Last Call, Last Stand - Part 18

In hindsight I don't know how I got anyone to listen to me.

I didn't really have a long term plan; I was just as confused and frightened as all those rioting bastards that even now were attempting to batter their way in through the strip club's steel doors by ramming it with the grill of the truck. Apparently they had already had some casualties; when that chain broke while they were trying to pull the frame out, it took the trailer hitch with it and brained at least three people. The crowd tottered wide around the still corpses while they bang-bang-banged at the doors. And I remember thinking, there but for the grace of God go I.

I meant it, too. God had always been a hazy nebulous concept with me; frankly Sauron was more real. But I was smart enough to realize that I didn't hold the moral high ground over these stupid fucks; I knew that had I not run into Phebe, and had instead been forced to stare at my own empty fridge for a few days, I would probably be out there among them. The difference between us was one broken key and a whole lot of luck.

I looked to Phebe, at my side, with her breath fogging in the cold. The shadow of the garbage dump shielded her eyes, thank heaven, or I would probably still be rooted on the spot staring. I breathed softly "You ready?"

"I am," she breathed back softly. Her breath on my arm was like a tropical breeze; it was cold and getting colder. I had noticed slush filtered in among the rain. The engine of the truck hummed in the parking lot, then roared. There was a dull, metallic crunch as it banged into the door again. Cesare was behind us at the mouth of the alley, fidgeting nervously. I had him watching the back entrance to the alley to make sure nothing would come from behind.

"We go when the truck backs up all the way," I said. I had known the reinforced frame of the strip club would handle most of the abuse, and I was waiting for them to back up nice and far before I put our plan into action. Phebe had loaded slugs into her shotgun, but mine was still packed with #4 steel buckshot.

We didn't have to wait long; Jon Mackey may not know military strategy, but he knows the thought process of horny undereducated perverts. If a few short runs in the truck couldn't take out the door, why not back up to the end of the parking lot and get some momentum up? And soon it was happening, the mob scattering out of the way as the pickup backed all the way up to the curb, sliding a little in the mushy wet puddles. The eager crowd formed two lanes around it's path to the door, and the engine revved to a tired series of war whoops.

My heart was thundering in time with the storm overhead, while ice cold fingers of rain ran down my back to my waistline. Not just because of the yay either (I had taken an extra couple of bumps for courage) but because I was extremely aware of everything around me. When you do yayo, my friend, you see the finer details that you missed before-the texture of the rust on the dumpster you are pressed against, the mole on Phebe's right forearm that she ought to get looked at, the smell of diesel tainting the rain as the truck revved up. But the faces in the crowd, man, as I stared out into that dark mass of figures illuminated by glaring halogen headlights, and they all looked the same. White, black, yellow, red, brown...all of them looked the same in the glow of those headlights.

Time slowed down to a crawl as the truck's tires started spinning wildly, smoking obscuring red tail lights that looked like a pair of evil eyes. I was aware of Phebe drawing a deep breath and holding it, though I did not do the same-my biology was speeding up even as we spoke. My dick was still hard and the cold was wrapping me in an unbreakable ice cocoon; I was invincible, a sexy shivering god of war with a sawed off shotgun and no regard for human misery, and I was about to do the first good thing I had ever done in my whole dogshit life.

Moments like that carry a high unlike anything I had ever experienced, even through the coke and the adderol and the testosterone. I wonder if the Crusaders were this high? If so, no wonder they beat the hashashayans; I'll take a cokehead and adrenaline junkie instead of a pothead every time. Same physical drawbacks, but the cokeheads are meaner.

"Now," I said simply to Phebe. She rose, one smooth motion, just as the brakelights went dark and the truck burst into motion. The wet barrel of her shotgun tracked the cab of the vehicle as it picked up speed. I heard her exhale a little, then stop...and then the shotgun went off, right by my ear.

In the dark it was hard to tell what happened next. First the headlights spun directly towards us, nearly blinding me. I heard screams, bones snapping, cursing and praying. No tire squeal though-she must have tagged whoever was in that beast. And just as I had hoped (it wasn't really planning, just hoping) it was out of control in the wet, slushy parking lot, and carrying carnage with it. The headlights spun away, and I saw the crowd panicking, moving in all directions, the fear showing in their white, terrified eyes as they scrambled away from their own demise in little dense mobs. Time to step up and do my part.

