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Drew
I’m lying. I have nothing to lose. If I can mindfuck John and Stellan, I have a chance of getting everyone out of here alive.
Except for them.
Tiffany gives us all a strange look and before Stellan or John can say a word, she laughs. “Nolan Corning? He’s that asshole on television going on all the time about... about...” She frowns, then waves her hand in the air. “About government stuff. I see him on cable news. Is he -- is he a guest star, Drew? I mean, Pete?” She looks around the living room, craning her neck, then grabs the remote. “See? I’ll bet if I turn on the television he’ll -- ”
John hits her hand so hard the remote goes flying into her wall-mounted television and rocks the screen, a spiderweb of cracks marring the glossy space. Tiffany must have pushed the button just before he hit her, though, because the screen comes to life.
“Oh, my God, the production company damn well better pay for this!” she shouts, giving me a nasty look. “What the hell is this, Drew? You never said the television show would be about guns and knives and naked women with blood. If this is some kind of joke, I -- ”
Tiffany’s blonde helmet moves in slow motion as Stellan takes the hand with the knife in it and goes after her, slashing down like a pro, ripping open a long line down her bicep. I take the opportunity, grabbing his wrist, feeling the web of my hand slice open as Stellan attacks. His free arm goes around my waist, feet kicking under me to try to make me drop.
I catch him off-guard as blood drips into my eyes from Tiffany’s wound. She stumbles back and then I can’t see, the blood blinding me.
I flip to pure instinct, eyes closed, body engaged.
He’s taller, wiry, with muscles that feel smooth and big under my palm but he’s buff in a practiced way. Stellan’s body is designed for a specific function, not for fighting. From the ground, I kick up, making him fall and taking the single second of advantage to be on him. Something hits my shoulder, a hard, thick object.
The knife.
I feel around for it, failing, then put both hands on Stellan.
But his reflexes are fast, and he’s on his feet before I can let go, dragging me forward. My chin whacks the floor, sending fireworks behind my eyes, a molar cracking in the back of my mouth.
“Get the fuck away from me, you bitch!” he shouts, then he’s out of reach as I take a hand, wipe my eyes clean, open them --
And see a naked, blood-covered Lindsay holding the knife.
She dips into a squat, her right arm at an odd angle, the knife blade up but clutched hard in her filthy hand. Using her thighs, she pushes her body up, turning it into a missile, the kinetic force of her full being in the strike she makes.
And she hits Stellan in the crotch, all three inches of metal blade sinking into his body.
That’s not enough.
Not for her.
Like a gardener hacking away at overgrown vines, she pulls up, hard, with brute force movement designed for function. She grunts with the strain, a war cry, a battle call. There is hypnotic beauty in her motion. I watch with grotesque reverence.
Stellan’s entire groin soaks burgundy, like he’s spilled a glass of Pinot Noir at a dinner party, an oaf, a dork, a clumsy man who can’t even handle his drink.
Reflexively, he reaches out, both hands forming a perfect circle around Lindsay’s neck, her breasts bobbing as he squeezes so hard I hear something snap in her neck.
And then I burrow the knife further in with a drop kick that makes me grateful for punting practice back in high school. I hit her hand and want to pull back, but force myself to give it my all.
Stellan drops her neck and falls backwards, pushed a few feet by my blow.
Click.
I look up to find John holding two guns, one at Lindsay’s head, one at mine.
“Go ahead,” he says with a grin.
“Make my day,” Tiffany finishes for him. Her sad eyes meet mine, her good arm shoving a pillow as hard as possible against her nasty wound. “That’s the old line, right?” She starts to shake. “By the way, I don’t have health insurance, so your television show better cover this.”
A groan like iron plates grinding together comes from the heap of flesh called Stellan, his eyes glazing over, hands fruitlessly patting at what used to be his cock. Lindsay’s turned it into ceviche.
“Corning never told us this could happen,” John says through gritted teeth. “This wasn’t part of the deal when we told him we’d rough Lindsay up four years ago.” Safety’s off on both his weapons, and he has the haunted, hunted look of a man who’s coming to reckoning.
