last one, landing on her hands and knees in the dark. Her shirt was ripped, blood leaked down her back, and she shook as if with cold. Ragged whimpers and trembling moans poured from throat and when she drew herself to her feet, she took off headlong down the driveway at a shambling gait. A moment later, Bobby Jr. tumbled down the stairs, his arm raised and a knife in his hand. He started after Abby, and Vale stepped out from concealment, the rifle snapping up. "Drop it," he said. Abby glanced over her shoulder and came to a lumbering stop, her arms pinwheeling as if to slow her pace. Her eyes, soft and clear before, were wide and her chest rapidly rose and fell, her skin, normally a tanned and healthy shade, was ashen, her forehead slick with sweat and probably clammy to the touch. Bobby Jr. stopped, turned, and hesitated when he saw the gun. The chainsaw was further away, the sound droning in the distance as Lemtard looked for his prey.

Vale aimed at the redneck's chest. "Now."

For a second, Bobby Jr. regarded him bemusedly, then tilted his head to one side, as if listen to a voice that wasn't there. "That ain't got no bullets," he said smugly. "You done used 'em all. I-I know. I'm the one that;s g-gotta load 'em all." He smiled and licked his uneven teeth. "I don't gotta listen to you."

He came forward, and Vale jerked the trigger.

BLAM!

The bullet hit Bobby Jr. - named for his uncle and not his daddy - dead center in the chest. It exited his back in a spray of blood and he flew off of his feet, the knife flying off into the night. He landed in the dirt with a rattle and went limp, arms outstretched and head lolling to one side like a blasphemous parody of Christ on the cross. Abby gazed down at her friend's handiwork with savage satisfaction, her lips turning up in a grim smile. She hocked a loogie and spat; it splashed the dead man's face and slid down his cheek.

The chainsaw was louder. Vale looked up and sputtered when he saw Lemtard loping toward them along the side of the house. Running over to Abby, he shoved her back. "Go!"

She didn't immediately respond. "Go," he said, more patiently, trying to penetrate the fog of her shock, "I'll catch up."

Lemtard came around the corner at a trot, the spinning blade shoved out in front of him, and Abby ran, sparing nary a glance back. Vale raised the gun, jammed the butt into the crook of his shoulder, and squinted down the sight. Less than twenty minutes ago, just holding it unnerved him, but now it was like an old friend. Lemtard kept coming, heedless to the danger Vale posed. Vale took a deep breath, waited until he was less than ten feet away, then pulled the trigger.

Click.

Vale's heart stopped. He pulled the trigger again, and again the gun clicked uselessly.

In a beat, Lemtard was on top of him, bringing the chainsaw up, then down. Vale reflexively held the rifle lengthwise and blocked the blow; the saw's teeth bit into the metal and kicked up sparks, a jolt worming up Vale's arms. Teeth bared, he pushed against the monster in an attempt to throw him off balance, and Lemtard pushed down, Vale's arms bending and the tip of the blade coming to within inches of his face.

The giant lifted the saw, and Vale jumped back and danced to the side. Lemtard circled him, his listless browns alive with a hitherto unseen intelligence. He gunned the motor, and the saw revved imposingly.

WIth nothing else to do, Vale growled.

Lemtard took a jerking step forward, and Vale moved to his right, lashing out with the butt of the rifle and hitting the creature in the ribs. Lemtard let out an autistic roar and spun; for an awful moment, the blade sliced through air on its way to Vale's head, but Vale ducked. The saw passed harmlessly over the top of his skull, and with a scream, Vale jammed the barrel of the gun into Lemtard's stomach as hard as he could, hoping it was enough to impale him. Instead, the ego-spawned mistake stumbled back, then screamed and came forward again. Vale spun around him like a quarterback running the ball and brought the butt of the rifle down on his hump, knocking him forward. Lemtard pivoted on his heels, and they faced each other, both panting for air, both perspiring, skin slick and coated with grit.

Licking his lips, Vale glanced in the direction Abby went; the moon was down and the western sky was beginning to lighten from black to dark blue as dawn approached. He scanned the night for her, then turned and deflected the saw when Lemtard came with startling speed. Together, they danced in the southwestern starlight, their weapons flashing and clinking like the swords of two expert duelists, Vale blocking and Lemtard's blade grinding against the rifle with a sputtering sound. The friction heated the metal and Vale's hands sizzled, but he didn't let go, couldn't let go; if he did, he was dead.

A malicious sneer crossed Lemtard's lips, and letting forth a thunderous bellow, he shoved, and Vale fell back. His feet tangled and the rifle dropped from his hands, lying across his lap and burning his legs. Lemtard loomed over him like a mountain and raised the chainsaw over his head. Vale opened his mouth to scream, and the blade came down on his skull; hot metal teeth tore into his scalp, ripped his flesh, and broke through bone, sinking into his brain and whipping it to paste. Red, apocalyptic agony exploded over him...then darkness.

Vale fell limply to one side, brains pouring from his decimated skull like batter. Lemtard looked down at him, head cocking curiously to one side. People were trouble. People hurt his family. Now people was dead.

A memory came back to him.

The other people.

The girl people.

Gripping the saw, Lemtard revved the motor and looked around. A crack of fiery orange colored the western sky and the darkness was rapidly giving away to wan gloom. Trees, like stately sentials, followed the dirt drive leading to the highway, and beyond them, grassy fields rustled in the breeze. Lemtard scanned the new morning, and tensed when he saw the girl people hobbling toward the blacktop waaaay in the distance.

Her was getting away.

Revving the saw, Lemtard gave chase.