Dudes Down Under
Random Number
18
Story Title and Entry
DEAD OF NIGHT
“You ready, sir?”
The man in charge looked round. Everyone was in position, all of his men heavily armed. He nodded at the man who asked the question and the door was smashed open.
“ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE!”
The man in charge let all of his men go in before he decided to join them. He was the first to die. The door slammed shut before he could enter as unseen hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. He did not see his killer as powerful hands ripped his head off his shoulders.
“Three hundred and twelve,” a voice whispered as its owner walked towards his house. Crazy bastards like this had come for him before. About twenty years ago when the killings had restarted.
He could hear the men charging about in his house. Give them time to search the place and lower their guns. No point in having the place shot to hell. Leaning against the wall he lit a cigar and admired the view. You could not beat the joys of living in the country. No neighbours, no noise and no disturbance for twenty years. The only sound to break the silence were screams and complaints of his victims. A wise man had once told him that silence was golden. His brain had tasted good after it was fried with garlic.
He took a long drag on his cigar and winced as the ash burnt through his shirt and singed his flesh. Knives and guns did not worry him. It was fire that petrified him. The thought of being burnt alive, his muscle’s seared from his old bones. That was why he only smoked outside.
“Damn, this is a new shirt.” He began to wipe the ash away and noticed his shirt was wet. The familiar feeling of blood stuck to his fingers. He licked his lips, tasted blood and spat it out. He hated the taste of old meat. He hoped there was some young blood in the house tonight, otherwise he would have to go shopping. Another long drag on the cigar as the sounds of breaking furniture and more shouts could be heard. Shaking his head he begins to feel angry. How would these people feel if he dared to treat their house in such a fashion? The cigar smoke blew out of his nose as he opened his mouth blew out three smoke rings. He smiled to himself as they disappeared into the darkness. After tonight he would have to find somewhere else to live. All his items of sentimental value were locked in a trunk. Hidden in a safe place. No need to worry.
Some people liked to smoke after a meal. Byron Mcqueen liked to smoke before and after . Half now and half later he thought to himself, as he put the cigar in his breast pocket. No point in changing into old clothes, the shirt was already ruined.
Lifting his arm up he pulled a machete down from above the door. Turning the blade over he could see it glisten in the moonlight. This baby was as sharp as cats claws. A good workman always compliments his tool as he goes to work. This thought made him smile as he opened the door. Peering through the crack he could see no one. Ten armed men had stormed in which meant a minimum of ten machete chops. He had named the machete Dirty Harry because of the number of people it had killed. No doubt, it would stay sharp for a lot more than ten.
He pulled the door open and stooped so his enormous frame could squeeze through the large doorframe. He squinted at the bright lights that seemed to dazzle him and flicked the trip switch as he walked past the electrics. Can’t shoot what you can’t see, he thought to himself. Gripping the machete loosely meant he could swing it faster. His keen ears picked up two voices from the room on his left.
“Check the lights.”
“I’m on it.” A gun protruded from the doorway , then a head that was swiftly decapitated . Byron jumped back as blood sprayed upwards. He loved the sound of flesh blood flowing. As the body fell to the ground he could feel the young blood spray down his legs. He smiled as he hurled the machete at the other cop before he could get a shot off. The blade was embedded in his chest. It made a grating noise and it was pulled from flesh and bone.
Byron picked up a gun and pointed it towards the ceiling, at the sound of footsteps. His keen ears picked up six feet. They must have found his skull collection. He sprayed the ceiling with bullets from the dead mans automatic weapon and stopped firing a few seconds after the screaming ceased.
“Half way there,” he shouted. Footsteps could be heard running down the stairs. Shots were fired in his direction but Byron’s large bulk was already tucked behind a cupboard.
He was not prepared for the bullets that rained down through the ceiling. His tree trunk legs absorbing three bullets. His sharp ears heard footsteps in the hallway. Raising his gun he fires through the plasterboard wall, aiming low. He stops firing when the screaming starts.
One voice breaks the silence. “Four more to go.”
“You ain’t getting out of here.” The voice comes from above so he fires at the sound until he hears more screaming.
“Three more.” No one answered him this time. A smile spreads across his wrinkled face, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. He can smell the fear as it drifts through the air towards him. The scent of food hangs heavily in the air as he walks towards the three little pigs. His wounded leg feels as if it has been stung by wasps. This angers him even more. He grips the machete hanging at his side tightly as he aims the automatic weapon in front of him. He sprays a hail of bullets at the doorway then turns and dives through the large window. Landing on his feet he spins round in time to see two of the three little pigs come rushing in. Another burst of gunfire finds them, he smiles as they are thrown back and fall to the ground.
