Dancing with the Damned

Vulture needed his screening room and film projector running perfectly. All the masterminds in the genetics field were in attendance as well as some potential backers from all over the world with pockets that dipped all the way down into the planet’s core. Vulture’s future in science and my future in outstanding paychecks rested on today’s presentation.

While attending to my final inspection over the projector, I heard heavy rustling in the air vents above. Reena attempted slithering past me as if we were playing a demonic hide-and-seek game, and while the spoiled odor of her slime trail masked any specific location, her pale, happily demented face caged behind her straight jet black hair exposed her whereabouts ever time. Sure enough, there she was up above, staring at me through the grated barrier gleefully, eerily; smiling so hard, her teeth seemed about to shatter and her eyes ready to burst from their sockets. Reena was too loud for the darkness.

The projector’s lens needed one more cleansing which allowed Reena the opportunity to slither one of her pale, purplish tentacles through the vent and smacked the side parietal of my skull. It brought her great joy. She laughed like a witch gutting a Kansas orphan, scuttling all the way down the eastern air ducts. I, on the other hand, could only smile. I was looking forward to decapitating her later.

Lackey answered my radio call. My projector maintenance work was done, Lackey would see to the actual running of the presentation.  It was time for me to deal with the real problem I had been assigned to elucidate.

Walking down the spottily lit corridor, I held on to the cool air emitted by the air conditioner despite Reena’s filthy stench soiling the overall placid atmosphere. To the right was the exit door, and after opening it the heat blasted all across my body while the bastard of a sun blinded me temporarily. After my eyes readjusted, I unsheathed my Jericho 941 and set myself in the ready position. What good that did me. I turned the corner of the building descending the stairs – AnoMolly still got the drop on me, pumping a slug brutally through my right shoulder.  I didn’t think I was that much out of practice but if a half-witted, malformed, genetic jigsaw could get the drop on me, I was definitely out of practice.

Downstairs was Vulture’s back entrance. Apparently he had already hired one cleanup crew to take care of Molly, but it appeared she greeted them with a rocket launcher. That would have explained the charred hull of what used to be an automobile and ashy remains of its passengers. The driveway extended to a cemented slope where the staircase ended. The slope led to the backdoor where Molly sequestered herself. From that section she had access to the kitchen and from there, any part of the house she desired. I needed her to stay put, so naturally I did the most irresponsible thing anyone could do in that situation. I rushed the corner, opening suppression fire to keep Molly from having a clean show while I found cover between the charred car and the wall flanking right from the open gate.

As I reloaded the backdoor swung back and forth from open to close. I was able to get a good look at Molly. She was sporting a cleaver angled through her forehead, blood soaking her dirty blonde hair and pink bathrobe, holding a 9mm (Bersa Thunder, I think). She looked like a zombie but she was fighting like a modern gladiatrix, and behind her was the last of Vulture’s money. Molly didn’t know what it was; she only knew it was important to that smarmy, egotistical wretch of a man. Whatever she had planned for it, I needed to stop her. My paycheck was in jeopardy. Why she hadn’t set fire to it or chopped it up was beyond me, and frankly I wasn’t in the position or the mood to question why.

I timed the swinging of the door, took aim, fired; nailed her just below the cleaver’s blade. That sent her brains smearing and her head rocking. Unfortunately, it also sent her running to the kitchen. I hauled ass down the slope and through the corridor. I couldn’t lose her. I entered the kitchen quickly but at a squatting level. I cleared the room. I’d lost her.

SHIT.

I lost her.

My gun was ready, my ears attentive. The kitchen was surprisingly spotless. I would’ve been proud to store my food in such a speckles abode.

There was silence, and then the sound of sneaky, hustling footsteps along fluffy carpet. I aimed in that direction, catching a glimpse of the tail-end of Molly’s bathrobe. I sank to a crouching position before turning the corner. Gun ready, I sprang the corner to discover an empty hallway with three doors to choose from. What doubled my frustration was that I hadn’t heard any doors slam.

I hadn’t….HEARD….ANY….doors…..SLAM. You think I would’ve gotten the hint, but again – I was out of practice.

Molly came crashing down on top of me, piercing my back with one of Vulture’s trophy blades. The pain was powerful, but my adrenaline and animosity was overflowing. I had no idea this bitch had learned to climb walls.

She tried carving the blade down my backside, but I hoisted both of us on to my feet. I kept thrashing to keep her from gaining any leverage on the blade’s handle. Finally, I was able to grab the back of her bloody robe and flip her over, down to the ground. Her head landed near my feet. I unloaded my gun clip in her gut and stomped the cleaver through the remains of her skull, and I didn’t stop until her face was a pile of red and white mush and teeth.

The money was in the rear entrance, where Molly had left it. I walked back out into the damning heat, I think the blade was still in my back but my body was already going numb, I’d lost enough blood to save a homeless vampire colony; I had the shirt to prove it.

I walked up the slope and collapsed where the edge met the bottom of the stairs. I may have passed out for a while because I suddenly saw all black, but I heard a scraping noise. My eyes opened to see Walthorpe dragging the burnt car out of the drive way with a single hand.

Walthorpe was a huge individual. If Bigfoot became a professional bodybuilder, he would be Walthorpe, because Walthorpe was a creature that could be taken for a Bigfoot; brown bushy hair all over his gigantic body structure. And he did enjoy weightlifting.

With the car out of the way, the medical unit came in to do their thing. I just wanted someone to get me out of the god forsaken heat. I still had some decapitating to do.