Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

“It won’t help them, even if they do.” Mikayla was completely sure of herself. She was a zealot on a mission from a very angry god.

Near the foot of the mountain, an iron gate blocked the road. I pulled the Scout into a small gully and set the emergency brake. “We’ll hoof it from here.” I gave Peter my.38 and strict instructions to stay in the truck. I said if he heard gunfire he was to crash the gate, roar up the hill and get us the fuck out of there.

“Screw that, Moses, you said I’d have full access to the story, I want to be where the action is.” Bless his coke-brave heart, I thought not for the last time that I should put one between his eyes and tell god he died.

“Dead men may win a Pulitzer, but they don’t have much fun at the awards dinner.” His face fell as my words hit him. His inner pussy was battling it out with his chemical bravado. The pussy won. It always does. His eyes darted into the darkness surrounding us.

“You think they’d actually kill me?” His eyes darted into the darkness surrounding us.

“Without hesitation.” Slinging the Mini-14 over my shoulder, I slipped extra clips into my pocket and started up the hill with Mikayla. I heard the truck doors locking behind me. Peter, the poor son of a bitch, thought a locked car door would save him if this deal got wet. Locks only keep honest men out, and I had a feeling whoever was waiting for us up the hill, they were anything but honest.

Xlmen’s boots made close to zero noise as he stepped out of his SUV. He had seen the truck roll up the canyon. Even with binoculars, he hadn’t been able to spot its inhabitants, but driving with headlights off was a dead giveaway that it wasn’t coming for any good reason. From where the truck had disappeared, he plotted a trajectory up the hill. Moving quickly down an animal track, he was careful not to make a sound.

Peter watched Moses and the girl disappear into the scrub, he clutched the.38 in his sweat drenched hand. Was any story worth this? Had he weaseled his way in over his head? A turn of the key and he could be headed back home. Screw McGuire and his psycho dyke girlfriend, the Russians would most likely waste them. On the other hand, if they survived and he rabbited on them, they would kill him. Could they find him? They had found the Russians. How hard would he be to track down?

Opening a small folded envelope, Peter shook a short fat line out. Rolling up a twenty, he snorted. Rubbing the left over powder onto his gums, he felt the reassuring rush. Fuck the Russians, he could handle whatever those Slavic bastards sent his way.

I motioned for Mikayla to follow me as I crept in a circle around the hacienda. It sat on the flattened off top of a small hill, it looked to have been built back in the days when Spain ruled this patch of dirt. Deep windows were cut into the thick adobe and covered with ornate ironwork bars. No guards with guns peered out the windows, apparently they figured a remote location was all the safety they needed. Or perhaps we had killed the lion’s share of their men down in Ensenada. The only point of entry was a ten-foot wooden gate that was bolted from the inside.

“Time to divide our eggs,” I whispered. “I’m going over the roof. If I don’t get nailed I’ll open the gate.”

“And if you get nailed?”

“Then I’m counting on you to avenge me.”

Using the ironwork over a dark window I climbed up onto the red tile roof. The pitch was close to flat, but every step creaked and the old tiles felt ready to crack and give away my position. From the rooms below my feet, I could hear the muffled mumble of conversation; somewhere a radio was playing the dull thump of dance club music. Crawling on hands and knees, I made it to the roof over the front gate; below, an open courtyard held several cars and a white van. Slipping over the edge I was able to lower myself onto the van’s roof. I paused, crouching for a long moment, listening for any sign of alarm. The music thumped on and a male voice crooned along with it.

Sliding off the van, I dropped softly to the dirt. A deep growl rumbled behind me. Twisting at the sound, I saw a massive blur of brown fur, muscles and teeth leaping out of the shadows. The pit beast leapt straight at my throat, jerking back, I escaped death by less than an inch. Stumbling with the force of the flying dog, I latched onto his neck as I fell to the ground. The powerful jaws snapped inches from my face. It took all my strength to hold him off. The steaming scent of rotten flesh from his breath filled my lungs.

Curling my boot up into his belly, I kicked up. The beast flew up and away. It landed ten feet from me, winded, then it was up and charging me again. I pulled my buck knife from my boot, snapping it open as the creature leapt. His eyes went wide as I drove the blade up into his throat. He kept snapping at me, even in the throes of death. Twisting the knife, I rolled over so that I was on top of him. Warm blood soaked my arm and chest. When I thought it was over, he reared up, a twist of my head kept him from ending my life, instead of my throat he sank his canines deep into my shoulder.

Dropping my blade. I grabbed his jaw, as I fought to free myself from his grasp, he let out a long exhale and went limp. His last act had been to try and kill me, I had to respect his devotion to the task.

Looking down at his corpse, I heard something whistling through the air. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a shovel as it flew toward my head. The world shattered into a spark filled pain. Then nothing. Black empty nothing.

Pain flared in my shoulder and spread like wildfire across my body until it completely engulfed me. My muscles clenched in a powerful spasm. My back arched and my limbs shot out. My eyelids snapped open. I was unable to focus on or comprehend the room around me. A blurry form reached out and pressed a short stick into the dog bite on my shoulder. Volts of electricity blasted through me, blowing out my circuitry as it roared across every nerve ending. The wave passed, leaving me limp. I could taste the salty iron of blood in my mouth where I had bitten a small chunk out of my tongue.

Somewhere in the blurred fog around me, I heard a man speaking Russian. An ugly pockmarked face leaned in close to my face. “You are who?”

I opened my mouth, to plead, to beg, to cajole, whatever it would take to make the pain stop. But I was betrayed by my gut, instead of words — a nicely chunky spray of vomit spewed.

“Vali otsyuda!” He jammed the cattle prod into my shoulder, but before he could trigger the jolt, he was pulled away by a second form. In the shadows, a guttural Slavic argument bounced off the walls. Focus was returning. Out of the mess, a barn or garage formed around me. I was strapped down on a work bench. On a peg board, power drills, saws and hammers rested, waiting to be put to bad use.

“It’s for you.” A furry man in a blue satin jogging suit pressed a cell phone to my face.

“Mr. McGuire, you have outlived my expectations.” The voice was dry, Russian and void of any human emotion. The old man in the white room. I should have killed him when I had the chance. “However, you have now outrun your expiration date. I now have one last offer to make you, the man whose home you have defiled has asked permission to exact retribution, slow, painful retribution. Apparently, you brought on the early demise of his beloved pet. And here is where the offer comes in, pay close attention. Tell me where I can find Anya and I will command Kolya to execute a swift end to your life.” I could hear his breath as he waited for me to reply.

“Suck… my… dick,” I mumbled as clearly as I could muster. The fur-ball in satin slapped me across the face. He spoke quickly into the phone, then snapped it closed and sent his pockmarked lackey out of the room.