Posted by Shoot2Kill on June 17, 2004 at 16:25:41:
Can't tell you how flattering it was that someone remembered this horrendously obscure tale. But thanks!
S2K
Death And Morning In Heaven
by Shoot2Kill
It's 6:02. The sun is just coming up. Over the gentle crash of waves, a new sound suddenly shatters out. The sunlight that has only reached sand and trees now hits metal.
*-*-*-*
'I'll set us down here.'
The helicopter dips towards the jungle landscape. It's not really jungle, but the close growth of luxurious trees gives that impression. A line of white sand melts into azure sea on the edge of a beach that stretches away into the horizon.
Katie leans forward against her seat as Ian moves his helicopter onto a new course. Her black jumpsuit is unzipped to her belly button and her large breasts brim against the neckline. Ian feels a painful urge inside him; he wants her so much. Her bright smile contains the secret knowledge that she knows this. And that he's going to have to wait.
'Where are we?' she asks.
'It's still the Florida coast,' he grins. 'But it's a tiny outcrop me and Liz found a couple of years back.' His finger gestures to the other helicopter, in which his female business partner is carrying another set of the Miss America nominees. 'And I'll tell you what - it doesn't appear on any of the maps.'
'Why not?'
'Don't know. But it should be there. God knows why not - it's a perfect spot. We've been down there several times...'
He tails off, concentrating on his controls, hoping that the memories of on-the-beach sex with Liz aren't showing on his face. Katie raises a wry eyebrow.
'Sounds good for a day's goofing off!' she says eventually, letting him off the hook.
As the two helicopters touch down into the hard sand near the trees, sending branches flopping and threshing near them, and a number of Miss USA contestants spill out along with two pilots, the time on someone's watch changes. It's-
*-*-*-*
It is 6:09 as Major Leyton hurries into the control room. 'Speak to me people!' he calls. A young female assistant turns from a radar screen.
'Sir, we've had a landing on the beach. Just now. Two helicopters. Surveillance indicates they're civilians?' The assistant raises an eyebrow, but she knows what is coming.
'Well, no one's missed any of the other people who've strayed across our site before now...' the Major muses.
A small screen shows some people setting up camp.
Leyton stirs and happily leaves the chamber. 'Send out a squad. Eliminate them.'
*-*-*-*
Beattie and Liza are walking down the cliff path, towards a low morning glow that makes a glittering, amber cloth of the sea. The sun is already hot - the warm air around this promontory never really cools down - and they wear bikinis. Auburn-haired Beattie's is a light green foil affair, that clings and creases around the prominent curve of her breasts and crinkles with sharp lines between her thighs. Blonde Liza's is a traditional black string affair, stretching triangles over her boobs, the same kind of thing to appear in calendars across every workshop in America. And she looks good in it.
The jungle shakes and whispers with morning breezes and shadows. It's 7:04.
*-*-*-*
Katie has made sure that everyone's happy. It was her idea to take the girls away from the competition for a day of sun and pleasure. Too much stress makes lines.
Shannon is leaning against a tree, watching her. The buxom white-blond Texan wears a blue tight bandeau bikini that fights a constant battle against her much admired curves. The two girls exchange a look.
Katie's slender fingers work at her jumpsuit. She shrugs the garment off her shoulders and pulls it down to her waist. Her breasts are tanned, with very dark nipples. Her brown hair merges into Shannon's white as they exchange a first kiss. Shannon gives a delighted smile, then frowns.
'I thought you would be with Ian now,' she said.
'Ah, he can wait. I think he's already busy.'
Shannon is still wearing her watch. It says the time is 7:22.
*-*-*-*
'Uh uh uh! Oh yes! Yes! Uh uh uh!'
