by West, Sam
Yeah, seems like you’re not the only one that fucks over their family.
“Harlan, wait, you don’t have to do this.”
“I do. I really do. Don’t worry, I’ll do you proud, I promise to have some fun with your corpse before I take you back.”
Fuck that.
Sebastian figured he had nothing to lose and he lunged for his arm. The gun fired in the air, and the men fell to the gravel in a deadly embrace with Sebastian on top. Harlan was bigger and stronger, but Sebastian had quicker reflexes and drove home his current physical advantage. Repeatedly he bashed the back of Harlan’s hand on the ground until his fingers loosened their grip. Then he fisted his thick, dark hair and brought the back of his skull crashing down on the gravel.
Harlan had quit squirming.
“I’m sorry buddy, it’s nothing personal,” he said, getting to his feet and stamping down with all his might on Harlan’s face.
His head kind of imploded. He had always wondered what it would feel like to crush a human head with his foot – and now he knew. He thoroughly enjoyed the deep-sounding crack of his skull splitting open. The noise was a physical thing, jolting up his leg and reverberating through his entire body. God, it was deeply satisfying, even if it was his old friend Harlan. Oh well, never mind. Richard was right, friends and family were a liability.
The sound of the girl groaning snapped back his attention. He went to her, but not before wiping Harlan’s brains off the soles of his expensive Italian shoes on the low-rise, stone wall that lined the gravel track leading to the château.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had to get all this carnage the hell away from the gate. Okay, so the road beyond the property was deathly quiet, but it was still a public road. If someone was to drive by now and then call the police, it could make life difficult.
Sebastian worked quickly, a plan hatching in his mind.
20.
Molly’s head was swimming. She sat there dazed, groaning in pain, her head feeling like it was about to explode.
Fucking gates didn’t even dent.
Big hands hooked under her armpits and she felt herself being lifted up and out of the driver’s seat.
Sebastian.
She was a fool to think she could escape, a fool to even think for a second she would get out of this alive. He cradled her against his chest like a new-born and carried her over to the high, concrete wall next to the gate and set her down against it.
She wanted to get up and run, but in that moment she knew she was defeated. What would be the point? There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she was trapped on the château grounds and there were still those guards searching for her.
And she hurt. She hurt all over; her head felt like it was about to burst, her legs were weak and her torso battered. She was cold, naked, a complete wreck. She was too weak to even ease her back away from the cold concrete that bit into her tender, bruised skin.
So it was with resignation that she watched Sebastian move the van onto the muddy grass away from the gates and therefore from the view of the road. Only then did she notice the prostrate, be-suited figure lying face-up on the gravel. The physique was unmistakable.
Harlan! But what’s happened to his face?
Groaning, she looked away in disgust. Would the horrors never end?
At least he’s dead. If only Sebastian was dead too…
The glowing headlights of the Porsche illuminated Sebastian when he stepped out of the now hidden van and walked round to the back of it.
He inserted a key in the lock at the base of the van from the key-ring that had been in the ignition. The door rolled up. From where she was sitting, she couldn’t see in the back but she heard muffled screams.
The people in the back are gagged and bound, just like I was.
Her heart plummeted when Sebastian pulled a gun on them.
“No,” she sobbed, but her weak voice was drowned out by the firing gun.
Once, twice, three times the gun went off.
“Fuck it!” Sebastian screamed as he continued to pull the trigger on an empty chamber.
In a temper he threw the gun to the ground and hoisted himself into the back of the van. She heard more screaming; the unspeakable, blood-curdling sound of individuals being beaten to death.
She thought about getting into the Porsche, the keys still had to be in the ignition seeing as the headlights were on. Immediately, she dismissed the idea. Where would she drive to? These gates had to be the only way out and that hadn’t exactly worked out.
Harlan was just a few metres away from her.
I wonder if he still has his mobile in his jacket pocket? Or that penknife?
