KILL KILL ALL FUCK NIGGERS KILL
Fuck, fuck. The reality of what’s happening to me slowly creeps into my head. I’m completely consumed by fear, petrified. I’ve used and heard all the words so many times before. I’ve no way of conveying the dread, the horror. I’m shivering, no, twitching, almost spasming with terror. I notice for some time I’ve been making a hysterical gagging sound with my throat. All I can see is burgess’ stinking grey and yellow mouth as he cackles:
‘I’m going to kill you man, I’m going to fucking kill you.’
He sticks his gun in his belt, lets go of me and takes a couple of steps back. I breathe a little easier without his hand on my throat. It’s not until later that I realise that I’ve wet my pants. Burgess produces an army knife from somewhere. He gives plenty of time to look at its black, serrated ten inch blade. His body quivers, his head snaps to one side. His forehead and his right temple burst away from his face and sail over the edge of the building, leaving a hazy trail hanging in the air. Burgess flails momentarily before pitching noiselessly forward onto the ground. I remember the echoing of a rifle shot.
I’m sprawled over the floor by the time Dupont gets to me. I’m giggling and crying. He shifts me into some recovery position.
‘You’re OK, you’re OK,’ he says ‘but you’re in shock. Hang on.’
All I say is ‘DOO-ponT, DOO-ponT.’
Draw…
Draw a circle . . .
341
Horror Express Volume Two Page 21