Posted by dolungbridge on February 04, 2007 at 09:19:35:
JOCELIN'S CHEERLEADING DAYS - PART TEN - ENDGAME
Brad winced, expecting pain, expecting death...
...but it was Maddie who jerked, Maddie who twitched, Maddie who gave a short, piping shriek of pain as three silenced shots from out of nowhere tore three bloody, ragged furrows in her twirler's leotard.
The shots were widely spaced, as if fired quickly, almost wild. One struck Maddie's upper right chest, burying itself in the shoulder blade and leaving a small tumulus of exploded flesh like some ghastly corsage in its wake. Another slug tore into her gut at the navel, and another thunked into her ribs just below her left breast with a sound like a meat-hook going into a side of beef.
Brad's student-of-broadcast-journalism instincts stayed intact; despite his surprise, he brought up his mini-DV to get it all on tape.
Maddie staggered backward several steps, her face morphing through a dizzying array of expressions--pain, shock, dismay, betrayal--before contorting into a look of sheer murderous fury. Brad had seen that look on Maddie before--in fact, just before Maddie had donned an old rubber Don Post mask and executed the kidnapped Meyers co-captain. (What was her name? Oh yeah. Lori. Nice knockers!) He remembered thinking at the time that he'd sure hate to be on the receiving end of that glare. And now here he was, his heart pounding in his throat, watching as Maddie swung her Glock up again, ready to shoot him, to shoot the world, to kill everyone and everything which had denied her even this final triumph.
THEWP!
As Brad watched, a blood-blossom flowered in Maddie's crotch, bursting into vivid crimson glory on the slopes of her costume's camel-toe. Maddie shrieked once more, clapping her free hand over her ventilated, violated womanhood. Brad's dick hardened as Maddie kneaded her labia in a frantic effort to stanch the wound in her cunt. Blood spurted through the inadequate dyke of her fingers, dribbling a sanguineous trail onto the turf as she continued to stagger backward.
Brad grinned, his pulse racing now with sexual excitement, knowing somehow that he was safe, and also knowing that all of this was going on tape for him to study over and over. Maddie's last spasmodic, sensual dance, her last angry snit, her last "period" flowing from between her legs! At that moment, he made a solemn oath to himself: No more crazy girlfriends. No more psychotic bubble-headed cheerleaders, majorettes or baton-twirlers! With Maddie's death, he'd be free at last! He laughed out loud, the relieved laughter of a liberated man.
Seeing Brad gloat, Maddie seemed to gain strength. Her features clouded into a grimace of black, demonic rage. She aimed the Glock at him again, the silenced weapon quivering in her hand. This was the very semi-auto which Brad himself had given her mere days earlier as a token of his undying love and his unbridled commitment to her plans for revenge against the legions of cheer-squad bitches everywhere who had so wronged her in the past.
"HUMPH!" she shouted in both torment and triumph, teeth gritted, pink aspirated blood staining her lips. Her finger twitched on the trigger, but before she could fire--
THEWP! THEWP! THEWP!
--three more slugs drilled into her breasts, each bullet striking with a hard, wet squish, the torn tits jiggling and juddering as the impact-shock deformed their firm contours and jets of blood sprayed out, leaving star-bursts of rent flesh in their wake.
"GACK!" Maddie noted as the shots drove her back. The Glock sailed up from her hand, twirling away, a last baton she had no chance of grasping now. Her mouth flew open and she spat out a perfect line of saliva-diluted gore, like some freakish gob of red tobacco juice. It fell in strands on the swell of her bosom, joining the bloody mist that now dappled the sequins on her chest.
Her legs kicked reflexively, boot-heels shredding the grass as she pitched backwards, her heart pumping delicate arcs of fluid out her wounds into the air. She stumbled past the gaping door of Jocelin's blazing Packard (Linda's blackened, smoking corpse still pinned to the outside panel), bumping her ass on the handle and pirouetting once before falling with a final hideous wail into the flames that had engulfed the seat.
The conflagration roared briefly higher, as if in approval of this fresh sacrifice. The sequins of her uniform glittered, winked briefly, and were consumed in a spray of brilliant sparks. Brad saw Maddie's bare legs protruding from the vehicular inferno, still furiously thrashing. Using the fold-out LCD viewfinder, he zoomed in and kept the camera pointed at the crackling fire until the legs stopped moving.
Still rolling tape, Brad turned to face his savior.
It was a dark-haired woman in black trousers and a white blouse, firing from near the blazing pyre of twisted wreckage that had once been Ariel's Packard. She had evidently retrieved Ariel's silenced Glock from the blood-spattered turf nearby. Now she was aiming it straight at Brad.
"Jesus, don't shoot!" Bread begged, throwing up his hands. "It was all that girl's fault! She was crazy! She forced me to tape all this!"
The gun wavered. "Brad? Is that you?"
"Yeah. Who are you?" Brad was confused; he still couldn't see the woman's face over the muzzle of the silencer.
