“Yes, Lyrie? Or no? Do you want to save your pretty boy's neck? Just say yes.”
She was thinking frantically as he reached her and leaned over, his face within inches of hers. A plan, the only out she could see, was to agree and then stall him. She only needed enough time to allow Miguel's people to find him and get him off the planet. She could do it.
“Alright, Farley. I'll agree. You don't say anything about him, right? Not to anyone. Not even your family or drinking buddies. Okay?” She gritted her teeth and leaned as far back as she could, trying to get far enough away that she could take a breath that wasn't fouled by his. It was only then she realized the trouble she was in as she got a gagging whiff of her father's brew on his breath. She tried to think, pushing back the panic she was feeling. Maybe she could still manage to control him.
“There's one thing, though, Farley. You'll let me have the wedding I've always dreamed of? Won't you? Please?” She would tell him her dream was to go to her wedding bed as a virgin. He didn't need to know she'd never had such a dream or that she would die before she'd ever go to any wedding bed that had him in it.
He backed away, at first surprised that she'd said yes then puzzled by the change in her tone when she started asking about the wedding. Scratching his head, he slowly nodded his agreement. People were always messing with him; making him the butt of their jokes because he was so slow to figure out what they were talking about. But, try as he might, he couldn't see what sort of joke she'd be trying now. Besides, Lyrie had never made fun of him. Not like that, anyway. Finally, he decided to go along with her.
“Well, sure. Anything you want, Lyrie. But first, you gotta give me my dream.”
He'd been getting worked up as he watched her, his eyes now on the buttoned up coveralls. He wanted another glimpse of what was under there. Hell, no he didn't. He wanted them. He wanted them in his hands. In his mouth.
With a snort, he rubbed his crotch, grinned and then advanced on her, trapping her once again with the table. His hands groped at her buttons, snapping them off, one by one, while she fought him. All the pushing and tugging at his arms and hands meant nothing but good things to him. Her fighting was exciting him even more and he was breathing heavily, drool sliding out the side of his mouth as he tore at the heavy duty fabric, forcing it apart and down her arms. She tried to scream when his big sweaty palm squeezed her breast before he ripped her bra in half. He was making grunting noises as he lowered his head, holding on to her wrists to keep them out of his way.
*****
Dawn was approaching and it was the most beautiful dawn he’d seen since he was a boy back home on the blue planet. It was a pity he was just too weary to enjoy it. Somewhere up there, his Federation family would be trying to find a signal, a sign that their pilot hadn’t died. Let the death of the capsule point them the way.
Miguel had driven the hoverbike a great deal away from the farm house. With a relatively good idea how far out the field he’d landed in was, he was able to guide himself a more or less equal distance in the opposite direction to find the spot he needed. Nothing but old fencing and crumbling rock stretched for miles all around.
Tall, scraggly grasses scratched at his borrowed pants and a thorny thistle bush of some kind hooked in the back of his knee. A small rip later and he was moving the bike away from the escape pod that had saved his life. He smiled a tired smile and pulled out his weapon, aiming it at the sweet spot.
The concentrated energy from the pistol burned the air and ignited the wick, the wire-wrapped foam sparking with a pop that changed the pressure in his ears. It didn’t take long for the electrical system to catch fire within the pod. After disabling the slurry that would have extinguished it, he’d laid into the HUD until he’d cracked the hard pane and ripped up its innards. Twisting the wires into a mess around the cushion torn from the seat he’d sat his ass in for the last two years, he’d made an effective wick. His gun was the match.
Pushing down on the throttle, Miguel pointed the bike back to the farmhouse, leaving the last traces of himself to burn in the rearview.
Greeted by the soft lowing of the bovine herd, the pilot coasted the mule back to its place in the barn and powered it down. Some kind of night-active insects were chirping as he pulled the barn door back along its track and closed up the old building. Now there was nothing to it but to admit to the homeowner that he’d destroyed the things she’d given him along with the capsule.