Something glints from the window above as he falls to the ground. Something has stung his shoulder. More shots are fired at him, but they miss.
“Don’t move, stay exactly where you are. The next one will be between your eyes.” Byron does not move. He is strong, but not invincible.
He enjoys looking at his face in the mirror and does not want that image to change. He has been caught before, but that was a long time ago. Rationing was still being enforced, but he had not starved. He saw two of the three little pigs emerge through the broken window, guns pointed towards him. There was still a glint from the room above.
“Stand up slowly, with your fingers clasped behind your head.” Byron obeyed, smiling to himself as he smells the young blood approaching.
He forces his enormous bulk to sit up, even though his shoulder is really stinging. Clasping his shovel like hands behind his head, he stands up on shaky legs. The three bullet holes had numbed his leg and he was starting to enjoy the pain that radiated from the wounds.
“Drop to your knees big man. Keep your paws where they are.” Byron obeyed and knelt down, still smiling to himself.
“The chase is better than the catch,” Byron said, still smiling.
“Keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you.” Byron can taste the fear in the little pigs voice. The fear of others is something he has survived on for most of his adult life.
“You realise that I will be unable to go for a ride with you, young blood.”
“You think so.”
“I know so. I’m too big to fit in a car.”
“Put your hands behind your back. My colleague will cuff you. Remember you have two guns aimed at your head. Keep looking at me.”
Byron obeyed, smiling at the boy in front of him. He could smell the fear on his partner as he walked up behind. People tasted better when they were scared. He had never found out why this was. Maybe it was some sort of chemical reaction in the body. Or maybe it was his imagination crossed with his culinary skills.
Small, weak hands pulled Byron’s arms behind his back and cuffed them. “We know how big you are. We had cuffs specially made and a reinforced van with a reinforced steel cage in it,” the boy behind Byron replied.
“You boys have done well. No one has ever managed to cuff me before. The reinforcing is good. Makes me feel secure.”
“How many people have you killed? The estimate is over three hundred.”
“A lot more than that. I used to be a cop,” Byron said laughing.
“How old are you?”
“Older than electricity.”
“Don’t talk to him. He’s playing mind games. Don’t turn your back on him. He’s got three guns pointed at his head. We got him now,” the boy behind Byron said.
“You boys realise, if you shoot me you shoot each other.”
“Shut up, otherwise I’ll shoot you in both legs and make you crawl.”
“I like that one, that’s good,” Byron said laughing.
Byron kept staring at the face of the boy in front of him. His eyes were wide with fear and his trigger finger was trembling. They must want me alive, Byron thought. They want my story and to find out where all of the bodies are. Byron and his captors were approaching the side of the house and the gun was still in the window. A few more steps and he would be out of its range.
Byron clenched his fists and forced his arms outwards, breaking the chain holding the cuffs together. Neither of his boy guards said a word. They were too busy staring at his face and trying not to piss their pants.
Byron dropped his head and glanced under his arm pit. His good leg flew back kicking his rear guard hard in the chest, sending him flying to the ground.
The boy in front hesitated and got the same foot in his face. He fell to the ground unconscious, as teeth fell out of his mouth.
Byron bought one mighty foot down on his head, crushing his skull. Spinning round he saw his rear guard trying to stand up.
He ran towards him and kicked his down turned face as hard as he could. The body flew through the air and landed in a crumpled heap. Byron touched his neck. No pulse meant no life. Poor boys. One more little piggy to deal with, then it was dinner time.
“Don’t you move.” Byron froze, that voice was angry, not scared.
He instinctively put his hands in the air. “I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“If you were tortured, would you talk? Tell us where the bodies are buried.”
“There are no bodies. I eat what I kill.”
“That’s what we heard, turn round.” He obeyed and was surprised to see a small, slim woman pointing a pump action shotgun at him.
“Unusual weapon for a cop,” Byron said smiling.
“We ain’t really cops, we’re bounty hunters. We use the armed police routine because most people drop to the ground.”
“Good for you.” Byron heard the trigger click as the shotgun blasted away both his knee caps. For the first time in his life he was not enjoying the feeling of pain as it tore his senses apart.
“One of your victims had rich parents. They’ve been dying to meet you. I’m sure you’re dying to meet them as well. I expect you‘ll have a long conversation. After that you‘ll be fried on an open fire and fed to dogs.”
Then the night got darker and Byron faded to black.