Cheryl writhes beneath Ian as he thrusts into her, again and again. The heat has raised beads of sweat on the lovers' bodies. Cheryl screams out as the climax surges through her like a foaming surf. Ian's hands stroke and cup over her breasts, the hard nipples carefully pressed between his fingers. Her crow-black hair is flared out from around her head, with the same lustrous shine as her evening dress which lies discarded on the floor of the tent. Her tiny silk panties lie a little closer to the bed, tangled amidst his own clothes. The helicopter pilot and his lover roll on the camp bed, the creaks and moans lost in the sounds of nature outside.
As Ian's own climax fires inside Cheryl, the digits on a travelling clock change. It's 7:25.
*-*-*-*
Liz has carried out the flight-checks on her own helicopter, and then on Ian's - she's under no illusions what - or rather, who - he's up to right now. Only after that does she strip off her flight suit and find herself a little pool, somewhere amongst the jungle. Water trickles into it from a stream somewhere above her. Liz pulls her black Wonderbra bra into place, adjusts her French knickers, then dabbles her toes into water surprisingly cold.
Somewhere she can't see, some jeeps are hurrying towards the arrivals. She doesn't know about them. Nobody does yet, but they're coming.
It's 7:29.
*-*-*-*
Trixie and Kelli are somewhere else. Trixie poses against the skyline in elbow-length gold gloves, and a red silk cocktail dress unbuttoned and hardly covering her. Kelli takes photos, moving around her in a ballet of photography. It's their secret at the moment, waiting for the day when the photos get somewhere. She wears - and looks great - in cut-off denim shorts and a knotted shirt, but that doesn't matter to Kelli: Model today, but that doesn't last. But a photographer...
'Haven't we taken enough now?' Trixie drawls. 'And you know what you said I'd get as payment for being your model...'
Kelli sighs, puts the camera away in its case, and then discards her shirt. An excited smile blossoms across Trixie's face.
'Now remember,' Kelli warns, 'I'm only doing this as payment. I'm not like this.'
They kiss, and Trixie looks at her hungrily. 'But maybe you'll get used to it,' she sighs.
The jeeps have stopped. People are on foot now, gesturing amongst themselves with coded handsigns, and moving with raised weapons.
As Trixie and Kelli kiss again, they're not paying attention to the time.
It's 7:32.
*-*-*-*
Nigella strides through the jungle. It's pretty light, all told, but she can still follow her Indiana Jones fantasies. Okay, so Indiana Jones wouldn't be seen adventuring in just yellow, Brazilian-cut bikini briefs, but who the hell was going to see?
And the feel of wet ferns brushing across the tops of her breasts... Wow...
Her waterproof watch glints in the sun and she glances at it. Her attention moves away from the distance just as dark silhouettes move into view. She's too busy telling the time.
It's 7:33.
*-*-*-*
Mary and Emma sprawl out on a rocky plateau overlooking a sparkling bay below them. They are both wearing white strapless bikini tops, but Mary's considerably more daring with her matching g-string briefs, over Emma's silver Lycra hotpants. A sea breeze toys with their long dark hair as they lie, out-staring the sun.
'This is Heaven,' Emma sighs. Her skin glistens with coconut oil, turning her body into something plastic or liquid. 'Imagine, this beautiful place to ourselves.'
'Yeah,' Mary nods. She idly strokes at her sex, stretching out her legs with delight as a soft tingling touches between her thighs. 'I wonder why no one's ever discovered this place? I mean, the holiday companies would just clean up!'
'If I win the competition, I am buying this place!' Emma laughs to herself, and then imagines it.
There's a glint of something in the jungle behind them, something like sunlight on a dark metal. Neither girls see it. Amidst the pile of belongings and discarded clothes, a watch hand twitches on a little further into the hour. 7:33 becomes 7:34.
*-*-*-*
The narrow, rocky path seems to lead back into a green darkness. Jeri and Cindy walk down the narrow channel in the jungle, awed almost to silence by the gentle hush of nature around them. Occasional sounds, metallic sounds, clicks or something, sound out too - amazing how the bird noises can make that kind of noise.