Imagining having a tooth knocked out, Miguel was almost back in good spirits by the time he was up on the porch and knocking quietly on the door. The lights were on in some of the windows still but he suspected Lyrianne would have turned in by now. He could imagine how exhausted she must be.
Letting himself in as silently as possible so as not to disturb his sleeping hostess, the pilot shut the front door and engaged the bolt. His boots were gone, charred to toast about now, his gloves along with them, so he had nothing but his weapon and the rig he carried it in. Even his underpants had gone up in flames. Miguel knew there was a joke to be had there but he was too fatigued to come up with it.
Unlacing the tunic, he dragged it over his head on his way to the stairs. As it came over his ears, he heard muffled talking and turned, curious. It was coming from the basement. The open basement.
Dropping the shirt to the floor, Miguel approached the doorway, his shoulder moving to the wall beside the jam. Glancing around the corner showed him nothing but the staircase leading down to the gloomy cellar. But now he could hear scuffling.
Making very little sound, the Federation pilot slunk down the stairs, keeping to the edges so as not to disrupt the old wood. Upon reaching the bottom, the scene opened up to him in a bizarre medley of dusty yellow light and smacking lip noises. What he saw was an immense back covered in a soiled shirt and bobbing shoulders.
If he hadn’t seen the wrapped foot wedged between a chair and a table leg, he’d have never known she was there.
Everything slowed down and narrowed, adrenaline dumping hard into his system. His heart pounded like a drum and he was walking, one foot in front of the other, almost seeing himself from outside his body. That slobbering, smacking sound…
Miguel’s stiffened fingers rammed into the fat man’s back, right over his kidneys.
Layers and rolls of fat saved Farley from more than a bruising but the pain of the attack got his attention. He lifted his head and released Lyrianne's hands, which he'd had pressed against her mouth to stop her from screaming again. He brought his arm around, swinging hard.
Lyrianne pushed at the table, moving it enough to slip under where she watched, waiting for a chance to escape. She hadn't seen who had come in to distract Farley. The last person she expected it to be was Miguel. Despite his agreement to return the hoverbike and help her as she'd asked, she'd thought he would be long gone into the forest, her and her farm a fading thought at the most. She peeked out then scooted back, a frown on her face.
The pilot was just ducking the wild swing and coming up with a punch to the fat man's solar plexus. Considering the bulk of the abdomen, the strike managed to connect with so much force it knocked the air from Farley's lungs and doubled him up with agony from shocked nerve endings deep inside. When he raised his head, wheezing, he backed away to regroup, coming up against the table.
The sturdy metal legs bowed alarmingly and Lyrianne ducked, afraid it was going to collapse on top of her with the full weight of Farley on top of it. She scurried on hands and knees to the opposite side and as soon as she was out, got to her feet. She shot a look at Miguel which was hard to read. She wasn't even sure what she was feeling. Whatever it was, she didn't spend much time on it.
Trying to cover herself by pulling the two sides of the coveralls together and holding them, she backed up against the far wall and moved along it. When she reached the back area where the bed was, she stopped, her eyes going to Farley. The black look she gave him was very clear. If she thought she could have smashed that disgusting fa
ce in, she would have done it in a heartbeat.
Farley hadn't noticed she was gone, completely focused on the pilot. “Come on, Fed pig, I'm gonna kill you then tear you to pieces.” He snarled, circling away from the table until his back was to Lyrianne, who had closed her eyes, not wishing to look at him again. “No, maybe I'll do it the other way around. That would be more fun.” He looked down at Miguel's knees then threw himself forward, intending to hit the other man down low then sit on him.
Miguel was faster and around the side of the fat man, leaving the farmer to plow into the hard floor in a massive belly-flop. His boot kicked out and struck the grunting pig in the side of the head, his weapon in his hand and pointed at the prodigious neck.
“Move again, filth, and I will burn you.”
