Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

He got off one shot, and then the gun clicked once, twice, three times on an empty chamber.

About fucking time.

“Huh. Outta bullets,” the pale assassin said as he tossed the gun aside and pulled a nasty-looking hunting knife from his side. “Guess we’re gonna have to do this up close and personal…which is fine by me.”

Squire had lost his golf bag along the way, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. His eyes scanned the warehouse, and he sniffed at the air, getting past the salty goodness of the thriving ocean. What he was looking for…what he needed wasn’t to be found here.

He would have to take this conflict elsewhere.

“Up close and personal is good,” Squire said, limping on the injured leg, making it seem as though Paleface might actually have the upper hand. “Why don’t you start without me, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

The goblin was running again, eyes scanning the various shadows, searching out one that could give him what he needed, a nice, ripe patch, one with real potential.

The tattooed man was running full tilt, knife by his side.

“I can follow you wherever you go,” he growled. “And as soon as you get tired…oh man, the fun will start.”

The guy was a complete asshole, and Squire couldn’t wait until his piehole was shut for good, but he was gonna need to be very careful and play this just right, or he’d wind up with the shitty end of the stick.

The stink of a ripe passage was close by, and Squire stopped momentarily to tilt his head back. Down an aisle of shelves, behind a wooden crate spray-painted with the words MACHINE PARTS, he found what he’d been searching for.

“You mean the fun hasn’t started already?” Squire called out. “Thought we’d reached our full fun potential when I cut off your hand. Don’t know if my poor old constitution can take anymore.”

He dove at the shadow, waiting for the cold, enveloping sensation as he entered the passage to another place but feeling only the viselike grip close around his ankle.

Squire thudded to the floor of the warehouse with a grunt, the shadow path just beyond his reach. He flipped over to see that the tattooed man was on his belly, holding on to him with his one good hand.

“Look at that,” the pale man growled. “You made me drop my knife.”

Squire struggled to squirm free, but the man’s hold on him was ferocious.

“Guess I’m just gonna have to use my teeth,” the tattooed man said, smiling like a great white, beginning to drag his weightier bulk up Squire’s body.

Squire lashed out, bringing one of his legs up and kicking the pale man squarely in the face. He felt the sensation of something breaking through the sole of his boot.

“You fucking monkey,” the tattooed man groaned, letting go of Squire to clutch at his own broken face. He picked at some loose pieces of white skin, revealing what looked like some sort of wet stone beneath.

“Wonder how long I can keep you alive,” the pale man growled, then lunged for Squire.

Squire did a tumble, rolling away into the embrace of a shadow passage. He felt himself falling, then landed unceremoniously on something soft and rubbery.

The killer landed atop him with a grunt, and Squire took full advantage of the fact that his adversary was stunned by the landing. The goblin dug his stubby fingers into the man’s face and pulled wet chunks away.

The tattooed man screamed like a banshee, arms flailing wildly. There was a glint of something in the dark, and Squire realized that his foe had managed to find his knife again. Reaching down to the floor of their confined space, Squire grabbed at something-anything-that he could use to block the blade.

The sneaker he brought up from the floor was just the thing.

Sneaker?

The killer was going wild, slashing out with his blade. Squire tried to stay low, reaching up to find what he suspected he would find: hands wrapping around the cool, metal knob and giving it twist.

The two tumbled from the closet into a child’s bedroom.

The little boy sat up in his bed, screaming that the monsters were coming out of his closet. If only you knew how right you are, Squire thought as he tried to get away.

In the faint glow of a night-light, he could see the damage he had done to the pale man’s face. It looked as though most of his nose and even more of one of his cheeks were gone. The tattoos didn’t look half as impressive anymore.

“Shut your fucking mouth, brat!” the pale man roared at the child, as he surged after Squire.

Squire had found an aluminum bat on the bedroom floor and used it to his fullest advantage. Swinging with all his might, he connected with his attacker’s leg, driving him to his knees.

“Are we having fun yet?” Squire asked, hitting him again across the back.

The pale man dropped to the floor, and Squire felt as though his arm was going to fall off.

He glanced at the child, staring wide-eyed from the bed, and was about to tell him that everything was going to be all right when the tattooed man unexpectedly struck.

What is he, the Energizer Bunny, for fuck’s sake?

The knife blade slashed across Squire’s chest, cutting at least a five-inch-long gash.

“Son of a bitch!” Squire hissed, jumping back and away before any more damage could be wrought.

His attacker was already standing. It looked as though he was having difficulty with one leg, but he still seemed like he could do some serious damage.

Squire decided to get the fuck outta Dodge. He turned his back on the man, already searching for an exit, and found it beneath the kid’s dresser. Not wanting to waste any time, he reached the piece of furniture, flipped it over, and dove inside.

He didn’t even have to look to know that Paleface was following. Exploding out the other end of the path, he hit the ground at a run. His chest felt as though it were on fire, the pain blending with the pain of his shoulder and leg wound; one big, happy fucking pain family. He could feel the blood running from the wound beneath his shirt, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, considering the situation he hoped to create.

He knew immediately when he was in the right place. His balls grew incredibly tight, disappearing up inside him, and if he could’ve disappeared inside himself, he would have, too.

“Where are you, you ugly fuck?” the pale assassin screamed as he emerged from the path, gunning for bear.

“Look who’s talking,” Squire goaded, sensing where he needed to be. “Think there might be some difficulty in the A Face Only a Mother Could Love competition.”

The pale man stalked toward him, knife blade still clutched in his hand.

“Wait a minute,” Squire said, backpedaling. “Did you even have a mother? From the looks of it, I’m going to be taking home first prize.”

“Gonna cut your face off and wear it like a mask,” the assassin said as he lunged.

Squire managed to avoid the attack, but barely. He was starting to slow down, the loss of blood and the accumulated pain of his injuries getting to be too much.

But if he did this right, it wouldn’t take much longer… And if he didn’t do it right, nothing would really matter anymore.

An icy tendril of fear ran down the goblin’s spine. Squire stopped, remaining perfectly still as the pale man limped closer.

“What’s the matter-too tired to run?”

“No, I could probably keep this going quite a bit longer, but I really don’t see the need.”

“The first rational thing you’ve said so far,” the killer said, a glint of madness in his cruel, dark eyes.

“Yeah, I figure we’ve come full circle, and we might as well end this here and now.”

The tattooed man started, looking around, for the first time taking note of where they were. “We’re back where we started?” he asked, sounding somewhat uncertain.