"Don't you remember?" The woman stumbled forward, awkward. Now Brad could see she was seriously wounded. Two streaks of vivid red ran down her starched cotton blouse from two punctures, one in each buxom breast. Blood from the left streak pooled slightly around the plastic edge of the laminated CAMPUS SECURITY tag pinned to the woman's pocket.
"We met at Homecoming," she rasped. "I broke up a fight...Some shithead was gonna pound you...for ogling at his girlfriend..."
Brad's eyes widened in recognition. "Betty!"
"It's Bettina, asshole!" the woman spat. "What about that night together...You forget that, too?"
Brad smiled. "Of course not."
"You said you'd call..." Bettina looked hurt--and not just from bullet wounds.
"Fuck, yeah, and I got so busy," Brad sighed. He dropped his arms and approached her gingerly, mustering his best look of heart-felt concern. "Jeez, Bettina, you're in bad shape!"
"They shot me!" Bettina cried. "These fuckin' bitches shot me!"
She staggered about wildly, barely staying on her feet. As she tripped on Sinead's spear-pierced body, Brad leapt forward and caught her in his arms.
"Take it easy! Chill, baby!" he advised. "We gotta get you some help. Where's your walkie-talkie?"
Bettina went limp in his arms. "Jokers I work with...didn't charge the fuckin' batteries..." she sighed.
Brad's eyes widened with wonder. "So you were shot. Twice! And you limped all the way down here to save me."
"To stop the killing..." Bettina gasped. "You gotta go to the nearest dorm...and call 911."
Brad was earnest. "I'm not going to leave you."
Her anger flared. "You already did...once! Least you could do...is help me..."
"Okay, dammit, but I want you to hold on, Betty. Hold on!"
She pushed him away feebly. "Just go, will ya? I'm runnin' outta time..."
"Okay, okay."
He helped her down to her knees and then got to his feet. She gazed up at him, smiling gamely through a buzzing haze of pain, supporting herself with her gun-hand, her other arm drawn up under her breasts, her wounds glistening like cat's eyes under the stadium lights.
"I'll be back," he promised, and trotted away across the field, heading for the distant bleachers and the dorms beyond.
Another silence fell, broken only by Bettina's ragged coughing as she choked down the blood welling up in her throat. After a moment, she used the Glock as a makeshift cane, pressing the barrel to the grass and forcing her body up. Grunting with Herculean effort, she managed to stagger to her feet and survey the field strewn with feminine forms in hideous attitudes of death.
"ANYONE HERE STILL ALIVE?!?" she bellowed.
"Can't trust him," came a soft voice over the din of the pyre devouring Maddie's bones.
"Who said that?" Bettina called, limping painfully amongst the corpses.
"Here..." came the voice again. Bettina followed it until she came upon Jocelin resting on her perch of exterminated Paganettes.
"You..." Bettina growled, low, nearly overwhelmed by rage. Her body rocked side to side and she bit her lip. "I should fuckin' kill you...you Meyers cunt! Look what you fuckin' bitches did to me!"
"Brad..." Jocelin breathed. "Don't trust him...I know him..."
"He's the only one who could help me," Bettina explained. "I'm hurt too bad...because of you, you fucking cunt! So why should I give a shit...about what you say?...In fact...I should jus' fuckin' kill you..."
Bettina brought up Ariel's gun and aimed it at Jocelin's skull. She was determined not miss; it was going to be tricky, because her arm was getting very unsteady. That, and she was mad as hell, and in a world of hurt. It took all of Bettina's considerable will just to stare rigidly down the barrel of the gun at the murderess at her feet.
The Meyers girl just looked up at her, a defiant grin playing lightly on her face.
"Here it comes, bitch," Bettina announced through clenched teeth.
Something hummed in the air. Bettina took what felt like a pole in her guts. Her arms flew apart; the Glock discharged with a THEWP! that blew a shell through the ass of an indifferent Paganette.
Looking down, Bettina found the shaft of an aluminum arrow sticking out of her navel. "What the fuck?..." she wondered--and even as she pondered this turn of events, a second shaft sprang into her ribs with incredible force, winding her, blasting a sharp barking gasp out of her lungs.
The gun dropped from her grip as she clasped this new shaft with both hands. Waves of pain coursed through her, building on the pain already there from the bullets in her chest. Her whole upper body was a quivering tower of agony. Looking up, she saw Brad advancing with deliberate tread toward her from across the field, wielding an archery bow. He already had the next arrow nocked, and as she watched, stunned into immobility, he let it fly straight at her chest.
"NO!"
The shaft took her in the right tit, whipping straight into the wound already created by the track of Jessika's gun-shot through her chest. Bettina actually felt the aluminum column slice through her lung, striking sparks off the bullet lodged in the back of her rib-cage and then ripping through the cross-strap of her bra, tugging out her blouse as it tore through it, the carbon tip out in the air dripping blood.
For a long moment--in fact, her last moment of consciousness--Bettina thought that maybe Brad was actually using the bullet wounds on her breasts as targets. No, he's too stupid for that, she decided--
--as a last dart thudded home into the flesh of her right breast, throwing her back onto the ground, her spread-eagled corpse now the soil for a veritable forest of metal barbs. The blood that had coursed down her front now leaked to the sides of her bust, pooling in the dewy grass at her armpits.
