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with the pistol to quiet her screams, though he never landed a solid blow as
he had on Wanda, simply beating down the ineffectual defenses of her upraised
arms until her screams subsided into a low moans of pain. One blow had smashed
into the side of her jaw, splitting her lip and loosening teeth. Another
grazed her forehead, opening a gash that poured blood, blindingly in her eye.
Several other blows landed on her arms and breasts, leaving great purple
swellings.
Dawson stood up over Sheila's prostate form, breathing heavily,
exultant that he had managed to beat both of the women into submission. He
kicked angrily at Sheila's body. "Get up, bitch! Back inside." He pointed the
unarmed weapon at the sobbing girl huddled at his feet.
Sheila stumbled upright, shrinking back from the pointed weapon. Dawson
assumed she had no idea that he still couldn't fire it. She rubbed at the
blood still pouring down one side of her face, trying to clear her vision.
Dawson gestured with the pistol, forcing her back inside, through the living
room and back into the bedroom where Wanda still lay unconscious.
Beams of the rising sun came through the window, illuminating the room.
Dawson glanced around, and then found what he was looking for. "Pick her up
and stuff her in there," he said, indicating the open door of a closet.
Sheila's head and shoulder were hurting horribly and she was still
stunned from the blows. Her mind didn't want to believe what was happening,
but a vicious kick to her hip and a threatening gesture from the gun prodded
her into doing what Dawson told her to. Painfully, favoring her bruised
collarbone, she dragged Wanda into the closet. She shut the door at the
killer's request, then grunting with effort, she pushed the heavy bed up
against it. She wiped again at the congealing blood on her face and suddenly
became aware that she was nearly naked. Blood and perspiration plastered the
thin nightgown to her body. She shrank under Dawson's gaze. His awareness,
also, had suddenly taken in her figure. He grinned evilly. "Nice," he said.
"Real nice. We're going to have some fun, girlie, but first I want something
to eat and drink." He gestured with the pistol, completely in his element now.
THE FIRST SCREAM startled Michael Wronsen awake, almost causing him to
lose his balance where he clung in the crouch of a tree. At first he wasn't
sure that the sound had been human, but the second and third scream left no
doubt. Somewhere near, a woman was in mortal terror.
Michael dropped down from his perch and began running toward where he
thought the screams were coming from. He was startled into stopping as he
broke through the forest into the clearing surrounding the farmhouse.
Less than a hundred yards from where he stood, on the porch of a rustic
home, he saw the figure of a man clad in dirty white garments flailing at the
figure of a woman or young girl with what appeared to be a pistol. Even as he
watched, transfixed, the last scream broke off into a bubbling moan, and the
female went down. He was much too far away to intervene, and even as he
watched, the white-clad man kicked and beat the girl back inside the house.
All Michael's instincts urged him to run for the house and help. He
suppressed the desire with considerable difficulty; there was no cover between
him and the house, where the porch was now dappled with spots of blood, and he
was almost certain that the weapon the man had used to club the girl into
submission had been a pistol.
Michael stepped back into the cover of the forest and began a quick
examination of his surroundings. Soon, just as Dawson had, he noted that the
circling forest cut into a corner of the farmhouse, and like him, decided that
was the best way to get close enough to do some good.
He began creeping along the forest edge, keeping under cover. Even as
he worked his way nearer, and as various scenarios for rescuing the girl
swirled through his mind, he couldn't help noting that the cleared area around
the farmhouse was approximately the same size as the one which had trapped
him, and nearly the same size as the others he had passed through. A pattern
began trying to form in his mind, but he pushed it aside; there were more
urgent considerations competing for his attention.
Michael took as much time as he dared, determined not to be spotted
from some furtive glance out a window, but after awhile, he wished he had
hurried. Another scream came from within the house then broke off into an
exclamation of pain. Sobbing gasps followed that. His imagination carried an
all too clear picture of what must be happening inside, and he hurried his
pace, stopping only to make certain he had a round chambered in his pistol.
He eased his way from around the trunk of the tree growing next to the
sheared off area of the house. Sheila's barricade provided no more hindrance
to him than it had to Dawson. He slithered through, gained his feet and
followed the muffled sounds to their source.
It was all he could do to restrain himself from firing. Only the
possibility of an errant shot hitting the girl restrained him. Dawson had
switched the pistol for a kitchen knife. He was holding it to Sheila's throat,
where several shallow slashes trickled blood onto the carpet. He was on top of
her, hips thrusting, uttering animal grunts of pleasure while he held the
knife. Sheila was sobbing brokenly, glassy eyed and hopelessly.
Michael made two mighty strides toward the prone figures, then with his
third step swung a sweeping kick to Dawson's head. It connected with a sound
like a pumpkin being dropped from a hayloft. If Dawson's head had been a
football, it would have been a sixty-yard field goal. Michael's boot connected
with a sickening crunch to the side of Dawson's head, shattering the zygomatic
arch and breaking his nose. He twirled after the kick, still holding his
pistol in one hand, ready to shoot if he had to, but that first blow to the
head had been all that was needed.
Dawson was unconscious, bloody froth bubbling from his nose and mouth.
Michael bent and jerked Dawson off the prostate figure of the girl. He was
sickened at what he saw. The girl's torn nightgown was pushed up around her
neck, the bloody folds circling it like a bizarre red necklace. Her shoulders
and breasts were splotched with purple bruises and her lips were puffy. She
moaned and shrank from him, as if he were another attacker.
"Easy, take it easy," Michael said. "You're safe now. Don't be afraid."
His voice trembled in reaction to the girl's despair.
Sheila rolled shakily to her knees, pushing the gown down to hide her
nakedness. "The closet. Wanda's in the closet," she mumbled through split
lips. Michael could barely make out what she was saying.
Michael glanced up, suddenly aware of a banging sound coming from a
closet door as it thudded against the barricade of the bed. He glanced down at
the man to make sure he was still out, then laid his gun down and heaved at
the bed.
Wanda scrunched through the partially opened door. A golf ball sized
welt over her left eyebrow was rapidly purpling, and tears of frustration were
streaming down her cheeks. She spotted Michael's weapon on the bed and grabbed
it, swinging it around and pointing it at Reeves with murder in her eyes. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]