Posted by dolungbridge on February 03, 2007 at 21:38:56:
JOCELIN'S CHEERLEADING DAYZ - PART SIX
PAGAN VENGEANCE - SECOND WAVE - MAJORETTE MASSACRE
Even from a distance across the field, Jocelin instantly recognized her. Cherrill. Her sworn enemy. The one woman she wanted to kill most of all. And here she was at last, stepping into Jocelin's sights.
Of course, Cherrill never went anywhere without making sure she looked fabulous--and it was no different now. She strode proudly out onto the field from the locker-rooms, her red hair streaming behind her in the breeze, her 38C breasts stretching taut the HAGEN letters on her sweater. Slung over her shoulder was an MP5 assault weapon. Her sweater was cinched at the waist with the only unflattering part of her wardrobe, a mesh utility belt from which dangled two small green eggs that bounced lightly with the slow jog of her hips.
The eggs, Jocelin realized with a jolt, were grenades...
Of course, Cherrill--ever the social butterfly--was not alone. Fanning out two to each side of her were the remaining Hagen senior cheerleaders. None of these other girls carried grenades, but they all possessed the same shiny black--no doubt meticulously maintained--MP5's.
But this affair would no longer be conducted in relative quiet, with the secretive cough of muffled guns and the brief screams of the victims. Cherrill's over-weaning take-no-prisoners flamboyance would never permit that. So she had recruited some shock troops, to be sent out in advance of her arrival. These streamed out onto the field in two neat ranks of ten persons each ahead of Cherrill and the other Hagen seniors.
Jesus, Jocelin thought, it's a god-damn homecoming parade!
Cherrill had recruited none other than the Hagen Paganettes.
Jocelin had heard about the Hagen Paganettes. These girls were Hagen's color-guard, and usually they were to be found high-stepping with the university marching band at half-time. They were fanatics, obsessed with precision drill steps and rifle-twirling. Even as they surged out onto the field, they trotted at a deliberate pace, maintaining an even spacing between each other. Two of the girls in the front row brandished white-and-red Hagen banners in one hand, and Colt six-shooters in the other. The rest carried Garand M1 rifles. Normally, these weapons were for show; but Jocelin was certain that for this evening's festivities they had been modified to restore their martial capabilities--the fixed bayonets on the rifles gave that little secret away.
The Paganette uniform was a throw-back to the white tight-fitting military blouses favored by drum majorettes of the sixties, complete with high collars, epaulettes and gold-brocaded bodices. Each girl wore calf-length white leather boots, white cotton gloves and a plumed stove-top shako secured with a strap under their proudly-lifted chins. They almost looked like West Point cadets, except instead of dress pants they wore soft white flared skirts which flew up with each step to reveal a flash of satin undergarments.
Jocelin wondered if those girls had ever imagined they might die in those uniforms today; if they had even remotely guessed while daintily shimmying those skirts up over their silken panties or buttoning their blouses tight across their breasts that this very evening they would perish in a fire-storm of bullets that would savagely perforate their outfits and their delicate young bodies. Would it have stopped them, given them pause? No, probably not.
Jocelin could almost picture Cherrill making some stirring speech about defending Hagen tradition and honor--it was probably something similar to the rhetoric she herself had spouted to get the Meyers squad keyed up. And the Paganettes, fanatics that they were, had swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and gone blindly forth to battle like some modern-day equivalent of the brain-washed Hitler's Youth.
Jocelin could see the blood-lust burning in their eyes; and behind it all, Cherrill walking with her senior girls, grinning ear to ear like Moloch. Jocelin was convinced at that moment that she and Cherrill were sharing the same thought: Those Paganettes were going to make a pretty heap of corpses.
The Paganettes, shouting a high-pitched battle-cry, broke into a wild charge at the Meyers squad.
"Holy shit," Sara Jane muttered, awed. These were her last coherent words.
"All right, Meyers!" Jocelin shouted. "Let's rock 'n roll!"
The Meyers girls--all who could--opened fire. Their Uzis purred like happy kittens. The five closest Paganettes in the front row died first, their fight song warping to agonized wails, their arms flailing, bodies twisting and arching as Meyers bullets ripped into their bodies. Some girls took as many as three different streams of hot lead stitched across their breasts and stomachs, dying in mid-stride but momentum carrying them further into the kill zone, their corpses staggering on dead legs but held jerkily aloft by the relentless gunfire which shot off their epaulettes and blasted great spattering holes in their torsos.
It wasn't enough. Too much fire had been concentrated on too few of the enemy. There were too many holes in the Meyers line. Tonya, busy choking on an arrowhead lodged in her neck, had dropped her weapon long ago, and Megan was still fussing with the bolt in her thigh. But Sinead, despite two bolts rammed through her tits and a stream of blood running out of her mouth, still had her chin up and her eyes opened.
