“What?” I asked in a rasping voice high with the beginnings of hysterical laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Does this feel like I’m kidding?” he asked, pressing the bulge in his pants against my ass. It felt considerably bigger than it had looked, and my blood ran cold with dread. Even though this was in line with the crazy plan I had concocted to bait him with the chance to fuck a were, now that he was all too eager to do so, I had no desire to follow through.
“No, that feels like you’re a fucking sicko.”
“I’m a sicko?” he asked. “No, I figure it’s just time I found out what all the fuss is about. My wife couldn’t keep her hands off that wolf’s prick, and Holbrook can’t seem to get enough of you. Unbutton your jeans,” he demanded again, pressing the tip of the knife against my side hard enough to send a thin trickle of blood down towards my hip, and make me cry out.
With trembling hands, I fumbled at the button of my jeans, and then through the wateriness of my vision I spied the screwdriver, right there in front of me, no more than a hand’s span away.
“No,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I said no, you fucking pig!” I shouted, driving an elbow back into his gut.
His sour breath was hot against my cheek as he let out a sharp breath and took a step backwards, scouring the knife across the flesh over my ribs. My shout turned into a scream, but I couldn’t let the pain slow me down, not while I had such a small window of opportunity. Using what little energy I had left, I snatched up the screwdriver with one hand and the forgotten whiskey bottle with the other.
Letting out a wordless battle cry I spun in place and swung the bottle awkwardly with my left hand. It connected with his skull with a satisfying meaty thump, staggering him backwards, the knife tumbling from his hand to clatter on the floor. Letting the bottle slip from my fingers it fell to the floor and shattered, the whiskey spreading in a wide pool at my feet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stomach the smell of whiskey again.
Brandishing my remaining weapon, I took a step towards him, delighting in the fear that shone in his beady eyes. In his haste to retreat from the threat of the screwdriver, his heel caught of the edge of a stained tarp, and he fell heavily on his ass.
I fell on him in a rush, driving the screwdriver deep into his thigh, the handle vibrating in my hand as the tip skittered across bone, and it was a fight to keep the grin from my face when his squeal split the air. My makeshift weapon quickly became slick with blood, my fingers slipping on the chipped plastic handle as I tried to pull it out of his leg. When it wouldn’t budge I let go, and switched to raining blows down on his face with my bloody fists.
I don’t remember stopping and sitting back, just the room slowly coming back into focus and staring down at my bloody hands, my knuckles split open but for some reason not hurting. Johnson lay on the ground unmoving, but still alive, sucking in wet, gasping breaths. My hands, covered in his blood and mine, vibrated with the desire to finish him off, but some small part of me held back.
No. Killing him would make us no better than him.
“Fine,” I growled aloud, curling my hands into fists, reveling in the sticky feel of the blood oozing between my fingers. Rearing back, I delivered a kick to his balls. Staggering to the stairs, I clung to the banister as I hauled myself up one step at a time.
Reaching the top of the steps, I slammed the door shut behind me, sliding the bolt into place. It barely looked strong enough to hold back a toddler, let alone a full grown man, but I figured it would slow him down if he found the strength to come after me. Turning around I sagged back against the warped wood of the door, and let my gaze drift over my surroundings. The house looked as derelict and abandoned as the basement had, filled with dust and random piles of garbage. A lamp with a naked bulb was the only illumination in the room, and the bright light caused white after images to cloud my vision after the dark basement.
The sweat and cigarette smell I’d come to associate with Johnson lingered in the air, sour on the back of my tongue and adding fuel to the fire of anger still raging in my gut. I was still tempted to go back down into the basement and finish him off, but I knew that if I did, the woman who emerged wouldn’t be me anymore. Pushing the violent urge back down into the darkness, I turned my attention back to the issue at hand.
Raking my eyes over the jumble of water stained cardboard boxes, their contents spilled in haphazard piles across the filthy and torn carpet, I spotted a phone buried amongst the junk. Stumbling in my haste to reach the phone, I pulled myself across the floor on my hands and knees to cover the last few feet. My slick fingers were already punching the buttons for 911 as I lifted the receiver to my ear and was met with silence.