Pulp

060211

  Faith pulls her fist back again and I see flaps of my face hanging between her bloodied, broken knuckles. Before she hits me again – with all the force of a freight train, I might add – I manage to spit out the blood pooling in my mouth long enough to gulp a breath. I try one last time to buck her off my chest but it’s futile, she punches me back to the ground and grabs me around my throat, her other hand going to retrieve the .45  from the back of her pants. She forces the dirty, freshly-fired barrel between my teeth and I can taste the sharp, metallic kick on the tip of my tongue. I look up into her eyes. She stares back down at me. Her face is wet with tracks of tears but I know she isn’t contemplating mercy. It’s not her style. This is it.

  With the gun still in my mouth she slugs me again, snapping my head back into the dirt beneath. The lights go out for good, leaving me with only foggy memories of how it came to this.

~ 48 Hours Earlier ~

  I pull closed the drawstring on my pack and heft it around my shoulders.
  “A good old fashioned werewolf then,” I saw as Faith emerges from the cellar carrying a couple boxes of Magnum rounds. You might be surprised to know that bullets kill most anything corporeal. Especially Magnum bullets.
  “Yep,” Faith says, “four dead denizens. Mauled up but good. Satisfied?”
  “More than,” I say, opening the front door and heading out to the truck, “Maybe I’ll kill it twice!”
  “Doi,” my sisters calls after me sardonically, “it is a werewolf.” I roll my eyes.
  “It was a joke, Effy, I know how to put them down. Both times.” I throw my bag in the back and climb up to the passenger seat. I watch through the open door of our humble little abode as Faith hides away an array of weapons across her person. I’m as used to the routine as she is. A dagger in the boot, Machete on the belt, a handful of bullets in every imaginable pocket of her long, flowing duster. The Magnum is the only weapon holstered in plain sight. Her trusty .45 I don’t see, but I know it’s stuffed down her pants unceremoniously. Lovingly. That part of the ritual began way earlier, at daybreak. As vital to her ensemble as underwear.

to be continued…

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~ by Joseph Blame on June 2, 2011.

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