Jeri heaves at the long zip of her white catsuit. 'This was a mistake,' she complains. Her revealed cleavage is glistening with sweat. Damp patches darken the material in other places. She fans her breasts, and gives a cool "Mmmmmm" of relief. Her straw-blond hair is tied up on top of her head, and the occasional diamond bead of sweat zig-zags down her temple.
Cindy eyes her wryly, then gestures down at her American Flag bikini. 'Why do you think I'm wearing this? I mean, yeah, I'm patriotic, but there's a need for ventilation!' She tosses a thick mane of brown hair away from her shoulders.
'Weird noises, huh?' Jeri observes, as the clicking sound is heard again. 'Birds, I guess. Sounds mechanical, well, almost.'
'Kinda reminds me of an old boyfriend.'
'Oh?'
'Oh yeah. The guy used to mess around with guns - harmless fun, I assure you - used to get me to undress at gunpoint like I was a spy or something? Then as we were screwing, he'd pretend to shoot me. I got real good at the reactions and stuff. Man, that guy got off on it.'
'Sounds a bit... well, kinky...'
'Gee, you don't say?' Cindy takes Jeri's hand, pushes the fingers into a gun shape which she levels at her heart. Suddenly Cindy throws up her hands and her whispered 'No, don't shoot me!' is the stuff of sheer Soap Opera. Jeri's smile of amusement is suppressed as she tries to go along with it.
'So...' she murmurs in a German accent, 'You haff been stealing ze secrets?' She points the finger gun at Cindy's curvacious chest. 'Zer is only vun sing to be done with ze spy...'
'Oh my God! You're going to shoot me!'
'Jah!'
'Well, give me a last request!'
'A last request? (I feel so dumb doing this). Vot is zis last request?'
'A kiss from my executioner...'
Jeri raises an eyebrow. '(Er... Um... Okay). Jah.' She manages to keep the illusionary gun pressed into the girl's breast as they exchange a long kiss. Then Jeri moves back enough to stretch out the gun arm.
'So!' she announces, with a barely stifled laugh, 'So end all enemies of ze Fuhrer!' She lifts up her hand gun.
It's 7:35. And there is a spot of laser light floating up the middle of Jeri's back.
*-*-*-*
The control room is full of monitor screens, each showing views of the island from dozens of micro-cameras. To the detached observer, it is like watching someone playing some computer game, as each screen throngs with images of weapons and black-clad soldiers.
The assistant watches as units got into position. Then she looks up at a massive digital clock, looming over the room like a god.
'All units in position.' she finally hears through her head set.
*-*-*-*
Cheryl is getting dressed when Ian awakes from a post-coital doze. 'Whatcha doing?' he groans, stirring on the camper bed. He watches Cheryl pushing one boob into the low neckline of the black dress.
'Hey, I'm not spending all of paradise in bed with you!' she scolds. 'I wanna see this place for myself.'
Ian stands, steps into some jeans. The lovers embrace again, and Cheryl only slightly complains as he unzips the back of her dress, and slides it down her long, tanned legs. As their tongues touch, his hands smooth down her lower back and then inside her panties to knead her buttocks. Cheryl sighs.
'Damn you... Okay, just one more time.'
There's a footfall outside the tent. Ian's glance to the shadow outside moves his vision past the clock saying that it's 7:35.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Liz decides the water is too cold, and she stands up, tugs her lingerie into place, and turns from the pool, wondering which way leads back. It's weird the tricks darkness can play - in the gloom of the jungle ahead of her, it almost looks like balaclava'd heads are watching her.
Nestling between her accentuated boobs is a sparkling, red dot of light.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Kelli is on her knees, amidst bracken and pine needles and leaves and twigs and moss, her head buried beneath Trixie's skirt as her tongue moves rhythmically in and out of the warmth between the model's thighs. Trixie is gasping and sighing, her breasts exposed and clutched in her fingers, which work trembling and feverish.
She hasn't seen it, but her hands are wandering in and out of a laser-light dot-to-dot pattern across her nipples.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Beattie has become too self-conscious, and she is knotting the spaghetti-ties of her bikini top back into place. Liza finishes massaging Ambre Solare into her large breasts, with a dedication that seemed far too intense. Certainly she has made noises that generally indicate more is just going on than an enthusiasm for sun-tan lotion...