With renewed hope she crawled over to where he lay and patted down his body with the screams of the tortured and the dying ringing in her ears. Her fingers curled around the penknife and she half laughed, half sobbed. She flicked open the blade, not believing her luck. Her body didn’t seem to hurt quite so much as it did when she crawled back over to the spot where Sebastian had dumped her.
She sat on the knife and waited for him to finish his sick business, waited for him to come to her.
Then the grim silence fell. A death silence. Somewhere, far above, an owl hooted.
This is it. My one and only chance.
You’d better not fuck it up, then…
Sebastian jumped free from the back of the van. He glanced over at her to make sure she was where he had left her and headed for Harlan. Once there he crouched over his body and from the waistband of his trousers he produced a small knife.
At first, Molly couldn’t see what he was doing. He had his back to her and his arm jerked back and forth in a sawing motion.
Like he was cutting through something.
With a final grunt of exertion, he fell backwards, his hand bent at an unnatural angle to his wrist.
Not his hand. Harlan’s hand.
The knife was pocketed once more and he righted himself. His tall body cast a long shadow in the Porsche headlights when he approached the side of the gate, and only then did Molly realise what he was doing.
He’s unlocking the gate, it must be fingerprint coded with Richard’s and Harlan’s prints.
Sure enough, he pressed the pad of Harlan’s finger against the glowing blue keypad and the gates made a heavy, clanking sound as they swung outwards.
Her overworked heart pounded against her ribcage when he approached. She had to play this just right, her future, or lack of, hinged on this one moment.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, reaching for her, “we’re going. It would appear that my good friend Richard wants me dead and the guards will be swarming here any second to make sure Harlan has done his job properly. I guess things have gotten a little crazy. I think I need to empty my bank account of a fair few million and disappear for a while…”
She never fully understood why he didn’t just kill her there and then. It was madness for him to engage her in conversation, madness not to just kick and punch her to death like he had the others in the back of the van.
Maybe he fancied a travel companion. Maybe he wanted to rape her at leisure at a later date.
Whatever his reasoning, it was his downfall. As he leaned down to scoop her up, her shaking fingers curled around the knife she was sitting on and brought it upwards at speed. It lodged high up in his right-hand side, slipping in effortlessly.
Groaning through gritted teeth, she twisted it as hard as she could. He grunted and staggered backward, clutching the knife. When he landed on his back she straddled him and tugged out the weapon. A spray of hot blood hit her in the face, but she barely noticed. She brought the knife down again and again, stabbing him repeatedly in the chest until his white shirt turned red.
“Stop,” he gasped, his hands flying up to protect his face and blood pooling in his mouth.
She stabbed through his hands and took out an eye. It suddenly occurred to her that he wasn’t screaming. Despite the awful pain he must b
e in with death so close to claiming him, his lips were pulled back in a grin.
It made her pause.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, gargling on his own blood. “You and me, we’re not so different.”
Then he went slack, that rictus smile still firmly in place. His one good eye seemed to be staring into her very soul, accusing her of blood lust, so she stuck the knife in it and left it there, the handle pointing up to the black sky.
You and me, we’re not so different…
“Fuck you,” she panted, wiping the blood and tears from her eyes.
He was blood soaked, his clothes were useless to her. Harlan’s jacket was usable, at least it wasn’t ringing wet with blood. With some difficulty she prised it off his still warm corpse and shrugged it on, got into the Porsche and turned the key in the ignition.
She drove at speed through the opened gates and didn’t look back. A sense of calm enveloped her. She knew that there would be a long battle ahead. Richard Granger was untouchable; it would be like the infamies that had taken place in the château had never happened. He would hunt her down, she was under no illusions about that. He would hunt her down and he would try to kill her.
Let him.
When Richard came for her, she would be ready.
You and me, Richard, we’re not so different.
The End.
Hey, you reached the end. I sincerely hope you enjoyed Splatterpunks. If you did, please check out my author page on Amazon. I release a new book every month or so for your sick, reading pleasure.
Take care and sweet dreams,
Sam.