"HEY, ASSHOLES!" I shouted, stepping out of the alley. The chopped shotgun in my hands was lighter than a feather, lighter than air; it floated up on it's own free will, targeting the black center of the panicked mob. "MOVE OUT!" I fired once, twice, buckshot spewing, people collapsing or scattering in other directions. I wasn't really even aiming the shots; my goal was not to kill them, though I didn't shy away from the fact. Between us, we didn't even have enough ammo to kill them all.

But with the barrels smoking, two fresh shells shoved in the ejector, and the carnage of an over the top vehicle accident already in play, it was a simple matter to make them fear me.

"GET LOST, GO!" I half snarled, half screamed as I waded forward into the mob. The gun went off again and another man fell in front of me, black blood leaking out onto the pavement from the meat lover's pizza that was now his chest. I stepped on his head as I went on, shoving in more shells. "GO, GO! I'LL KILL YOU ALL, I SWEAR TO GOD!" And I meant that too.

From somewhere I saw a man with broken legs start to struggle to his hands and knees, clutching a revolver. I stooped down; there was a jolt in my arm as I drove the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his head. He trembled and lay still, and I turned to face the mob that had mostly scattered out towards the road. "COME ON, FUCKERS!" I said, and I found myself laughing, especially when I saw one of them point a rifle at me and drop instantly as Phebe leaned around the corner and put a slug in him. The others backed away instantly, and I fired my own weapon at them.

The range was too great for a kill shot, maybe 50 feet or so-and that barrel was cut short, man, let me tell you. But I saw them jump back anyway, and I started laughing again, great tornado gails of laughter as I reloaded and walked forward-unhurried, unworried, with my barrels smoking and my dick still damnably hard. "COME ON!" I screamed again, my voice growing hoarse. I heard Phebe's shotgun bark again and another of the mob fell, the others still retreating before us.

I couldn't take it anymore; the excitement, the adrenaline was making me dizzy and I couldn't hold myself back. Still laughing, I charged forward at them, breaking into a run with the shotgun pointed out one handed. "RUN, COWARDS! I'LL FUCK YOU BLOODY YOU WHORESON FUCKFACES!" The fear was gone; in truth I was having a great time. I mashed down the double triggers, sent both barrels into the crowd at close range. They screamed; a few of them shot at me, but I was invincible, motherfucker, I was Jon J. Rambo, and they moved so slow, all I had to do was dance around them, and no bullet touched me. There was a sound like catfood crunching as I gave the first guy in line, an old man with a big knife, a buttstroke to the face. He dropped, legs jerking, and I ripped the pistol out of my cargo pocket. Someone pointed their own shotgun at me, and caught one of Phebe's slugs in the throat for his trouble. The crimson spray dotted my face, but I didn't care; I was pulling the trigger on my .45 as fast as I could and watching dark red flowers sprout around me, a veritable garden of gore.

In hindsight, I suppose it was an absolute miracle that they broke and ran as fast as they did, without hitting me once. But at the time it made perfect sense, and I was so dazed and drug addled that when they all turned as one and bolted up Sweetwater like a pack of terrified lemmings, I had to fight back the urge to chase them with two empty guns and only my raging erection as a weapon. A savage death, surely. But no less than they deserved.

Phebe was behind me; I could hear her footsteps. There was a crunch as she finished someone on the ground. I turned around, still in my daze, and walked over to her confidently. She was nudging another corpse with the barrel of her gun when I grabbed her forcefully by the arm and turned her into me.

I kissed her. I mean, isn't that what the action hero does at the end of the movie? With my face bloody and both of us reeking of the dumpster we had been hiding out in, I kissed her. Her mouth was the only warm thing in the city, the only warm thing in the world, and while the frigid rain fell around us I devoured her without a hint of remorse.

As I pulled back, I saw no disapproval, no scorn in her valium blue eyes; in fact, what had previously been a haggard, terrified expression was suddenly lit up. Any other time, my cynic ass would never have believed it, but damnit, I'm the hero and the hero gets the fucking girl, and all I could do was kiss her again, and feel her shivering arms wrap around me and the trigger guard of her shotgun digging into my back. It was obscene and wrong on every level, but in Jon Mackey's paradigm, everything was as it should be.

But it wasn't time for the credits yet.