Stuart MacBride - Sawbones

“Yup.”

“Jesus,” says Jack, staring at my semi-automatic, “ain’t you got a proper gun? Damn thing looks like it came free with a Happy Meal.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m not worried about people thinking I got a tiny dick like you.” Just because my Heckler and Kotch USP Compact is small, doesn’t mean it can’t blow a fucking big hole in someone.

Jack grins. “My dick was big enough for your sister. And your mom — ”

Henry holds up a hand. “Shut it, you two. Trying to do a fuckin’ job here. .” He marches up to the farmhouse door and knocks.

Nothing happens.

So we go round the side of the house — there’s a chain-link fence making a compound around a kennel, the ground all dug up and speckled with shit, but no sign of the dog that did it. From the size of the mounds of crap, the damn animal’s got to be HUGE.

The yard’s a mess of trees, long grass and bushes. A pair of blue jeans and a black shirt hang limp and damp on the washing line.

Henry tries the back door — locked. We’re talking about kicking it in when Jack wanders off to the other end of the yard, peering back between the trees. Next thing I know he’s ducking down and waving at us. Pointing at whatever it is he’s found.

It’s a brown Winnebago, parked alongside a concrete barn with a sagging tin roof. We can only see the back of the motor home, but that’s enough, the rear’s peppered with bullet holes and the bumper sticker says ‘In God We Trust’.

We’ve found him.

Everyone checks their guns again.

Jack nods back at the house. “So where the hell is he?”

“I don’t know, do I?” says Henry. “Taking the dog for a walk?”

And that’s when we hear it — a man’s voice singing Onward Christian Soldiers , coming from somewhere on the other side of the barn.

Henry gives me the signal and we lope through the long grass to the Winnebago, guns held out at the ready, Jack hurrying along behind. The motor home’s side door is open — a quick check shows a sticky red carpet scattered with bits of skull and brain, tie-down rings bolted into the floor and walls, thin bars of light seeping in through the bullet holes.

No one there.

We creep round the side of the barn.

There’s about twelve rusty cars abandoned in the long grass, shitty old Fords and Volvos and — “Fucking hell.” I tap Henry on the shoulder and point at the Dodge pickup nearest to us. There’s a terrified-looking girl chained to the driver’s seat, wearing a gag. I take another look at the ancient automobiles and I can see other women, but there’s no sign of Laura.

Jack says, “Jesus!” and starts toward the car. He’s no more than six paces past the edge of the barn when there’s this deep growling sound. Jack freezes, but the growling doesn’t stop.

A bloody massive dog slinks out of the long grass, teeth bared as it sizes Jack up.

“Good doggie?” says Jack, even though the fucking thing clearly isn’t.

It tenses up, ready to spring and Jack raises his Glock nine mm. “Don’t even think about it.”

Too late. Suddenly it’s bounding through the grass, barking, teeth flashing like knives. And Jack puts a bullet in it. BANG!

The dog doesn’t stop. BANG! BANG!

BANG! Each one sending a little explosion of red bursting out of the animal’s body. The thing’s legs go out from underneath it and it slithers to a halt not four feet away from Jack. Damn thing still isn’t dead — it lies there whimpering, one paw twitching as it slowly bleeds out.

Jack turns to say something to us, but only gets as far as, “Did you — ”

BOOM!

The left side of Jack’s face disappears in a spray of blood and bone.

Suddenly everything has gone very badly wrong.

Henry and I hit the ground as Jack’s body topples backwards. There’s muffled screaming coming from the cars. No one’s singing Onward Christian Soldiers any more. I give Henry the ‘What the fuck just happened?’ look and he shrugs, then gives me the signal. I don’t need to be told twice, just pick myself up and run round the back of the barn, keeping low — past the Winnebago with its blood-soaked carpet — coming out on the other side.

I can see Henry creeping towards the barn’s entrance, so I do the same. Him going in from one side, me from the other: your classic pincer movement.

Henry peers round the edge of the opening then yanks his head back as another shotgun blast rips through the air, sending chips of concrete flying. He holds a finger up to me. One — there’s only one of them.

I nod and drop to my belly, crawling along through the grass until I’m level with the entrance, keeping as quiet as I can as Henry shouts, “We’ve got the place surrounded! Get your ass out here, or we’ll come in there and blow it off.”

BOOM! More concrete explodes. At least he’s shooting at Henry’s side of the doorway, not mine. By now I’m close enough to see into the barn’s crumbling interior. There’s farming crap stacked against the walls, a couple of bales of straw and some weed-killer in the corner. But what catches my eye is the old wooden table in the middle of the barn. Someone’s chained to it. I can see their hands and feet hanging over the edges. There’s no sign of the son-of-a-bitch who killed Jack.

Blood drips off the lip of the table — slow, dark and sticky. Not fresh, but not old enough to congeal.

Holy shit. . There’s a big plastic bin-bag under the table with a couple of arms and legs poking out of it.

And then whoever it is on the table groans.

I glance at Henry and he tries the ‘come out, we’ve got you surrounded’ thing again. This time when the son-of-a-bitch shoots I’m ready for him. He’s got his back to me as he brings this huge shotgun up to his shoulder and pulls the trigger. And in the silence following the deafening BOOM! I put a bullet in the guy’s knee.

It goes in as a tiny hole, but when it rips out the other side it takes his kneecap with it — blood and bone bursting over the table legs.

He screams and falls. The 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.