Random Number
18
Story Title and Entry
DEAD OF NIGHT
“You ready, sir?”
The man in charge looked round. Everyone was in position, all of his men heavily armed. He nodded at the man who asked the question and the door was smashed open.
“ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE!”
The man in charge let all of his men go in before he decided to join them. He was the first to die. The door slammed shut before he could enter as unseen hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. He did not see his killer as powerful hands ripped his head off his shoulders.
“Three hundred and twelve,” a voice whispered as its owner walked towards his house. Crazy bastards like this had come for him before. About twenty years ago when the killings had restarted.
He could hear the men charging about in his house. Give them time to search the place and lower their guns. No point in having the place shot to hell. Leaning against the wall he lit a cigar and admired the view. You could not beat the joys of living in the country. No neighbours, no noise and no disturbance for twenty years. The only sound to break the silence were screams and complaints of his victims. A wise man had once told him that silence was golden. His brain had tasted good after it was fried with garlic.
He took a long drag on his cigar and winced as the ash burnt through his shirt and singed his flesh. Knives and guns did not worry him. It was fire that petrified him. The thought of being burnt alive, his muscle’s seared from his old bones. That was why he only smoked outside.
“Damn, this is a new shirt.” He began to wipe the ash away and noticed his shirt was wet. The familiar feeling of blood stuck to his fingers. He licked his lips, tasted blood and spat it out. He hated the taste of old meat. He hoped there was some young blood in the house tonight, otherwise he would have to go shopping. Another long drag on the cigar as the sounds of breaking furniture and more shouts could be heard. Shaking his head he begins to feel angry. How would these people feel if he dared to treat their house in such a fashion? The cigar smoke blew out of his nose as he opened his mouth blew out three smoke rings. He smiled to himself as they disappeared into the darkness. After tonight he would have to find somewhere else to live. All his items of sentimental value were locked in a trunk. Hidden in a safe place. No need to worry.
Some people liked to smoke after a meal. Byron Mcqueen liked to smoke before and after . Half now and half later he thought to himself, as he put the cigar in his breast pocket. No point in changing into old clothes, the shirt was already ruined.
Lifting his arm up he pulled a machete down from above the door. Turning the blade over he could see it glisten in the moonlight. This baby was as sharp as cats claws. A good workman always compliments his tool as he goes to work. This thought made him smile as he opened the door. Peering through the crack he could see no one. Ten armed men had stormed in which meant a minimum of ten machete chops. He had named the machete Dirty Harry because of the number of people it had killed. No doubt, it would stay sharp for a lot more than ten.
He pulled the door open and stooped so his enormous frame could squeeze through the large doorframe. He squinted at the bright lights that seemed to dazzle him and flicked the trip switch as he walked past the electrics. Can’t shoot what you can’t see, he thought to himself. Gripping the machete loosely meant he could swing it faster. His keen ears picked up two voices from the room on his left.
“Check the lights.”
“I’m on it.” A gun protruded from the doorway , then a head that was swiftly decapitated . Byron jumped back as blood sprayed upwards. He loved the sound of flesh blood flowing. As the body fell to the ground he could feel the young blood spray down his legs. He smiled as he hurled the machete at the other cop before he could get a shot off. The blade was embedded in his chest. It made a grating noise and it was pulled from flesh and bone.
Byron picked up a gun and pointed it towards the ceiling, at the sound of footsteps. His keen ears picked up six feet. They must have found his skull collection. He sprayed the ceiling with bullets from the dead mans automatic weapon and stopped firing a few seconds after the screaming ceased.
“Half way there,” he shouted. Footsteps could be heard running down the stairs. Shots were fired in his direction but Byron’s large bulk was already tucked behind a cupboard.
He was not prepared for the bullets that rained down through the ceiling. His tree trunk legs absorbing three bullets. His sharp ears heard footsteps in the hallway. Raising his gun he fires through the plasterboard wall, aiming low. He stops firing when the screaming starts.
One voice breaks the silence. “Four more to go.”
“You ain’t getting out of here.” The voice comes from above so he fires at the sound until he hears more screaming.
“Three more.” No one answered him this time. A smile spreads across his wrinkled face, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. He can smell the fear as it drifts through the air towards him. The scent of food hangs heavily in the air as he walks towards the three little pigs. His wounded leg feels as if it has been stung by wasps. This angers him even more. He grips the machete hanging at his side tightly as he aims the automatic weapon in front of him. He sprays a hail of bullets at the doorway then turns and dives through the large window. Landing on his feet he spins round in time to see two of the three little pigs come rushing in. Another burst of gunfire finds them, he smiles as they are thrown back and fall to the ground.