'Hey, lighten up babe,' she mocks Beattie. 'Show some skin - would it kill ya?'
The tiny silver-blue glints in the jungle around them are sunlight, caught and sliced on the razor-edges of crossbow bolts.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Nigella comes out into a clearing, and stops at what she sees. She adjusts her yellow bikini pants and stares at the jeep. Reluctantly she pads towards it to feel the warmth coming from the engine.
It's hotter than sunlight.
Nigella's red hair fans behind her head as she whirls around. 'We're not alone...' she tells herself.
Just as two dots of light pick a nipple each for themselves.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Mary is feeling a hunger between her legs that her fingers can no longer satisfy. She writhes in languid frustration. The movement disturbs a reclining Emma, who looks at her from a single open eye.
'Keep it down will ya - you're ruining the mood.'
'The mood?'
'God yeah. This is so perfect. If I were to die now, I'd die happy.'
Mary growls at her. 'I need a fucking man, now, with a great big-'
The black-clad figure that steps onto the plateau is a man. And he has a big automatic weapon in his hands.
*-*-*-*
7:35. Shannon watches hands slide around her body from behind. One massages at her breast. The other slides into her bikini briefs, and begins to trace a short, repetitive line, over and over, gentle and soft.
'Oh God Katie. I think I'm in love with you.'
Katie turns the girl around. 'Shush...' she smiles privately. 'I've got news for you. I've got the casting vote, and you are going to be the next Miss America.'
'But I won't be able to see you... Like this...'
'Don't worry. We'll have here and now. Whatever happens, we can always remember this.'
'Kiss me,' Shannon melts. Katie leans forwards and stops with a frown. She squints in the effort to make something out.
'What's that on your forehead?'
*-*-*-*
Jeri lifts up her gun. Her German accent is becoming shaky and unstable, but both girls are laughing too much to care.
'Zo! We haff ways of making you die!'
'Gee no, don't do that! Please, not little ol' me...' Cindy says in a mocking, little-girl-lost voice. Her hands are up in surrender.
BLAM!
The hollow sound of the shot snaps into the jungle stillness. Jeri jerks as the white jumpsuit just below her left breast suddenly spurts open. She gives a "nnnngh" of pain, like when a dentist finds a sensitive tooth. The girls stare at the hole. The fine frayed lines of the jumpsuit can be made out around the edge, turning deep red as the stain begins to grow.
Jeri begins to laugh, a horrified disbelief reaction that carries her away with the momentum of a truck. 'I've been shot!' Cindy smirks and then begins to laugh too, giving into the momentum, giving into the heavy shock.
'What would your boyfriend make of this!' Jeri quips dazedly. She pulls the jumpsuit off her shoulder, to reveal her left breast and the pumping hole just beneath it. Her nipple is sharp and hard. The two girls laugh in uproar, surfing on the edge of madness and about to crash at any moment.
BLAM!
Cindy sees the next second as an hour. She is still hearing the shot when its bullet emerges from the centre of Jeri's forehead. She is still watching the small triangle of flesh that unfolds from the side of the hole when the blood spurts out. She is still feeling the blood flick onto her face when Jeri's head twitches to one side. She is still reaching out to her friend when the beauty heaves up into the air and spins and drops. And she is still watching the limbs come to rest across a jungle carpet when-
*-*-*-*
'All units, attack now. Terminate with extreme prejudice. No survivors, repeat, no survivors.'
It is 7:36.
*-*-*-*
BLAM!
-When another shot takes Cindy through the heart. The bullet cuts through the bikini-ties across her breasts and her shoulder blades. She flips backwards through the air with blood squeezed out of her front and back in a fine mist. The bikini top flutters away from her breasts like litter. Her face stretches into an agonised mask with big, big, big staring eyes. On the ground, Cindy thrashes and writhes, hands clawing through the ground below her leaving great ploughed lines. Her blood-spattered breasts shake with the movements-
-Which subsides as life drains out of Cindy and she slumps dead and still, head to one side, her eyes glazing over. She and Jeri lie head to foot, symmetrical and sprawled, like Yin and Yang symbols, across a dry jungle carpet across which red gleams in casual splashes.