Erica writhed, still stuck on the head of one of Sinead's death-bolts. Finally, she gave Sinead a swift knee in the ass. The arrowhead popped out of Erica's ribs, leaving a bloody tear in her bodice. Sinead almost tumbled out of the Packard onto the field. She managed to stay to her feet, though, and was just bringing up her machine gun when the surviving Paganettes let loose their first volley of rifle-fire.
There was a thunderous CRACK, a literal fifteen-gun salute aimed right at the Meyers girls. In an instant:
--The Packard windshields shattered. Mabelle's nubile corpse bucked again as more chunks were blown out of it.
--Ariel, raising her silenced Glock to finally get into the fight, was sprayed with shards that gashed her cheeks and forehead, like, totally wrecking her meticulously-applied make-up and leaving her streaked like an Indian brave painted for war.
--Four bloody eyes popped open on Tonya's heaving breasts. She flew backward onto her ass, her legs convulsing, heels gouging into the turf, hands still pulling at the arrow in her throat.
--Megan was knocked back against the Packard, a massive hole from two gunshots punched through her guts. Her mouth dropped open in shock as she looked down at the gaping tear in her belly. She felt no pain yet from this new wound, but somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was definitely fatal. Her free hand flew from the arrow in her hip to clutch at her stomach. Blood pulsed through her fingers, dotting the pleats of her skirt.
--A bullet shattered Sara Jane's left shoulder, knocking her sideways. A second shot hit just below her right breast, spinning her the other way. The violent whiplash was more stunning than any pain as yet. She could feel blood welling in her lung and knew a horrible agony was coming--she had to kill the enemy before it got the better of her...
--Sinead took three shots in the chest as she staggered forward, her arms wind-milling crazily. Finger tightening on her Uzi's trigger, she took grim vengeance on her killers. Collapsing to her knees, she sprayed three Paganettes with a downward-sweeping arc of bullets, stitching the tits of one, the stomach of another and the legs of a third. Then she died on her knees, burping blood onto the shafts that had punctured her proud chest, and fell face forward. As she hit the ground, the arrows in her breasts thrust further through her body, pulling the fabric of her uniform into two gory tents on her back.
Amber couldn't believe her luck: All this gunfire, and she hadn't even been touched yet! Gleefully, she shot the living shit out of the Paganettes Sinead had wounded. They screamed, and their young bodies shuddered heartily as they were riddled.
Jessika stood proudly in the path of the Paganette charge. One of the Hagen color-guard came straight at her, shrieking like some demented Japanese suicide commando, a flapping banner in one hand and a blazing Colt six-shooter in the other. Jessika assumed a classic dueling stance, her shoulder toward her attacker, making her body as small a target as possible. For the most part, it worked--every shot missed but one, which seared a furrow of burned flesh and polyester across the tip of both her breasts.
The stinging pain didn't weaken Jessika; it angered her. She took careful aim and emptied the last of her clip into the charging Paganette. The Hagen girl staggered and slowed as Jessika, with grim determination, systematically pumped her tits and belly full of shot. The Paganette skidded to her knees almost at Jessika's feet. Jessika kicked the writhing, dying girl in the face and took her banner from her faltering fingers, leaving her to expire face down in the grass.
Also expiring in the grass was Tonya, still writhing, still clutching at the arrow in her throat. A grinning Paganette came along and took mercy on her, putting her out of her misery by plunging a bayonet into her guts. Tonya's hips bucked in a final "Soul Train" booty boogaloo while blood burbled out of her mouth like crimson crude.
The Paganette's grin widened to an outright smile, displaying her perfect, pearly-white teeth. She leaned forward on the barrel of her rifle, pressing the blade further through Tonya's midriff like some sick lepidopterist thrilled to be graduating from bugs to large mammals at last. Jocelin shot the fascist Paganette bitch in the midst of her pleasure, stitching her four times, coincidentally enough, across the tummy. The girl folded in half at the waist, leaving her Garand protruding from Tonya's stomach, and fell back on her butt with her legs splayed.
The girl's satin knickers were too tempting a target, so Jocelin fired again. A line of bullets tore up the turf between the Paganette's legs. The majorette's eyes widened in horror as she realized what was about to happen; then Jocelin's bullets pulped her pussy and continued up her torso, leaving tidy sprays of blood and a trail of rent fabric in their wake. The last shot destroyed the Hagen girl's smile, and she pitched backwards with a wet cry, shivering once, as if the evening was just a tad too cold, before lying motionless forever.
Another Paganette came charging at Jessika, firing her Garand from the hip. She had obviously seen this move in some old war movie and thought it was really cool, but her pelvic motion threw off her aim; she hit everything but Jessika, including her dying compatriot's already-perforated chest. Gripping the Hagen banner, Jessika spun into a graceful pirouette that raised her pleats and brought the night air brushing against her inner thighs. The steel ferrule at the tip of the banner pole cracked the Paganette's skull, sending her shako flying and exposing a burst of blonde hair. Jessika came out of her twirl just as the Paganette thudded to earth at her feet. With all her fury and strength, Jessika brought the banner down, driving the pole deep into the Paganette's soft belly-flesh. The stunned girl managed a wet, surprised gurgle as the emblem of Hagen pride plunged through the tangled nest of her intestines. Blood spurted at the base of the shaft, staining the gold brocade on her chest. Jessika's overheated imagination conjured up the famous photograph of Marines planting the American flag on Iwo Jima. This was just like that!