Something glints from the window above as he falls to the ground. Something has stung his shoulder. More shots are fired at him, but they miss.
“Don’t move, stay exactly where you are. The next one will be between your eyes.” Byron does not move. He is strong, but not invincible.
He enjoys looking at his face in the mirror and does not want that image to change. He has been caught before, but that was a long time ago. Rationing was still being enforced, but he had not starved. He saw two of the three little pigs emerge through the broken window, guns pointed towards him. There was still a glint from the room above.
“Stand up slowly, with your fingers clasped behind your head.” Byron obeyed, smiling to himself as he smells the young blood approaching.
He forces his enormous bulk to sit up, even though his shoulder is really stinging. Clasping his shovel like hands behind his head, he stands up on shaky legs. The three bullet holes had numbed his leg and he was starting to enjoy the pain that radiated from the wounds.
“Drop to your knees big man. Keep your paws where they are.” Byron obeyed and knelt down, still smiling to himself.
“The chase is better than the catch,” Byron said, still smiling.
“Keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you.” Byron can taste the fear in the little pigs voice. The fear of others is something he has survived on for most of his adult life.
“You realise that I will be unable to go for a ride with you, young blood.”
“You think so.”
“I know so. I’m too big to fit in a car.”
“Put your hands behind your back. My colleague will cuff you. Remember you have two guns aimed at your head. Keep looking at me.”
Byron obeyed, smiling at the boy in front of him. He could smell the fear on his partner as he walked up behind. People tasted better when they were scared. He had never found out why this was. Maybe it was some sort of chemical reaction in the body. Or maybe it was his imagination crossed with his culinary skills.
Small, weak hands pulled Byron’s arms behind his back and cuffed them. “We know how big you are. We had cuffs specially made and a reinforced van with a reinforced steel cage in it,” the boy behind Byron replied.
“You boys have done well. No one has ever managed to cuff me before. The reinforcing is good. Makes me feel secure.”
“How many people have you killed? The estimate is over three hundred.”
“A lot more than that. I used to be a cop,” Byron said laughing.
“How old are you?”
“Older than electricity.”
“Don’t talk to him. He’s playing mind games. Don’t turn your back on him. He’s got three guns pointed at his head. We got him now,” the boy behind Byron said.
“You boys realise, if you shoot me you shoot each other.”
“Shut up, otherwise I’ll shoot you in both legs and make you crawl.”
“I like that one, that’s good,” Byron said laughing.
Byron kept staring at the face of the boy in front of him. His eyes were wide with fear and his trigger finger was trembling. They must want me alive, Byron thought. They want my story and to find out where all of the bodies are. Byron and his captors were approaching the side of the house and the gun was still in the window. A few more steps and he would be out of its range.
Byron clenched his fists and forced his arms outwards, breaking the chain holding the cuffs together. Neither of his boy guards said a word. They were too busy staring at his face and trying not to piss their pants.
Byron dropped his head and glanced under his arm pit. His good leg flew back kicking his rear guard hard in the chest, sending him flying to the ground.
The boy in front hesitated and got the same foot in his face. He fell to the ground unconscious, as teeth fell out of his mouth.
Byron bought one mighty foot down on his head, crushing his skull. Spinning round he saw his rear guard trying to stand up.
He ran towards him and kicked his down turned face as hard as he could. The body flew through the air and landed in a crumpled heap. Byron touched his neck. No pulse meant no life. Poor boys. One more little piggy to deal with, then it was dinner time.
“Don’t you move.” Byron froze, that voice was angry, not scared.
He instinctively put his hands in the air. “I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“If you were tortured, would you talk? Tell us where the bodies are buried.”
“There are no bodies. I eat what I kill.”
“That’s what we heard, turn round.” He obeyed and was surprised to see a small, slim woman pointing a pump action shotgun at him.
“Unusual weapon for a cop,” Byron said smiling.
“We ain’t really cops, we’re bounty hunters. We use the armed police routine because most people drop to the ground.”
“Good for you.” Byron heard the trigger click as the shotgun blasted away both his knee caps. For the first time in his life he was not enjoying the feeling of pain as it tore his senses apart.
“One of your victims had rich parents. They’ve been dying to meet you. I’m sure you’re dying to meet them as well. I expect you‘ll have a long conversation. After that you‘ll be fried on an open fire and fed to dogs.”
Then the night got darker and Byron faded to black.