Ian and Cheryl are snogging and groping when the woman pushes inside the tent. She wears skin-tight black combat-gear, clutches a readied automatic weapon, and the only humanity that can be seen in her are the cold grey eyes that somehow gleam with anticipation and amusement.
DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA!
The lovers don't even have time to step away from each other. The calls of outrage or puzzlement are still unspoken thoughts in their heads as they are shot down in cold blood.
DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA!
Mary and Emma are already laid out on the plateau, and their executioner doesn't even give them time to sit up, plead, beg - or even realise - before snapping home the trigger, and directing the stream of lead into the two Miss World contestants like a Grand Prix winner firing champagne.
Ian's side is opened with a ragged zig-zag trail of bullet holes. He shakes and jerks as if being electrocuted. His hands clench tight on Cheryl's buttocks. Blood spurts from his mouth. Cheryl's body is twisting under the impacts. Her stomach and breasts are pock-marked with dozens of small holes that start off as little dark seeds and almost immediately bloom into big red flowers. She has managed to scream, and the warbling tone varies with every bullet that tears out of her back. Mary's white top has changed its colour. It's now red lace. She judders under the impacts of the bullets speeding into her, surrounded by puffs of dust from the bullets that miss and ricochet off the rock beneath her. Splashes of sticky liquid are around her and round. Emma wears her bullet wounds as a loose belt across her waist, a wide, sagging wound that glistens with dark, wet depths. Her fingers press to the spurting chaos where her stomach used to be, and she screams and yells with every fresh impact. Cheryl has a dark sheet of blood pinned across her back. Mary twists onto her side, and crimson lines go from moving down to across. Ian half-slumps, his face buried into Cheryl's bloodied breasts. There are cries coming from the lovers; near-sexual "uh uh" jerks and gasps. They shake and pitch together. Emma's crotch bursts open with a small fleshy pout like the strained opening of her mouth, and the reflexing arching of her back sways up her body like a wave. Beside her, Mary is dead, moving only as bullets push and poke at her body. Ian and Cheryl drop to the floor like ice dancers finishing a routine. Flesh continues to spurt, pop and rip as they pitch first together and then peel apart, heads lolling away, limbs leaden and skin bloodstained.
BLAM!
'Oh!' Katie's speech is a frightened gasp of realisation, and then reaction, as the sparkling light in Shannon's frowning forehead turns into a black hole. The expression clears. The potential Miss America's head snaps back, her throat tight and straight. She takes a staggering step backwards, moving like some dying robot. A sudden spurt of dribbling blood darts from the hole, trails down nose, over lips, around chin, along throat, and wells into the channel between her bikini-restrained breasts.
Katie grasps at her lover with a wail of sorrow, but Shannon is already gone, straining and sagging against her grasp as a dead weight, head hanging to one side, white hair softly blowing in an unwanted breeze, except at the very back of her head where it gleams like treacle. Her legs are half-folded, nerveless, only Katie's grasp keeping her upright.
BLAM! BLAM!
Almost simultaneously, Katie's nipples disappear. For a single instant, there is nothing there except two empty circles, ringed with jagged flesh and skin like the points on a crown. Then the blood spurts out and Katie spins around. Below both her shoulder blades are the entry-holes and they are small and discrete, as if saying "who us?" when asked about the ruined breasts on the other side. Shannon drops from Katie's grasp and the sand flicks up into the air as her folded form crumples into it.
BLAM!
The shot takes Katie just to the left of the easy bullseye drawn by the exit wound in her left breast. Her boob expands and contracts with the kinetic impact. Blobs of blood fly into the air behind her. Katie gives a guttural cry as she tumbles backwards, her arms flicking up into the air for a moment in a mocking automatic surrender. She drops across the body of her lover, but they are staring away from each other as if they've rowed and aren't speaking.
