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half blinded me. If I fired a blind burst I might hit Yaakov. Zelda must’ve been thinking the same thing because she said, “Get those lights off us. She’s got a Tommy gun and she’s already pissed off. She hates bright lights.” I didn’t but it was the right thing to say because those lights left us in a hurry. They’d been on us long enough for the assholes to see Wolf Girl with a machine gun. I figured a sight like that would pucker any sonofabitch’s asshole a little. Even a Jew-hating Hitler ass-kisser’s.
“Fuck you, you wolf-ass freak!” said the one with the torch. “This Jew boy’s goose is cooked.”
And with those words, he touched his flickering fire to my Yaakov and Yaakov went up in flames, writhing and screaming and cursing in German. The torchbearer laughed and poked his torch into Yaakov’s groin because it hadn’t yet been engulfed in flames.
I cut his laughter off with a long angry burst of Tommy gun fire. The man’s laughter died with him. I cut him in two at the waist.
Two of the other Nazi pricks bumped into each other as they tried to run away in panic and they both ended up on the ground. I shot them where they sat and they flopped over dead on that little hilltop.
Yaakov was burning brighter so I had plenty of light to shoot by. I tagged another target as it made a dash for the Nazi clown car, just cut his legs out from under him and then put a three-second burst into his noggin as I walked forward, slow and in control, feeling the Tommy gun bucking against my shoulder each time I tickled the trigger. Shooting men down was a lot like working a loud-as-hell meat grinder. And those .45 slugs were damn good at grinding up living meat. I chopped those punks down and ground them up.
Now there were just two left standing. One of them put his hands in the air and said, “I surrender!”
If I’d been a talker I would’ve said, We don’t take no prisoners, but I wasn’t so I just shot him up and put him down with a snap of a happy trigger finger.
The last one made it to the car. Zelda yelled, “Don’t let him get away, hon!”
He cranked the engine and I raked that auto back and forth like a kid playing with a water hose, breaking glass and ripping holes in metal and Nazi flesh. The motor died. So did the driver.
By this time Yaakov had realized his only hope of not burning to death was to roll on the ground until he put himself out. Problem was, he was on a hill and he ended up rolling down the hill before Zelda or I could get to him to help him beat out the flames. He’d been drenched in so much gasoline that it would not have its fire quenched as easy as that. The fire was putting up a fight and Yaakov Munk was losing.
Zelda went tumbling after him, making me think of Jack and Jill. Naturally, no? Except that Jill didn’t have to gun down a gaggle of goose-stepping Nazis when she went up the hill and Jack wasn’t on fire when he fell down it.
I was still vibrating all over, all through me, from giving the Tommy gun its head and letting it do what it does. The small patch of ground on the hilltop where Yaakov had had his gasoline baptism was still burning, as was Yaakov, near the bottom of the hill now, where he’d stopped rolling, tangled in the hanging rope. Zelda was slapping him with both hands, beating out the last of the stubborn fire. I wanted to stand over each one of my kills to make sure they were dead. To see what I had done to them, up close. But I knew Yaakov needed me. I could feel his soul reaching out to me like a ghost’s creeping hand, wispy and cold. I went to him.
The smell of singed hair and scorched flesh was nearly more than I could take. I knelt down by him. In the dark I could see the glint of one of his eyes. The other eye was blackened, fried to a shriveled raisin-looking thing, eyelid burned away. His lips were like burnt sausages left too long on a griddle, split open and leaking juice. And they were moving. He was trying to
“Fuck you, you wolf-ass freak!” said the one with the torch. “This Jew boy’s goose is cooked.”
And with those words, he touched his flickering fire to my Yaakov and Yaakov went up in flames, writhing and screaming and cursing in German. The torchbearer laughed and poked his torch into Yaakov’s groin because it hadn’t yet been engulfed in flames.
I cut his laughter off with a long angry burst of Tommy gun fire. The man’s laughter died with him. I cut him in two at the waist.
Two of the other Nazi pricks bumped into each other as they tried to run away in panic and they both ended up on the ground. I shot them where they sat and they flopped over dead on that little hilltop.
Yaakov was burning brighter so I had plenty of light to shoot by. I tagged another target as it made a dash for the Nazi clown car, just cut his legs out from under him and then put a three-second burst into his noggin as I walked forward, slow and in control, feeling the Tommy gun bucking against my shoulder each time I tickled the trigger. Shooting men down was a lot like working a loud-as-hell meat grinder. And those .45 slugs were damn good at grinding up living meat. I chopped those punks down and ground them up.
Now there were just two left standing. One of them put his hands in the air and said, “I surrender!”
If I’d been a talker I would’ve said, We don’t take no prisoners, but I wasn’t so I just shot him up and put him down with a snap of a happy trigger finger.
The last one made it to the car. Zelda yelled, “Don’t let him get away, hon!”
He cranked the engine and I raked that auto back and forth like a kid playing with a water hose, breaking glass and ripping holes in metal and Nazi flesh. The motor died. So did the driver.
By this time Yaakov had realized his only hope of not burning to death was to roll on the ground until he put himself out. Problem was, he was on a hill and he ended up rolling down the hill before Zelda or I could get to him to help him beat out the flames. He’d been drenched in so much gasoline that it would not have its fire quenched as easy as that. The fire was putting up a fight and Yaakov Munk was losing.
Zelda went tumbling after him, making me think of Jack and Jill. Naturally, no? Except that Jill didn’t have to gun down a gaggle of goose-stepping Nazis when she went up the hill and Jack wasn’t on fire when he fell down it.
I was still vibrating all over, all through me, from giving the Tommy gun its head and letting it do what it does. The small patch of ground on the hilltop where Yaakov had had his gasoline baptism was still burning, as was Yaakov, near the bottom of the hill now, where he’d stopped rolling, tangled in the hanging rope. Zelda was slapping him with both hands, beating out the last of the stubborn fire. I wanted to stand over each one of my kills to make sure they were dead. To see what I had done to them, up close. But I knew Yaakov needed me. I could feel his soul reaching out to me like a ghost’s creeping hand, wispy and cold. I went to him.
The smell of singed hair and scorched flesh was nearly more than I could take. I knelt down by him. In the dark I could see the glint of one of his eyes. The other eye was blackened, fried to a shriveled raisin-looking thing, eyelid burned away. His lips were like burnt sausages left too long on a griddle, split open and leaking juice. And they were moving. He was trying to
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