18
Story Title and Entry
DEAD OF NIGHT
“You ready, sir?”
The man in charge looked round. Everyone was in position, all of his men heavily armed. He nodded at the man who asked the question and the door was smashed open.
“ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE!”
The man in charge let all of his men go in before he decided to join them. He was the first to die. The door slammed shut before he could enter as unseen hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. He did not see his killer as powerful hands ripped his head off his shoulders.
“Three hundred and twelve,” a voice whispered as its owner walked towards his house. Crazy bastards like this had come for him before. About twenty years ago when the killings had restarted.
He could hear the men charging about in his house. Give them time to search the place and lower their guns. No point in having the place shot to hell. Leaning against the wall he lit a cigar and admired the view. You could not beat the joys of living in the country. No neighbours, no noise and no disturbance for twenty years. The only sound to break the silence were screams and complaints of his victims. A wise man had once told him that silence was golden. His brain had tasted good after it was fried with garlic.
He took a long drag on his cigar and winced as the ash burnt through his shirt and singed his flesh. Knives and guns did not worry him. It was fire that petrified him. The thought of being burnt alive, his muscle’s seared from his old bones. That was why he only smoked outside.
“Damn, this is a new shirt.” He began to wipe the ash away and noticed his shirt was wet. The familiar feeling of blood stuck to his fingers. He licked his lips, tasted blood and spat it out. He hated the taste of old meat. He hoped there was some young blood in the house tonight, otherwise he would have to go shopping. Another long drag on the cigar as the sounds of breaking furniture and more shouts could be heard. Shaking his head he begins to feel angry. How would these people feel if he dared to treat their house in such a fashion? The cigar smoke blew out of his nose as he opened his mouth blew out three smoke rings. He smiled to himself as they disappeared into the darkness. After tonight he would have to find somewhere else to live. All his items of sentimental value were locked in a trunk. Hidden in a safe place. No need to worry.
Some people liked to smoke after a meal. Byron Mcqueen liked to smoke before and after . Half now and half later he thought to himself, as he put the cigar in his breast pocket. No point in changing into old clothes, the shirt was already ruined.
Lifting his arm up he pulled a machete down from above the door. Turning the blade over he could see it glisten in the moonlight. This baby was as sharp as cats claws. A good workman always compliments his tool as he goes to work. This thought made him smile as he opened the door. Peering through the crack he could see no one. Ten armed men had stormed in which meant a minimum of ten machete chops. He had named the machete Dirty Harry because of the number of people it had killed. No doubt, it would stay sharp for a lot more than ten.
He pulled the door open and stooped so his enormous frame could squeeze through the large doorframe. He squinted at the bright lights that seemed to dazzle him and flicked the trip switch as he walked past the electrics. Can’t shoot what you can’t see, he thought to himself. Gripping the machete loosely meant he could swing it faster. His keen ears picked up two voices from the room on his left.
“Check the lights.”
“I’m on it.” A gun protruded from the doorway , then a head that was swiftly decapitated . Byron jumped back as blood sprayed upwards. He loved the sound of flesh blood flowing. As the body fell to the ground he could feel the young blood spray down his legs. He smiled as he hurled the machete at the other cop before he could get a shot off. The blade was embedded in his chest. It made a grating noise and it was pulled from flesh and bone.
Byron picked up a gun and pointed it towards the ceiling, at the sound of footsteps. His keen ears picked up six feet. They must have found his skull collection. He sprayed the ceiling with bullets from the dead mans automatic weapon and stopped firing a few seconds after the screaming ceased.
“Half way there,” he shouted. Footsteps could be heard running down the stairs. Shots were fired in his direction but Byron’s large bulk was already tucked behind a cupboard.
He was not prepared for the bullets that rained down through the ceiling. His tree trunk legs absorbing three bullets. His sharp ears heard footsteps in the hallway. Raising his gun he fires through the plasterboard wall, aiming low. He stops firing when the screaming starts.
One voice breaks the silence. “Four more to go.”
“You ain’t getting out of here.” The voice comes from above so he fires at the sound until he hears more screaming.
“Three more.” No one answered him this time. A smile spreads across his wrinkled face, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. He can smell the fear as it drifts through the air towards him. The scent of food hangs heavily in the air as he walks towards the three little pigs. His wounded leg feels as if it has been stung by wasps. This angers him even more. He grips the machete hanging at his side tightly as he aims the automatic weapon in front of him. He sprays a hail of bullets at the doorway then turns and dives through the large window. Landing on his feet he spins round in time to see two of the three little pigs come rushing in. Another burst of gunfire finds them, he smiles as they are thrown back and fall to the ground.