She glanced up, breathless, only to find herself staring down the barrels of two M1s pointed right at her heart. The uniformed girls aiming the rifles leered maliciously at her, like toy soldiers from a child's nightmare. This was the end, and Jessika knew it. She awaited the inevitable burst of pain as shots tore through her flesh, exploding in her heart and lungs. For an instant, she pictured herself through the eyes of her killers, standing bloodied but proud, erect, her chest thrust out, the firm curves of her breasts making delectable targets as they pushed out her body-shell. At her feet lay the twisted bodies of those she had vanquished, sisters who she would now join sprawled in death beneath the Hagen banner.
"Well," she thought as the Paganettes tensed their fingers on their triggers, "it's a good day to die."
Bullets thumped into breasts, and Jessika shrieked--a short, sharp scream of surprise because it was the Paganettes who were riddled, knocked backwards like bowling pins by concentrated blasts of gunfire that shot their tits to ribbons.
Jessika looked around for her saviors. Amber and Erica waved at her from the Packard, then cheerily resumed slaughtering Paganettes with their Uzis. Jessika smiled and waved back. God, she loved those girls! And when all this was over, she'd have to show how much she appreciated them for saving her life, perhaps with slow, sensual breast massages in the shower as they soaped the blood and sweat off their aching bodies...
Ariel, meanwhile, was thrilled to finally be getting into the fight with her silenced Glock. She picked a target out from the advancing horde, a nice statuesque brunette coming at her with a fearsome sneering war-face. Firing twice, she was pleased to see two red holes appear on the target's stomach. Almost in slow motion, the Hagen girl's mouth opened in shock and her back arched, as if she wanted to present the injustice of her lacerated belly for the world to see. Ariel shot into the girl's left breast. The Paganette dropped her M1 and frantically seized the punctured orb, which fountained blood like a garden hose. Ariel continued to fire, walking a line of spurting wounds along the curvature of the Paganette's right breast. The girl snapped her head back to scream, and Ariel's last shot took her in the throat. The bullet, in passing, blew most of the girl's brain into her shako, which flew off and landed nearby with a wet plop, offering up its gory contents to any interested passers by.
The surviving Paganettes continued to advance, even as bullets whipped the turf into mud around them, even as their rifle stocks were splintered and their limbs furrowed with shots. Their first taste of combat, however, had thrown off their keen discipline; instinctively, they clustered together--and so they died en masse, slaughtered swiftly as the entire Meyers squad went to full automatic on their Uzis. Even Sara Jane and Megan managed to fire, despite the waves of pain that wracked their wounded bodies as their blazing guns shuddered against their ribs and jiggled their blood-spattered breasts.
A syncopated chorus of orgiastic death-cries rose over the steady burr of the Meyers' guns as the Paganettes engaged in a spontaneous free-form dance, their bodies twitching, spinning, folding and tumbling. Rifles twirled from failing hands, some sticking bayonet-first into the earth, as if the girls were planting their own makeshift grave markers.
Some Paganettes chose to die gloriously: Throwing aside their shattered rifles, they charged forth with open arms, willingly embracing death as human shields for their squad-mates behind them. Unfortunately, their corpses merely became obstacles, all their brass buttons, brocade and glitter tangling up the boot-heels of the girls stepping over them. Even as a girl stepped into a space vacated by a fallen comrade--
BRRT BRRT BRRT!
--she was transfixed by relentless crossfire, her body jerked and torn, the impact of multiple hot lead projectiles blasting tufts of fabric out of her uniform in a fine spray of misted blood. Inevitably, she fell backward, wailing, eyes rolling up, manicured fingers clutching breasts now rent with spurting wounds from which protruded the occasional jagged rosette of white lace from a shredded bra.
There was no way the Paganettes' eight-round Garands could compete with the Meyers Uzis. No doubt Cherrill knew this. Like the Hagen junior varsity girls whose minced corpses they now joined, the Paganettes were sacrifices, flesh sponges deployed to absorb as much Meyers ammo as possible. This was why Jocelin now held her fire. She knew this had now become a war of attrition.
The last of the Hagen color-guard was swiftly machine-gunned into convulsing heaps of shapely, thigh-booted flotsam. In some spots on the field, the glorious dead were piled three deep, their empty eyes staring at the sky, mouths gaping open from the shock of their terrible demise. The grass where they fell was dashed with their blood and urine.
Over the mangled refuse that had once been a bevy of beautiful young women stepped the Hagen senior cheerleaders, Cherrill still at the head. They were determined to let nothing stop them. Where necessary, they purposefully trod on the bodies of their schoolmates, all the while holding their MP5's aimed squarely at the Meyers squad. As the last of the Paganettes surrendered their lives before them, they opened fire.
TO BE CONTINUED...