Cannibal Corpse, M/C

Then the little Hispanic guy came up and kicked her in the head and she lost the knife, a couple of teeth, and started wailing out her death song.

Slaughter fell back into the clutches of the Ratbag who had him in a chokehold and brought his head back with everything he had into the guy’s nose, which dislocated with a popping sound. Then he had his Gurkha knife out, the Kukri, and as the guy pressed his hands to his shattered nose, blood running between his fingers, Slaughter slashed him across the ribs and took his left arm off at the elbow.

There was one of them left by then, the little Hispanic dude, except he was the smart one and he ran outside. Just as Slaughter was going to go after him, finish him out there and make it slow, another truck came roaring down the drive, skidding to a halt before the farmhouse.

He sneaked a peek out the window and saw two guys in camos jump out of the cab. One of them was carrying a .30-30 Winchester and he brought it up quick and fired at Slaughter’s silhouette behind the curtains. Slaughter jumped away just as the bullet punched through the glass. But even so, he felt the hot trail of that round pass just by his head.

More rounds came in, shattering windows in their frames and punching into the walls.

It was about this time that he saw that Dirty Mary was down.

“Shit,” he said.

He crawled over to her and she was gone. She’d taken a slug in the side of the head that nearly split her skull in half. It was his fault and he knew it. If he hadn’t been playing silly fucking games, if he’d just charged in with his Mag and drilled them all, she’d still be alive.

A few more rounds came chewing into the room.

He slid over by the front door and kicked it closed with his boot. More rounds punched through it. He sidled along the wall and threw the lock so it wouldn’t be easy for them.

He heard the staccato report of an M16 on full auto. It was like Bonnie and Clyde out there, he thought, as he crawled along the floor, snaking on his belly and seeking a defensive position. There were three of them now and they were circling the house, just blasting away at the windows, laying down a heavy volume of fire and hoping that they’d gotten him.

Snake and the big guy were still alive; broken and bleeding, but still alive.

Slaughter went after them with the Gurkha knife and killed them both, taking their heads clean off.

About then, the shooting ceased and he could hear the three of them talking out there. Chatting at first as the Hispanic guy told them how the biker had torn them new assholes. Then they all started getting pissed off and randy, wanting payback.

“HEY, ASSHOLE! COME OUT AND WE’LL MAKE IT QUICK!”

But Slaughter figured they probably wouldn’t do that at all.

He had the Kukri, the SS dagger, and the .357 Combat Mag. The latter had six rounds and Slaughter had one speed loader in the pocket of his vest. The .357 was devastating at short range, but it was no match against the M16 or the .30-30. They were rifles and they had range. If he was going to toast those fuckers, then he needed to first get them to expend as much ammo as possible and then make them come inside after him.

First things first.

Time to play the psychological card and throw the fear of Jesus…or the Devil…into them. Make them think they were dealing with a Grade-A meat-eater, a down home psychopath with absolutely no respect for human life…or human remains for that matter.

Slaughter crawled over to Snake’s corpse.

He’d put out a lot of blood and it was like a slow-drying red pool around him. Using the Gurkha knife he reached out and stabbed Snake’s head with the tip, dragging it out of the pool. He sheathed the knife and took the head by its greasy, blood-slicked hair and crept over to one of the windows.

“COME ON OUT, FUCKHEAD! YOU GOT THIRTY SECONDS OR WE COME IN AFTER YOU AND DO THINGS THE HARD WAY!” one of the voices called out to him.

That’s exactly what you’re going to have to do, citizen, Slaughter thought as it all played out in his mind like the reels of some old movie—how it was going to work and how he was going to kill them and, after it was done, how he was going to ride on out and swing it west to the Deadlands. That’s where his destiny was. And these pukes were getting in the way of that. Besides, he had to kill them now because they’d wasted Dirty Mary and even though what he felt for her was many miles away from true love, he figured he owed her a little revenge because nobody appreciated revenge like that alley cat.

“YOU HEAR ME? YOU GOT THIRTY SECONDS!”

Poor bastards. They weren’t used to this shit. They weren’t used to being pushed around like this, fucked with and tormented by one man. They were cheap thugs and armed hoodlums who traveled in the pack of the Red Hand because it gave them strength and kept them from pissing themselves. They liked their victims to be weak and submissive. They didn’t like them to fight back.

“TWENTY SECONDS!” came the booming voice of faux authority.

“FUCK YOU!” Slaughter called out and whipped Snake’s head through the broken window.

He heard it thump to the ground out there and roll like a dropped ball. The Ratbags cried out, swearing and sickened. They began firing at random. Burning up a good thirty rounds, venting their rage at him.

“Have your fun, citizens,” Slaughter said under his breath, sitting down with his back up against the wall. He lit a cigarette and stretched. Well, he’d been looking for action and he was getting his fix today. He was overdosing on the shit and the situation should have scared him, but it didn’t. He wasn’t completely comfortable with it, but it made him feel alive. His heart was beating again. His blood was flowing hot. This was what it was about. Death and violence made the man, filled the emptiness inside him and fleshed him out.

He listened to them chattering away out there like old ladies at a Sunday sewing circle. They had a decision to make. One of the newbies was cautioning them about wasting rounds because they were getting low. They’d already used up most of what they had and most of what the guns that Dirty Mary had thrown out into the yard contained. They had to play it cool. The other newbie, a first class hothead, wanted to charge in and take the biker, but the Hispanic guy told him that that would be as stupid as kissing the barrel of a .44. They argued amongst themselves for a bit until the newbie had an idea. He’d run and get reinforcements while the other two waited. Which, Slaughter knew, meant there was a nest of the Red Hand nearby. Not good. Hothead said they’d look like pussies begging help and the Hispanic guy—who seemed to have a way with words—said ‘better a live pussy than a dead dick’.

Slaughter was enjoying the exchange.

The longer it went on, the better it would be for him. Either way, he was going to get them. The only way they were going to survive this was by hauling tail and there was no way hothead would do that.

“Watch it!” the Hispanic guy cried out. “He’s got a gun!”

“So do I,” said Hothead, moving in close to the house.

Slaughter could see his silhouette bobbing and weaving out there. Hothead kept calling out to him, telling Slaughter how he was going to fuck him up, but Slaughter did not respond. Let them think he was wounded or dead or dying. Whatever it took to draw them in and play the next card.

Slaughter moved.

He butted his cigarette and took the decapitated head of the big knife fighter and crept along the wall with it until he was inches from the window that Hothead was approaching.

The barrel of his M16 was moving along the edge of the window frame.

“You dead in there?” Hothead taunted.

Slaughter felt like smarting off, saying, yeah, I’m dead, you fucking hillbilly, but then he remembered where he was and how things were these days. The old rules didn’t apply. Just because you were dead didn’t mean you couldn’t talk.

The barrel came in an inch, sweeping back and forth.

Christ, this guy was stupid.

The barrel came in two inches, then three.

Slaughter waited. He rose up, back flat against the wall, the head in his right hand. He started swinging it back and forth by the hair, getting a feel for the heft of it the way an athlete likes to get the feel for the ball he has to throw.