SHHHWWWIPP!
'Y-aaarggh' Beattie is still on her feet, but doubled up, her hands to the metallic shaft that has appeared in her belly button. The small of her back feels warm and cold, and she knows that the crossbow bolt has emerged just beside her spine. The blood that has begun to flow runs off her green foil briefs like rain on a Macintosh, and then forks down her thighs in random directions.
SHHHWWWIPP!
Beattie staggers and turns, retching and choking, and finds Liza on her knees, staring in disbelief at the wicked barb that has emerged from her breast. It has a blue-metal sheen in the sun. She opens her mouth to speak, and coughs up a thick line of blood that dribbles down both corners of her lips, making her jawline look like some ventriloquist's dummy.
SHHHWWWIPP! SHHHWWWIPP! SHHHWWWIPP!
Liza jerks violently when a second crossbow bolt appears in her cleavage and rips out of her back. Her cry is a gurgling exclamation that is stopped by the shaft that speeds through her throat from right to left. Her bikini-clad form rolls aside and forces the bolts further through her body. Her arms are outstretched and there is blood on her fingers. But Beattie doesn't see this. She is too busy screaming at the bolt that has sped through her hand, pinning it to her stomach. Dropping to her knees, she pulls in vain at the two shafts running through her. Someone emerges from the jungle. A man, black-clad, anonymous. He steps towards her with the crossbow loaded.
'Pl- Please...' Beattie manages. Her abdomen is a Christmas colour-scheme; the red of the blood, the green of the bikini. The man wants to give her a third present. The bow lifts up, levels with the swimsuit-clad girl's right eye. She begins to whimper...
SHHHWWWIPP!
The bolt's journey is over almost as soon as it is begun. It emerges sticky from the back of the girl's head, pushing aside her auburn hair. When Beattie pitches dead onto her back, the barb sinks into the ground and fixes her there. Her body trembles with some bizarre dance, and her fingers clench and unclench. Her breasts have emerged from the string top, and her small, pert nipples play a fatal peekabo with the sunlight.
DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA!
Kelli hears the noise, but senses it even more. With her face buried into Trixie's hot pussy, she feels the impacts through the girl's body, even before the sobbing cries begin. She kneels away from Trixie's thighs and looks up. And then she screams.
For Trixie is standing like a punch-drunk boxer, her eyes rolling up into her head, swaying to an intangible wind. The front of her cocktail dress has been unzipped from navel to throat, in a ragged line of holes the size of pennies. With the red of the dress, it is hard to tell what is blood and what is material. A stain is moving across the girl's chest like the shadow of a cloud. Where the rounded swell of her breasts had been, now there is only ruined flesh that oozes wetly.
As Kelli moves away, it seems to prompt Trixie into movement. She folds to the ground as if folding into herself, becoming small and hidden. Her stockinged legs are perfect - not even a ladder in them - and compared to the ruined top half, it looks like some mismatched mistake of a children's game. Her face is pale beneath a tan, and there is a lot of blood on her face. Kelli gets to her feet, staring out into the hostile jungle.
She raises her hands. 'I surren-'
DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA-DUDDA!
Kelli is stitched with machine gun fire. She shakes, left and right, bowed forwards and back, stamping and stomping as she's poked around the clearing by shot after shot after shot. A humid scarlet cloud surrounds her. She tries to scream or cry out, but her lungs are already opened in a dozen ways. Her heart is kept beating by the impacts slashing through it. Her flat stomach has become a game board of holes. The bullets stop. She is dead, and drops violently across Trixie.
BLAM!
Nigella's right breast flares open. A lolling tongue of blood drops from the wound as Nigella is dashed backwards against the jeep. She struggles to get up again, and in turning around she sees that the jeep's seat is covered in gleaming fresh blood. Something is welling up at the back of her throat, something bitter and metallic. Pain pulses inside her with every heartbeat. Her hand pushes to the wound, and liquid streams between her fingers, hot and bright.