There was a distinct whine in Farley's voice, though his eyes held a crafty look. He lay perfectly still except for an occasional twitch of his fat legs and the clenching and unclenching of his fists. “No fair, man. What you want to do that for?” The weapon's nozzle felt as if it was burning a hole in his neck. “I was only havin' a bit of fun with you, is all. Just showing off for my wife-to-be. I wouldn't have really hurt you. No hard feelings?”
Lyrianne snapped her eyes wide open at what he'd said. She slowly shook her head, feeling her stomach churn after hearing him call her that. Especially to Miguel. Staring at the vicinity of the energy weapon, she was wavering between trying to will his fingers to squeeze down on the trigger and... no, that was all she was hoping for at that particular moment.
“Did I not tell you to stop calling her things like that, fat man?” The pilot looked calm and collected but there was a storm in his eyes and his accent had become more pronounced. “I am pretty sure that we had this discussion earlier, yeah?” He prodded the farmer sharply with the round barrel.
“Yeah.” The craftiness thickened in Farley’s tone. “But, it's different now.” He shifted his fat neck warily so he could see the table. Lyrianne was gone. He decided she'd run upstairs, so he felt comfortable with continuing on. “She told me who you were, Fed man. She told me that we was gonna get rich together once she reported you in the morning. There's sure to be some sort of prize money for turning you in, you see. And she said then we could marry like she's always secretly wanted.” He was caught up in his story, almost believing himself.
The muscles in Miguel's neck tensed visibly and his grip on his weapon whitened his knuckles. He didn't take his eyes off of the sneering farmer, whose tone had become boastful, growing a little bolder, slowly moving his hands up, inch by cautious inch.
“We was just getting warmed up with some celebratin' when you came in. Maybe you should just go and find a hidey hole somewhere and leave us to get back to our private party. I don't think it'll do you any good, but in honor of Lyrie becoming my wife, maybe I'll let you have a head start if you get out of here now. Don't want to let her get all cooled down. She gets hotter than a furnace once she gets going as you know.”
“Filthy, stinking, disgusting, lying son of a bitch!” A broom came down out of nowhere to slam onto Farley's back. Spurred on by the surprised howl from her gross neighbor, Lyrianne pulled it up to strike again, inadvertently hitting the hand holding the weapon.
Unfortunately, Lyrianne's untimely interference occurred just as the pilot took a step back, his finger flexed over the trigger. He wasn't going to shoot, or at least he didn't think he was, but the unexpected strike caught him about the knuckles and did the work for him.
With a flash of red, the directed energy bore a path just to the side of the farmer's head, right into the floor. Miguel swore, momentarily conflicted by the near-miss, his weapon barely hanging onto his pain-wracked fingers by the trigger guard.
Farley, however, was spurred to action by the smoking hole beside his face and swung his beefy arms out as if he meant to swim away. His wild flail caught Lyrianne, knocking her legs out from under her and the pilot, who’d managed to avoid the desperate attack, was then lunging over the fat man in an attempt to save Lyrianne.
It was all very messy for several seconds.
And Farley, more lucky than smart, took advantage. He didn't stop to see if Lyrianne was alright; he was only interested in getting himself out of there. While Miguel was distracted with the woman, he pounded up the stairs with joist-shaking haste. At first, he was incapable of more thought than that he had to get away, but on his way through the big living room, he spotted an old projectile rifle on the wall. It was an antique, no longer working, but he didn't know that. It looked like a good way to defend himself and he tore it out of its mounting.
He didn't bother to examine it, thinking it was an older version of the laser rifle his family used which were designed to look like the out-dated projectile rifles a few of the original colonists had brought with them. He was out the front door and waddling as fast as his legs could carry him toward the tree line. The whole way he imagined he could feel the space jockey right behind him. It kept him moving until he finally had to stop, unable to pull in another breath. That's when he also stopped to think. He was free and he would be the local hero who brought that pretty boy Fed to the authorities.