Something glints from the window above as he falls to the ground. Something has stung his shoulder. More shots are fired at him, but they miss.
“Don’t move, stay exactly where you are. The next one will be between your eyes.” Byron does not move. He is strong, but not invincible.
He enjoys looking at his face in the mirror and does not want that image to change. He has been caught before, but that was a long time ago. Rationing was still being enforced, but he had not starved. He saw two of the three little pigs emerge through the broken window, guns pointed towards him. There was still a glint from the room above.
“Stand up slowly, with your fingers clasped behind your head.” Byron obeyed, smiling to himself as he smells the young blood approaching.
He forces his enormous bulk to sit up, even though his shoulder is really stinging. Clasping his shovel like hands behind his head, he stands up on shaky legs. The three bullet holes had numbed his leg and he was starting to enjoy the pain that radiated from the wounds.
“Drop to your knees big man. Keep your paws where they are.” Byron obeyed and knelt down, still smiling to himself.
“The chase is better than the catch,” Byron said, still smiling.
“Keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you.” Byron can taste the fear in the little pigs voice. The fear of others is something he has survived on for most of his adult life.
“You realise that I will be unable to go for a ride with you, young blood.”
“You think so.”
“I know so. I’m too big to fit in a car.”
“Put your hands behind your back. My colleague will cuff you. Remember you have two guns aimed at your head. Keep looking at me.”
Byron obeyed, smiling at the boy in front of him. He could smell the fear on his partner as he walked up behind. People tasted better when they were scared. He had never found out why this was. Maybe it was some sort of chemical reaction in the body. Or maybe it was his imagination crossed with his culinary skills.
Small, weak hands pulled Byron’s arms behind his back and cuffed them. “We know how big you are. We had cuffs specially made and a reinforced van with a reinforced steel cage in it,” the boy behind Byron replied.
“You boys have done well. No one has ever managed to cuff me before. The reinforcing is good. Makes me feel secure.”
“How many people have you killed? The estimate is over three hundred.”
“A lot more than that. I used to be a cop,” Byron said laughing.
“How old are you?”
“Older than electricity.”
“Don’t talk to him. He’s playing mind games. Don’t turn your back on him. He’s got three guns pointed at his head. We got him now,” the boy behind Byron said.
“You boys realise, if you shoot me you shoot each other.”
“Shut up, otherwise I’ll shoot you in both legs and make you crawl.”
“I like that one, that’s good,” Byron said laughing.
Byron kept staring at the face of the boy in front of him. His eyes were wide with fear and his trigger finger was trembling. They must want me alive, Byron thought. They want my story and to find out where all of the bodies are. Byron and his captors were approaching the side of the house and the gun was still in the window. A few more steps and he would be out of its range.
Byron clenched his fists and forced his arms outwards, breaking the chain holding the cuffs together. Neither of his boy guards said a word. They were too busy staring at his face and trying not to piss their pants.
Byron dropped his head and glanced under his arm pit. His good leg flew back kicking his rear guard hard in the chest, sending him flying to the ground.
The boy in front hesitated and got the same foot in his face. He fell to the ground unconscious, as teeth fell out of his mouth.
Byron bought one mighty foot down on his head, crushing his skull. Spinning round he saw his rear guard trying to stand up.
He ran towards him and kicked his down turned face as hard as he could. The body flew through the air and landed in a crumpled heap. Byron touched his neck. No pulse meant no life. Poor boys. One more little piggy to deal with, then it was dinner time.
“Don’t you move.” Byron froze, that voice was angry, not scared.
He instinctively put his hands in the air. “I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“If you were tortured, would you talk? Tell us where the bodies are buried.”
“There are no bodies. I eat what I kill.”
“That’s what we heard, turn round.” He obeyed and was surprised to see a small, slim woman pointing a pump action shotgun at him.
“Unusual weapon for a cop,” Byron said smiling.
“We ain’t really cops, we’re bounty hunters. We use the armed police routine because most people drop to the ground.”
“Good for you.” Byron heard the trigger click as the shotgun blasted away both his knee caps. For the first time in his life he was not enjoying the feeling of pain as it tore his senses apart.
“One of your victims had rich parents. They’ve been dying to meet you. I’m sure you’re dying to meet them as well. I expect you‘ll have a long conversation. After that you‘ll be fried on an open fire and fed to dogs.”
Then the night got darker and Byron faded to black.
Random Number
18
Story Title and Entry
DEAD OF NIGHT
“You ready, sir?”