'Why?' she screeches.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
There is an instant between each shot. The first hits her hand, and speeds on through her breast again to make use of the same exit wound. The second kicks out under her armpit as it tears through her heart and both lungs. The third punches a stark, sharp-edged hole in the middle of her sternum. With a peculiar squeal, Nigella pitches up into the air and spreads herself across the jeep like some sleezy photo-model. One foot rests on the steering wheel, an unfeeling hand stops on the gear stick. Her red hair begins to absorb the spider's web of bloody lines that has appeared across her face.
BLAM!
Liz's eyes flare open. Her knees buckle. One arm jerks with an uncontrolled motion. 'Ooohh God...' she groans. And she looks down.
Between the structured bulges of her Wonderbra-shaped boobs, little broken edges of skin surround the hole that has been put through her by a bullet now buried in a tree trunk. Even as she watches - through vision that is fading like a TV being switched off - a glossy line emerges from the hole like an insect and draws down to her French knickers, dividing her stomach in half. She cannot feel her heartbeat. All that reaches her is an awareness of a lot of warmth and liquid on her back.
BLAM!
The second shot misses, because she is already dropping away, rolling down the slope and splashing into the pool. The water fizzes around her for a second, and then stills, to let her float on her back. Her arms point out from her body, her legs are hooked across the rocks at the edge of the pool. Her reddish hair clouds out around her head, and little wisps of black-red liquid melt into the icy water. Her bra and panties stick wetly to her, emphasising the curves of her slender body.
Silence returns to the beach and jungle.
It is 7:36. And twelve seconds.
*-*-*-*
'Mission accomplished, sir,' the assistant confidently indicated. Her reward was a delighted voice, chuckling slightly to itself.
'Well done everyone. Get them bagged up, into the choppers, then drop the whole show at the bottom of the sea. Usual precautions. Carry on.'
The assistant passed the message on, adding a proviso of her own as she slotted a personal videotape into the surveillance system: 'Anyone who wants to enjoy the situation, feel free.'
*-*-*-*
'Message received and understood.'
The female soldier brought two bodybags into the bullet-riddled tent. She opened it and dragged Cheryl's ruined body into it by the ankles. The dead girl's corpse was limp and unresisting, a flesh arrangement of black, crusty rosettes. Before zipping her up for the night, the soldier couldn't resist sliding her hand inside the black panties, and seeing for herself just how aroused Cheryl had been before she'd blown her away. Her fingers came away, sticky and smelling of sex.
She turned Ian's body over. His eyes stared out over a face comprised of red flecks and splashes, his body as pliable as someone asleep. The soldier gave a wicked smile, and then produced a syringe from her utility belt. She stripped her victim of his jeans, then injected his flaccid prick with an experimental solution from the labs. Even as she stripped off her gear, stepped out of damp knickers and shrugged off a surprisingly feminine bra, the corpse's manhood became erect and hard. She gasped in delight as she lowered herself onto it, and began to work her muscled legs up and down as her hands squeezed at her breasts. Her finger was twitching with the remembered actions of shooting these two dead, and when she came, it was with the image of Ian flopping dead at her feet.
The utility belt provided a cigarette after she'd dressed again, and it hung from her lips as she stretched the bodybag around Ian and then hauled the zip closed. The truck was waiting outside well before she was finished, and she got help from a nervy private to put the corpses onto the back. Only once it had left did she summon the private into the tent and make use of her superior rank. But he made no complaints.
*-*-*-*
Two soldiers hauled Liz from the pool with a boot hook, which they fixed through her bra's front and used to drag her onto dry land. The bullet hole in her chest had been washed clean, and it had the shallow characteristics of a make-up patch. Only the lolling, vacant face with eternally-open eyes really made the difference between death and sleep. Her hair and clothes clung to her skin, and the chill water had brought a bluish pallor to her cheeks.
They bagged her up and carried the black caterpillar-like object down to the road, where it too was hauled onto the truck.
