Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Callan opens the bedroom door, and light from an adjoining bathroom spills over the bed, highlighting our targets. Eric is outside the covers, sleeping on his back with one arm slung over his face. He’s wearing a tank top, boxer shorts, and socks. All I can see of Wynona is her dark hair spanning across a pillow and her toes peeking out from a sheet. A fan makes a whooshing sound from the corner of the room, circulating the fog of body odor and heat.
I make it to Eric’s side of the bed when Callan takes a step and a floorboard creaks. Eric stirs, moving quick for a big fucker who was asleep a nanosecond ago. Reaching for something under the bedside table, he falls off the bed, his knees thudding against the floor. I seize his movements with my gun, pushing it into the back of his head.
Jerking him to his feet, I warn, “Don’t fucking try anything stupid or I’ll throw the bitch to her death from the window.
He holds his hands up, his breathing rushed. “Okay, okay.”
I scan the room, finding Callan with his gun pointed at the small figure beneath the sheet. She hasn’t moved, but her eyes are wide open, staring straight at me. I hold a finger to my lips. “Shhh…”
She jerks her head, understanding the command.
Shoving Eric toward the wall, I keep my gun on him while reaching under the bedside table, my fingers grazing metal. Ripping the gun from its strap, I hold it up to show Callan.
We’d planned to smother Wynona then force feed Eric a bottle of pills, but this works better. Quicker for them and us.
Taking purposeful steps, I force Eric to stand by Wynona’s side of the bed. Callan backs up, keeping his gun aimed between the pair. “Open your mouth,” I order.
“No, please don’t,” Eric begs. “You can take whatever you want.” You’re broke asshole.
“You have nothing we want,” Callan states.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because we have too,” I tell him truthfully.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing,” Callan snaps, his eyes darkening. The question is unimportant. It doesn’t matter why. I want to force the gun into his mouth but need this to look voluntary. Callan eats up the space between him and Eric, gripping a fistful of his hair and grasping his jaw. “Open your fucking mouth and it will be quick for both of you,” he tells him.
“If you don’t,” I add, “I’ll take a blade to your bitch and cut her up real slow while I make you watch then I’ll fuck your ass with the same knife.”
The sheet begins to shake with Wynona’s sobs. Eric’s lips part, his teeth clattering against the barrel. The smell of piss punctures the air as it drips down his leg, puddling at his feet and soaking into his socks. I pull the trigger, the sound cracking like lightening through the room. The back of his head paints the wall and ceiling, dropping down like red rain in pitter-patters to the floor. Before his body even hits the ground, I turn the gun on Wynona. She screams into her hands, and Callan grabs a pillow, placing it over her head. I pull the trigger, putting a bullet through it, and her body stills.
Releasing the pillow, Callan stares down at the hole and the feathers surrounding it, his face screwed into a grimace. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
I place the gun in Eric’s hand then step around his body, careful not to leave any footprints in the brain matter and piss.
Following Callan through the apartment, I stop at the kitchen and grab a plastic bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking the fish.”
“Cutter, don’t be fucking crazy.”
“The cops will think Eric flushed it.” I push the bag into the bowl and let the water pour in, sucking the fish in with it. “Got it.”
“Well done. You’re a fish hero,” he mocks. “Can we get the fuck outta here now? Someone could have heard the gun shots.”
We spill out of the apartment, checking our surroundings. It’s like everyone vanished off the face of the earth, allowing the monsters to roam freely. Keeping to the shadows, we jog back to our bikes, stripping out of our hoodies. I chuck mine at Callan and take my cut from him, pulling it on, finding comfort in the weight of the leather over my shoulders. I fix my helmet in place and stash the fish in my saddlebag while Callan stuffs the hoodies in his. Cocking my leg over my bike, I bring her to life and tail Callan home.
The rumble of our engines echoes through the night like rolling thunder as we pull into the compound. As we park, a couple brothers greet us as they head out on a run. “Early one?” Callan asks, detaching his saddlebag.