The man in charge looked round. Everyone was in position, all of his men heavily armed. He nodded at the man who asked the question and the door was smashed open.
“ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE, ARMED POLICE!”
The man in charge let all of his men go in before he decided to join them. He was the first to die. The door slammed shut before he could enter as unseen hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. He did not see his killer as powerful hands ripped his head off his shoulders.
“Three hundred and twelve,” a voice whispered as its owner walked towards his house. Crazy bastards like this had come for him before. About twenty years ago when the killings had restarted.
He could hear the men charging about in his house. Give them time to search the place and lower their guns. No point in having the place shot to hell. Leaning against the wall he lit a cigar and admired the view. You could not beat the joys of living in the country. No neighbours, no noise and no disturbance for twenty years. The only sound to break the silence were screams and complaints of his victims. A wise man had once told him that silence was golden. His brain had tasted good after it was fried with garlic.
He took a long drag on his cigar and winced as the ash burnt through his shirt and singed his flesh. Knives and guns did not worry him. It was fire that petrified him. The thought of being burnt alive, his muscle’s seared from his old bones. That was why he only smoked outside.
“Damn, this is a new shirt.” He began to wipe the ash away and noticed his shirt was wet. The familiar feeling of blood stuck to his fingers. He licked his lips, tasted blood and spat it out. He hated the taste of old meat. He hoped there was some young blood in the house tonight, otherwise he would have to go shopping. Another long drag on the cigar as the sounds of breaking furniture and more shouts could be heard. Shaking his head he begins to feel angry. How would these people feel if he dared to treat their house in such a fashion? The cigar smoke blew out of his nose as he opened his mouth blew out three smoke rings. He smiled to himself as they disappeared into the darkness. After tonight he would have to find somewhere else to live. All his items of sentimental value were locked in a trunk. Hidden in a safe place. No need to worry.
Some people liked to smoke after a meal. Byron Mcqueen liked to smoke before and after . Half now and half later he thought to himself, as he put the cigar in his breast pocket. No point in changing into old clothes, the shirt was already ruined.
Lifting his arm up he pulled a machete down from above the door. Turning the blade over he could see it glisten in the moonlight. This baby was as sharp as cats claws. A good workman always compliments his tool as he goes to work. This thought made him smile as he opened the door. Peering through the crack he could see no one. Ten armed men had stormed in which meant a minimum of ten machete chops. He had named the machete Dirty Harry because of the number of people it had killed. No doubt, it would stay sharp for a lot more than ten.
He pulled the door open and stooped so his enormous frame could squeeze through the large doorframe. He squinted at the bright lights that seemed to dazzle him and flicked the trip switch as he walked past the electrics. Can’t shoot what you can’t see, he thought to himself. Gripping the machete loosely meant he could swing it faster. His keen ears picked up two voices from the room on his left.
“Check the lights.”
“I’m on it.” A gun protruded from the doorway , then a head that was swiftly decapitated . Byron jumped back as blood sprayed upwards. He loved the sound of flesh blood flowing. As the body fell to the ground he could feel the young blood spray down his legs. He smiled as he hurled the machete at the other cop before he could get a shot off. The blade was embedded in his chest. It made a grating noise and it was pulled from flesh and bone.
Byron picked up a gun and pointed it towards the ceiling, at the sound of footsteps. His keen ears picked up six feet. They must have found his skull collection. He sprayed the ceiling with bullets from the dead mans automatic weapon and stopped firing a few seconds after the screaming ceased.
“Half way there,” he shouted. Footsteps could be heard running down the stairs. Shots were fired in his direction but Byron’s large bulk was already tucked behind a cupboard.
He was not prepared for the bullets that rained down through the ceiling. His tree trunk legs absorbing three bullets. His sharp ears heard footsteps in the hallway. Raising his gun he fires through the plasterboard wall, aiming low. He stops firing when the screaming starts.
One voice breaks the silence. “Four more to go.”
“You ain’t getting out of here.” The voice comes from above so he fires at the sound until he hears more screaming.
“Three more.” No one answered him this time. A smile spreads across his wrinkled face, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. He can smell the fear as it drifts through the air towards him. The scent of food hangs heavily in the air as he walks towards the three little pigs. His wounded leg feels as if it has been stung by wasps. This angers him even more. He grips the machete hanging at his side tightly as he aims the automatic weapon in front of him. He sprays a hail of bullets at the doorway then turns and dives through the large window. Landing on his feet he spins round in time to see two of the three little pigs come rushing in. Another burst of gunfire finds them, he smiles as they are thrown back and fall to the ground.
