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Authors: Stuart MacBride
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shotgun clatters against the barn’s concrete floor, where it goes off again. BOOM! Buckshot whistles over my head as I bury my face in the grass.
I look up for long enough to shout, “He’s down!” then I’m on my feet, hurrying into the dark barn, my gun trained on the son-of-abitch’s head. Not that he’s any threat to us now, he’s too busy clutching the place where his knee used to be and screaming.
Henry says something, but I can’t hear him, I’m looking down at the woman chained to the wooden table. It’s Laura – stripped down to her underwear, rubber tubing tied around her upper arms and thighs, cutting off the blood before he cuts off the limbs. She’s covered in bruises, her face all puffy and swollen.
She looks at me with one wide, angry eye, her mouth working behind the gag, but all that comes out is this furious mumbling. I hurry over and undo the filthy rag he’s tied around her mouth.
“Agh! Jesus!” She turns her head and spits. “Fucking bastard!” I get to work on the chains holding her to the table while she swears. “What took you so long?”
“Are you OK?”
“Do I look fucking OK?” Laura tries to move, but nothing works – her limbs are slowly turning purple. “Bastard . . .” Then she asks me, “Is he alive?”
I look down at the man – he’s gone all quiet, rocking back and forth, still holding his ruined knee. “Yeah,” I say, “he’s still alive.” Then I start untying the rubber tubing from her arms and legs.
She grits her teeth as the blood starts to flow again. That’s got to be one of the shittiest doses of pins and needles ever.
After a couple of minutes Laura swings her legs over the edge of the bloody table then drops to the floor, her legs give way and I have to catch her. There’s a chunk missing from her left leg, surrounded by teeth marks. She hisses in pain, holding onto the edge of the table to stay upright.
She’s shivering, so I offer her my jacket. Laura smiles as she puts it on, but it’s not a nice kind of smile.
“Henry, Mark,” she says, “get the Bastard on the table. And chain the fucker down.”
I shake my head. “Can’t do that, Laura, your dad wants him alive.”
She stares at me, and suddenly she don’t look like Laura no more – she looks like her old man when he tells Henry and me someone’s stepped outta line and we gotta go whack them . . . “He say he had to be in one piece?”
“Laura – ”
“Look at that leg, Henry. We don’t get him some medical attention soon, he’s going to bleed to death.”
“But – ”
“Best thing for him,” she says, picking a big knife off the tabletop, “is ampu-fuckingtation.”
Chapter 17
We manage to talk her down to just the one leg. And when the screaming’s stopped and the guy’s passed out, we drag him and his amputated limb out to the car and bundle him in the trunk. He looks like shit, but he’ll survive the trip back to New Jersey. I ain’t saying how long he’ll live after that though. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be in his shoe when we get there.
I make sure Laura’s comfortable in the passenger seat, then go join Henry in the graveyard of dead cars.
“How long before we’re back home?” he says.
I shrug. “Thousand miles . . . what’s that, about seventeen hours? I could do it in fourteen, but no way in hell I want some cop pulling us over for speeding with Long John Fucking Silver in the boot. Should be back in New Jersey about six tomorrow morning.”
Henry nods, then looks out at the cars and their terrified inhabitants. The one nearest to us is in an ancient Cadillac – she’s rocking back and forwards in her chains, the stumps where her arms and legs used to be moving in little circles, crawling with flies. Her eyes are tight closed and I swear to God if I’d known what Henry was about to do I’d have stopped him.
But I don’t know.
Not until he pulls his gun and puts a single bullet through her
I look up for long enough to shout, “He’s down!” then I’m on my feet, hurrying into the dark barn, my gun trained on the son-of-abitch’s head. Not that he’s any threat to us now, he’s too busy clutching the place where his knee used to be and screaming.
Henry says something, but I can’t hear him, I’m looking down at the woman chained to the wooden table. It’s Laura – stripped down to her underwear, rubber tubing tied around her upper arms and thighs, cutting off the blood before he cuts off the limbs. She’s covered in bruises, her face all puffy and swollen.
She looks at me with one wide, angry eye, her mouth working behind the gag, but all that comes out is this furious mumbling. I hurry over and undo the filthy rag he’s tied around her mouth.
“Agh! Jesus!” She turns her head and spits. “Fucking bastard!” I get to work on the chains holding her to the table while she swears. “What took you so long?”
“Are you OK?”
“Do I look fucking OK?” Laura tries to move, but nothing works – her limbs are slowly turning purple. “Bastard . . .” Then she asks me, “Is he alive?”
I look down at the man – he’s gone all quiet, rocking back and forth, still holding his ruined knee. “Yeah,” I say, “he’s still alive.” Then I start untying the rubber tubing from her arms and legs.
She grits her teeth as the blood starts to flow again. That’s got to be one of the shittiest doses of pins and needles ever.
After a couple of minutes Laura swings her legs over the edge of the bloody table then drops to the floor, her legs give way and I have to catch her. There’s a chunk missing from her left leg, surrounded by teeth marks. She hisses in pain, holding onto the edge of the table to stay upright.
She’s shivering, so I offer her my jacket. Laura smiles as she puts it on, but it’s not a nice kind of smile.
“Henry, Mark,” she says, “get the Bastard on the table. And chain the fucker down.”
I shake my head. “Can’t do that, Laura, your dad wants him alive.”
She stares at me, and suddenly she don’t look like Laura no more – she looks like her old man when he tells Henry and me someone’s stepped outta line and we gotta go whack them . . . “He say he had to be in one piece?”
“Laura – ”
“Look at that leg, Henry. We don’t get him some medical attention soon, he’s going to bleed to death.”
“But – ”
“Best thing for him,” she says, picking a big knife off the tabletop, “is ampu-fuckingtation.”
Chapter 17
We manage to talk her down to just the one leg. And when the screaming’s stopped and the guy’s passed out, we drag him and his amputated limb out to the car and bundle him in the trunk. He looks like shit, but he’ll survive the trip back to New Jersey. I ain’t saying how long he’ll live after that though. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be in his shoe when we get there.
I make sure Laura’s comfortable in the passenger seat, then go join Henry in the graveyard of dead cars.
“How long before we’re back home?” he says.
I shrug. “Thousand miles . . . what’s that, about seventeen hours? I could do it in fourteen, but no way in hell I want some cop pulling us over for speeding with Long John Fucking Silver in the boot. Should be back in New Jersey about six tomorrow morning.”
Henry nods, then looks out at the cars and their terrified inhabitants. The one nearest to us is in an ancient Cadillac – she’s rocking back and forwards in her chains, the stumps where her arms and legs used to be moving in little circles, crawling with flies. Her eyes are tight closed and I swear to God if I’d known what Henry was about to do I’d have stopped him.
But I don’t know.
Not until he pulls his gun and puts a single bullet through her
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