*-*-*-*
'Aw fuck, man!'
The soldier looked at the gore-splattered bodywork of his jeep, and remembered how long a good cleaning duty could take. The red-haired girl sprawled across it was very, very dead, and she sagged and lolled into the soldier as he picked her up like a sleeping child. Except that her eyes remained open, fixed on a point that he would never see.
He dropped her casually onto the open bag, and then zipped it tight around her. Before he hid her face away, he kissed her on the lips, and then drew victory stripes on his forehead with the sticky blood from her breast. He had to wait for the truck to find the spot, but it didn't take long to lay out the body beside the three others.
*-*-*-*
The soldiers approached Beattie and Liza with initial joy. The bodies were firm, curvy, well-rounded and those string bikinis looked straight out of Sports Illustrated. It was only as they got closer that they saw the crossbow bolts sticking out of the dead girls.
'I mean, bullet holes I could handle, but... yuck...' one of them said, looking at Beattie's transfixed eye socket and then looking away. They manhandled the two girls into bodybags, and then a row over removing the arrows was swiftly decided when neither could bring themselves to do it. They cut holes in the bags, from which the metal shafts emerged, and quickly put the pincushion girls onto the truck whilst distracting the driver. If anyone asked later: it wasn't them.
*-*-*-*
Soldiers lifted the staring Kelli off Trixie, and the efforts to put her in a bodybag involved a lot of feeling that rounded ass in its tiny shorts. Trixie lay on her side, her skirt ridden up around her thighs to expose a naked sex to the world. Her arms were open wide as if to welcome a lover, and there was a quizzical lost expression locked into her face that invited contemplation. The soldiers hauling her and Kelli were without imagination, and the bodybags were swiftly placed on the truck.
*-*-*-*
On a forest path, a recovery team located a catsuit-clad blonde with a bullet hole above her staring eyes, and a topless babe dressed only in stars-and-stripes bikini briefs. Someone pointed out how the blonde's fingers are stretched into a gun shape, and that got a laugh. One of the soldiers opened the catsuit down to her crotch, and then pulled it from her body. Her tiny panties were pink and had frilly sides.
The truck arrived, and the two girls were dragged across the ground by their arms, leaving behind impressions and blood. The hurried zips of the bodybags sounded like silenced shots.
*-*-*-*
Another girl in a catsuit was found on the beach, crumpled across an impressively curved white-blonde woman who wore a tiny bikini. Bullet holes in head and chest were mathematically precise, as if they'd been drawn on. Katie and Shannon were picked up by strong soldiers - their limbs hung around the arms that held them - and then put into slick plastic bags. Zips were closed across their pained, glaring faces, and then the soft packages were put on the truck.
*-*-*-*
Only a second check of the area found Emma and Mary, sprawled together on a rocky outcrop. Emma had been heavily shot in the waist and crotch, and a disgusted soldier dumped her into a bag as a wasted opportunity. But Mary was a picture of curves and attraction, even though peppered with bullet holes. The blood that had gushed from her mouth had coloured one cheek in scarlet. A soldier cleaned it carefully off, before putting her bikini-clad form into the bodybag and then onto the truck.
*-*-*-*
The truck chugged down to the beach, to come to a halt beside the two helicopters which would be dumped in the deepest parts of the Pacific. But first there was to be some occupational benefits for the soldiers. The bodybags were dropped onto the soft white sand, and their occupants examined. Ian, Emma and the crossbow-shot women were put straight into one of the choppers, their naked bodies droopping forwards against the restraining chains that been tied around them, lying against each other.
But the remainder... The assistant checked that her video was still running when the bags started being drawn off, and the occupants inside were gently stripped, and stroked, and kissed and then...
As she began to stroke herself, matching her climaxing with those of at least some of the soldiers, she glanced cross the monitors for a second, to the one that was fixed to the sign that Ian had never noticed in all his trips there.
"US Army - Officers' Holiday Retreat. Trespassers Will Be Executed".