Back at the farmhouse, Lyrianne was being helped to a sitting position, still gripping her broom though now it was support rather than a club. It took the cold touch of air from the house fans cycling on against her exposed skin for her to remember her current state. She dropped the broom and tried to cover her breasts again, more concerned with her nudity than any more bumps and bruises. It was several minutes more before she realized they were alone. She stood, the broom in one hand like a staff, and turned in a circle to verify it.
“Miguel, where is he?” She stared at the crater in the floor then back at the pilot, her eyes wide at the image that came to her. The scorched hole in the floor seemed a bit small, considering, but... “That gun of yours can't disintegrate people, can it?”
His answer was a harsh snort of air through his mouth and a shake of his head. A wave of rich brown hair fell across his eye and he impatiently shoved it back. He’d have to get it cut when he got back. “He took off,” Miguel said, only moving to the bottom of the steps when Lyrianne was finally steady enough. “I need to go after him.”
“No, don't bother.” She knew things had just gone the worst way they could for her but she could still hope the same wouldn't be true for Miguel. She had to be sure he was safe, telling herself she would have enough to deal with without having his fate on her conscience. “You shouldn't have come back. You should be deep in hiding somewhere.”
Sometime during her struggle with Farley, her hair had been pulled loose from its braid again and it fell around her, partially obscuring the gap in her coveralls. She started to push it back over her shoulders then realized it was serving a purpose. She pulled even more lengths of hair forward after letting the broom drop to the floor with a clatter, then came over to join the Fed pilot.
With a hand on his arm, she looked up at his face. “You need to go, Miguel. Our nearest neighbor is twenty miles away. Unless Farley is incredibly lucky, he won't run into anyone for hours. You still have time to get away.”
She started up the stairs, stopping half way up to look down at him again. Her gaze was intense, trying to memorize his face; an effort she knew was foolish and pointless, but she couldn't help herself.
“The way the front door slammed, he's in a panic. Though you can catch up to him, I'm sure, what would be the point? He's not in any condition to listen to anyone, let alone you, and, though you could knock him out again and drag him back here, I don't want you to. I don't want him in my house again. There's nothing left now short of shooting him with more than a stun and I don't think you want to do that. He's a stupid, horrid man but he's unarmed.”
She stared down at him, taking a few more steps up before she paused again. “Take the mule and get as far from here as you can like you planned to do. I'll deal with Farley and... any others when the time comes.” She thought of w
hat would happen to her once Farley told his story. But, that was not Miguel's fault or concern. She would face it when it came. On her own. “Just make sure you hide the bike so nobody will find it.”
Miguel’s expression tightened and he thumbed the safety back on his weapon before sliding it back into its holster. He didn’t take his eyes from hers as he started up the stairs after her, stopping two steps down. He looked at her straight.
“You think you can handle him?” He sounded angry. “The way you were handling him just now?” Really angry. “He weighs more in his foot than you do all over and you think you can what?” He flicked a hand at the busted-up front of her clothing. “Sweet talk him into submission?”
Shaking his head, the pilot moved up onto the next step. “No. I am not leaving you to that filth.”
She refused to look at him. He wasn't frightening her but his anger was affecting her and it was a hundred times more potent than her fear of Farley had been. Her head hung down, the curtain of hair obscuring her expression from him. She took the next step backwards, her hand on the rail to keep herself from sinking down onto the step, or, possibly, falling into his arms. Not trusting herself, she turned and proceeded up to the main floor then to the front door. Gripping the handle she drew the door open.
“Just get out, Miguel.” She thought she was going to break down and was fighting herself with stubborn determination. She would not fall apart in front of him and would say anything to get him to go before she did lose it all. “What happens to me is not your concern. Just go so your people can get you off this worthless little world. Go back to your shiny toys and fancy life.”
“You are an infuriating woman, querida.” Following her to the front door, he reached over her head and put his hand on the frame to hold it still, then gazed down at her. She was so close that he could smell the scents of the day collected in her hair.
Catch a Falling Star Page 9