SCP 7257: Ronin
Chapter 2: The Fat Lady
"Oooof!" I bounce back off the blue coupe-or, rather, the thing pretending to be a blue coupe. Most blue coupes of my acquaintance don't have overly-long arms coming out of the driver's side window.
Even as I bounce back onto the fortunately-soft ground, the thing is deflected off the road, onto its side. It keeps on making that annoying screech.
Can't be a car. I couldn't knock a real car off the road like that….could I?
Meanwhile, Red Sports Car keeps on swerving down the road, just like they ought to. This is by no means over, and whoever's driving the thing doesn't need to stick around.
The car-that-isn't-a-car has a massive dent in the driver's side door. (I did that? Well, go, me!) It's by no means out of the fight, though. (Good!) Just wish I had a weap- and by sheer force of what I guess is habit, my hand slips into my jacket. I feel the grip of a pistol, evidently in a shoulder holster.
Hallelujah, there IS a God.
Blue Coupe is trying to right itself. I draw the gun-a 1911A1 in .45 ACP-and put a 230 grain full metal jacket into each of the tires. They may not be tires-tires don't usually bleed black ooze when punctured-but they are its primary means of locomotion, or seem to be. And, just for good measure, I empty the rest of the magazine into the area where the engine block would be if it had one. It squeals again and stops moving.
Take that, O Thou Thing that Picketh on Helpless Girls.
That's when I hear the sound of a car's engine coming from the direction Red Sports Car just went in. Did they get the cops so soon? But no, to my horror, it's just the red sports car. What are they thinking?
The car pulls up to me. These girls must not have much survival instinct. I mean, they get chased by a monster, and now they come right up to the guy who just shot the everlovin' shit out of it?
The passenger side window rolls down. It's two young girls wearing black outfits, a blond and a redhead. The redhead is driving. "Are you alright?" asks Blondie.
"Am I alright? Kids, what are you thinkin'? Get away from here! Get the cops-*"
"We're not kids!"
"*-right, or somebody. Tell 'em somebody tried to run you off the road, you saw a guy with a gun." All of which is true, of course. Lies require more brain energy and are unnecessary in most cases. "But fa' God's sakes, don't tell 'em anything about any arms or eyes; they'll send ya straight to the rubber rooms."
"What are you yelling for?!" says the redhead. "We only wanted to help!"
Cut 'em some slack, I think to myself. They're a couple of kids; they can't possibly know the danger. I take a breath and compose myself. Then, in my best Barney Bluecoat manner: "Well, then, thank you. I appreciate your efforts. Now. Will you please go get some cops?" When I say "cops," I see blondie's face blanch slightly. Yep, raised themselves a "good little girl," here, her parents did. Note to self: say, "police officer" for as long as they hang around.
No point in making more trouble.
I've a strong hunch we've got plenty, and there's more to come.
After all, the night's still young. And…
I turn to look at the close-packed woods, the stars overhead. The thundercloud is gone, but I've a strong hunch that the fat lady hasn't sung yet.
To be continued…