Flesh House

Logan scanned the room; she was over by the line of skinned and gutted sheep, facing off against the Flesher. The knife flashed out, but Jackie slashed her baton across it, sending the blade clattering to the metal floor. The Flesher lunged, shoving a hollowed-out carcass into Jackie. She staggered back against the wall, slipped on the bloody floor and went down hard. A small pause and the Flesher pulled out what looked like a lightsaber, twisting it apart and slipping in a small green cartridge as Jackie struggled to get up. Logan yelled,'IT'S A BOLT GUN!' Snap and the thing was back together again. He tried to get up, but Faulds had a death grip on his jacket, mouth moving soundlessly, eyes wide, gasping for breath. The Flesher swung the bolt gun at Jackie's head. Everything seemed to go into slow motion: the gun cylinder arced down; the song on the radio changed to Tom Jones,'It's Not Unusual'; Jackie threw her hands in the path of the bolt gun, trying to protect her forehead. The end of the barrel hit her right palm, forcing it back against the left, and CRACK! The bolt fired. Jackie screamed. Bright red spattered across her face. The metal rod had gone straight through both palms. The Flesher stood for a moment, then tried to pull the bolt gun out. Jackie's hands went with it. 'AAAGH FUCK!' Twist to the left, then the right. More screaming. 'FUCKING HELP ME!' Logan struggled out of Faulds' grip and scrambled to his feet. 'FUCKING HELP!' The Flesher gave one last tug and the bolt slid free, just as Logan barrelled into her back. They hit the wall with a crash and the bolt gun went flying. For once Logan came out on top: he balled up a fist and slammed it into Margaret Thatcher's rubbery face. And again. And-- Jackie shouted,'Look out!' Something solid battered across Logan's shoulders, sending him sprawling across the gutter that ran down the centre of the room. There was a woman in pink-piggy pyjamas standing over him, clutching a metal pole. She looked incredibly pale: grey circles around her eyes; hair all matted and greasy ... But Logan knew he'd seen her somewhere before. She raised the pole again, and he curled up into a ball, arms wrapped over his head, teeth gritted against the blow ... only it never came. The woman in the PJs dropped the pole and helped the Flesher to stand. Logan rolled over and tried to push himself upright. His left arm gave way, fire screaming across his shoulder. He fell back against the blood-slicked floor. Groaning. Up. GET UP.