John Avery - Three Days To Die

Ashley's eye's moistened — she hadn't intended to take her frustrations out on him. "I'm sorry," she said, dabbing her nose with a tissue. "You seem like a nice enough guy, and under normal circumstances I'd be flattered."

She paused… it had been a long time since she talked to a man in that way — and it felt good. Then, on a wild impulse, she shared a piece of her dangerous secret with him.

"The truth is," she said, "I came down here to this rat-hole to save my son."

Michael dropped his book and looked at her. "Hold on a second," he said, then paused — this would be too wild a coincidence. "You're not Ashley Quinn by any chance — are you? You're not Aaron's mom…"

Oh my God, Ashley thought, her hand to her throat. She stood, her face filled with astonishment. "How did you… I mean — "

"It's okay," Michael said quickly, sensing her panic. "I met Aaron the other night. We're friends. I've been looking for him, too."

Ashley was dumbfounded, then frightened as she remembered Johnny Souther's orders and shot a glance at the door. "I–I can't be seen talking to you," she said, stepping away from the counter. Then she grabbed her purse and ran to the restroom.

Just then the cook delivered Michael's burger. "Choke on it

…" he said, anticipating a retort.

But Michael only looked at him, dazed.

Michael jumped when suddenly the diner's front door banged open again. The little brass bell flew off its hook and bounced across the room, coming to rest near his feet.

Johnny Souther entered and casually removed his sodden overcoat. Rain-water dripped from the brim of his leather fedora, staining his jacket; he removed the hat and tossed it on a table, then draped the overcoat over the back of a chair.

He glanced at Michael — who averted his eyes — then he knocked some dirty dishes and trash off onto the floor, and sat down alone.

He checked his watch. 6:30 p.m. His hip was hurting again and he badly needed a cup of coffee. He pounded the table with a heavy fist.

"Doesn't anybody work in this dump?" he said.

The cook glared at him through a burger haze. "Hey, you… Put a lid on it."

Souther hadn't taken time out of his busy day to come to the diner and fight with some cook; but once provoked, it was impossible for him to back down.

"I'm sorry," he said coolly, rising slowly to his feet. "I must be hard of hearing." He tilted his head slightly and cupped his hand behind his ear in a subtle show of aggression. "Could you repeat that?"

The cook approached the counter and leaned on his broad, course hands, nearly upsetting Michael's coffee cup. He looked directly into Souther's eyes and calmly rephrased his statement.

"I said, 'put a lid on it'… asshole."

Off his stool, now, Michael backed toward the restroom. The old man with the jelly donut folded his paper.

Souther casually pulled his. 45 automatic and pointed it at the cook.

The cook seized a heavy, cast-iron skillet from the stove and hurled it at his assailant before ducking behind the counter. Like a huge cast-iron Frisbee, the pan impacted the far wall of the diner with a violent clang, sending the TV and several beer signs crashing to the floor.

Two shots shattered the air — the first striking the order wheel, sending it spinning, the other ricocheting off the stainless-steel panel behind the grill. The old man laid his head on the counter and wrapped it in his arms.

A third shot rattled some kitchen utensils, and Michael made for the restroom.

He slammed the restroom door behind him and locked it, then crouched, breathless, next to the single gray toilet stall. A pair of women's shoes showed beneath the panel. They were shaking.

Michael leaned back against the wall and swallowed hard, trying to think, but his mind was like a Scrabble board that'd been knocked to the floor. A fat spider scurried across the grimy gray paint next to his ear.

A heavy thud echoed from the diner. Michael crept forward and peeked through a crack in the doorjamb.

Souther had thrown a table up on its side. The cook stood and heaved another pan, then sprinted for the back door. The pan bounced harmlessly off Souther's shield and he stood and fired.

The cook's head exploded like a melon thrown from a speeding train as bits of brain and bone sprayed the kitchen walls. The old man with the donut fainted and slumped to the floor.

Souther walked calmly toward the kitchen and emptied his. 45 into the cook and tossed the gun on the counter. Then he leaned in and yanked a meat cleaver from a block and turned toward the restroom, the razor-sharp blade glistening as it hung from the end of his powerful arm.

Michael scanned the tiny restroom for an exit. He saw a window above the sink, but he judged it to be too narrow.

Suddenly the door shook as someone tried the knob.

Michael froze.

Then, with enormous strength, the intruder attacked the door. Splinters flew as a heavy blade penetrated the wood.

Michael's mind worked frantically. He saw a urinal, a sink, a mirror with no glass, the window, and the single toilet stall containing the terrified woman.

"Unlock the stall door," he said to her. " Quickly!"

The bolt slid back, and with a heave, Michael hoisted the heavy steel gate from its pins and stepped back behind the restroom door. Utterly exposed, Ashley cowered in the narrow space next to the toilet, her thin, pale arms covering her head.

With a brutal crash, Johnny Souther burst through the door — eyes bloody with rage.

Ashley screamed and Michael wielded his weapon.

The sharp corner of the stall door caught Souther's skull just above the ear, sending the cleaver clattering across the tile. He expelled a sickening groan and crumpled heavily into a heap.

Michael staggered back against the wall, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Ashley stared wide-eyed at the pool of blood spreading over the tiles beneath Souther's head. She leaned over and vomited into the toilet.

– Michael stepped through the mangled restroom door into a quiet diner. Streaks of blood drained down the panel behind the stove and mixed with the grease on the grill, creating swirling patterns. The contorted image of the old man was mirrored in the chrome at the base of the stool where he lay. Michael took a seat on his favorite stool.

Ashley stood in the restroom doorway looking at him, wiping her mouth with one hand, adjusting her rumpled sundress with the other. He swiveled in her direction and their eyes met.

Suddenly, from behind her, Johnny Souther appeared, his face obscured by blood. He held the meat cleaver high overhead, ready to bury it in the back of Ashley's skull.

" Behind you! " Michael cried, jumping to his feet.

Ashley turned and screamed.

From outside, twin blasts of automatic-rifle fire shattered the front plate-glass window and sent Souther careening into the counter. Ashley spun away in horror as blood spattered her face and clothing.

Souther opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came as he twisted in agony, clawing the bloody countertop with his fingernails before dropping to the floor with a sickening flump, where he lay still… in a lifeless sprawl.

Michael and Ashley stared in shock and loathing at Souther's mutilated body… the floor… the walls… themselves. At last they turned toward the front of the diner.

Framed in the opening where the large window had been were two young boys. Thin gray wisps of smoke curled from the over-heated barrels of the assault rifles they held in their hands. Behind them, on the sidewalk in the rain, lay an old BMX bike and a rusty beach cruiser — spoked wheels still spinning.