Something glints from the window above as he falls to the ground. Something has stung his shoulder. More shots are fired at him, but they miss.
“Don’t move, stay exactly where you are. The next one will be between your eyes.” Byron does not move. He is strong, but not invincible.
He enjoys looking at his face in the mirror and does not want that image to change. He has been caught before, but that was a long time ago. Rationing was still being enforced, but he had not starved. He saw two of the three little pigs emerge through the broken window, guns pointed towards him. There was still a glint from the room above.
“Stand up slowly, with your fingers clasped behind your head.” Byron obeyed, smiling to himself as he smells the young blood approaching.
He forces his enormous bulk to sit up, even though his shoulder is really stinging. Clasping his shovel like hands behind his head, he stands up on shaky legs. The three bullet holes had numbed his leg and he was starting to enjoy the pain that radiated from the wounds.
“Drop to your knees big man. Keep your paws where they are.” Byron obeyed and knelt down, still smiling to himself.
“The chase is better than the catch,” Byron said, still smiling.
“Keep your mouth shut and do as I tell you.” Byron can taste the fear in the little pigs voice. The fear of others is something he has survived on for most of his adult life.
“You realise that I will be unable to go for a ride with you, young blood.”
“You think so.”
“I know so. I’m too big to fit in a car.”
“Put your hands behind your back. My colleague will cuff you. Remember you have two guns aimed at your head. Keep looking at me.”
Byron obeyed, smiling at the boy in front of him. He could smell the fear on his partner as he walked up behind. People tasted better when they were scared. He had never found out why this was. Maybe it was some sort of chemical reaction in the body. Or maybe it was his imagination crossed with his culinary skills.
Small, weak hands pulled Byron’s arms behind his back and cuffed them. “We know how big you are. We had cuffs specially made and a reinforced van with a reinforced steel cage in it,” the boy behind Byron replied.
“You boys have done well. No one has ever managed to cuff me before. The reinforcing is good. Makes me feel secure.”
“How many people have you killed? The estimate is over three hundred.”
“A lot more than that. I used to be a cop,” Byron said laughing.
“How old are you?”
“Older than electricity.”
“Don’t talk to him. He’s playing mind games. Don’t turn your back on him. He’s got three guns pointed at his head. We got him now,” the boy behind Byron said.
“You boys realise, if you shoot me you shoot each other.”
“Shut up, otherwise I’ll shoot you in both legs and make you crawl.”
“I like that one, that’s good,” Byron said laughing.
Byron kept staring at the face of the boy in front of him. His eyes were wide with fear and his trigger finger was trembling. They must want me alive, Byron thought. They want my story and to find out where all of the bodies are. Byron and his captors were approaching the side of the house and the gun was still in the window. A few more steps and he would be out of its range.
Byron clenched his fists and forced his arms outwards, breaking the chain holding the cuffs together. Neither of his boy guards said a word. They were too busy staring at his face and trying not to piss their pants.
Byron dropped his head and glanced under his arm pit. His good leg flew back kicking his rear guard hard in the chest, sending him flying to the ground.
The boy in front hesitated and got the same foot in his face. He fell to the ground unconscious, as teeth fell out of his mouth.
Byron bought one mighty foot down on his head, crushing his skull. Spinning round he saw his rear guard trying to stand up.
He ran towards him and kicked his down turned face as hard as he could. The body flew through the air and landed in a crumpled heap. Byron touched his neck. No pulse meant no life. Poor boys. One more little piggy to deal with, then it was dinner time.
“Don’t you move.” Byron froze, that voice was angry, not scared.
He instinctively put his hands in the air. “I have a question.”
“Ask away.”
“If you were tortured, would you talk? Tell us where the bodies are buried.”
“There are no bodies. I eat what I kill.”
“That’s what we heard, turn round.” He obeyed and was surprised to see a small, slim woman pointing a pump action shotgun at him.
“Unusual weapon for a cop,” Byron said smiling.
“We ain’t really cops, we’re bounty hunters. We use the armed police routine because most people drop to the ground.”
“Good for you.” Byron heard the trigger click as the shotgun blasted away both his knee caps. For the first time in his life he was not enjoying the feeling of pain as it tore his senses apart.
“One of your victims had rich parents. They’ve been dying to meet you. I’m sure you’re dying to meet them as well. I expect you‘ll have a long conversation. After that you‘ll be fried on an open fire and fed to dogs.”
Then the night got darker and Byron faded to black.