Brad approached and inspected his handiwork. He never thought he'd be any good at archery, but it seemed easy with the proper gear. The Hagen senior from whom he had borrowed the bow didn't seem to mind him taking it. But then again, he couldn't exactly read her expression, her face having been smashed in by a fall onto concrete from the bleachers earlier in the night.
He had the mini-DV slung around his neck on a strap. He flung the bow away and got the camera out. He hadn't been able to take anything while pin-cushioning Bettina. It'd certainly be cool to get some footage of the aftermath now.
Bettina's glazed eyes stared up at him accusingly. He felt a pang of regret. It lasted almost two seconds.
Then he turned away and took in the astounding panorama of wholesale slaughter around him.
"Oh my god, look at this! This is beautiful!"
He spent several minutes dashing from place to place, feverish with lust and scared shitless he would miss some tiny, perfect vignette in the midst of the overwhelming feast of carnage. Every so often, he'd punctuate his photography with some cultured utterance like "Awesome!' or "Fucking incredible!" His camera whirred and zoomed, taking in a myriad variety of small scenes:
--The wind playing with the tatters of Alexis' shredded skirt.
--Two young Paganettes who had fallen side-by-side and now lay together, their pouting lips, moistened with blood, touching lightly in death.
--A pretty gut-shot Hagen frosh with her legs spread straight out to her sides, as if she was doing a horizontal toe-touch.
--Another frosh twisted on the turf, her head almost touching her heel, hair a blonde sprawl on the grass behind her, skirt bunched up at her pelvis and pee-soaked panties thrust at the sky.
--A third young frosh who'd managed to die with a charming expression of wide-eyed, gap-jawed alarm and a hand firmly clenched on the generous mound of her cleft left breast.
--Three Paganettes pitched onto their backs, their outfits so blasted by gunfire that the high-collared brocaded tunics had literally been shorn from their chests, exposing the frayed vestiges of dainty flower-print bras hugging their butchered tits.
--A troupe of machine-gunned Paganettes, some ten to fifteen girls heaped into an amorphous mass of soiled skirts and stiffening limbs, fingers and teeth dug into breasts and thighs as, maddened with pain, their sandwiched bodies had contorted in the throes of death.
Finally, giggling with delight, he turned to Jocelin and Cherrill. "Well, girls, I think you showed everyone here the true meaning of 'school spirit'!" And he snorted, cackling at his own witticism.
He heard a soft groan in response.
"Jocelin? Holy shit! You're still kickin'!" He snapped the camera up and zoomed in, guiding the lens up and down her bullet-riddled form. Jocelin shivered and her body squirmed on its bed of carcasses.
"My very own necro model," Brad murmured, awed.
"Fuck you, McCallach..." she spat.
"Oh no, my dear," Brad announced, "it is I who shall be fucking you."
With that, he drew back a short distance to Alexis' body. The Hagen senior's corpse made a handy, if somewhat sticky, shelf for the camera to sit while Brad, still rolling tape, proceeded to get undressed.
"God, you wouldn't believe how much I'm lookin' forward to doin' you like this!" he said, tugging on his Levi's. "What's it gonna feel like, rubbin' those tits, stickin' my fingers in all those holes..."
"You bastard...."
"Feisty! I like that! Gawd-damn, woman, were you ever on fire tonight! A real pistol!" And he laughed again with a heavy snort. "Maddie and I were watchin', you know. Tapin' the whole thing. Man, she was tweakin' her nipples and fingerin' herself--I wanted to jump in, but she ordered me to keep tapin'. Well, fuck her!" He turned to the pyre behind him, to the pair of blackened, booted legs engulfed in flames. "YOU HEAR ME? FUCK YOU, MADDIE!"
He turned back to study Jocelin. "After this, I'm finished," he chortled. "I walk away with the tape, and no one'll know I was ever here." The jeans slipped down to his feet and he stepped out of them. "And I'm a free man. No more fucking cheerleaders, songleaders, majorettes, color guard bitches or fuckin' looney-ass baton twirlers! I'm gonna date fuckin' normal girls from now on!"
He slipped off his Fruit of the Looms, exposing his member to the cool night air. "TAH DAH!"
Jocelin wasn't impressed. "Stop this..."
The night was cool, but Brad was sweating, breath streaming from his nostrils. His penis bulged out, already fully erect. "Ain't nuthin' stoppin' this, girl."
"I'd rather fuck Cherrill..." Jocelin grunted.
"I got enough for you both."
Brad threw himself upon her, his hand snaking to her crotch to rip off what was left of her cheer briefs. He entered her a moment later. It was stupendous, electrifying: the weight of him, the feel of him thrusting brutally into her, the crushing pressure of his hands mercilessly fondling her wounded tits. His drooling lips whispered in her ear; to her, it was almost a shout: "Dammit, Jo, you're wet! You're so fuckin' wet!"
It was too much. She couldn't tell pain from pleasure anymore. His cock wasn't flesh; it felt razor-sharp, like a blade impaling her over and over. The bullets inside her blazed like blow-torches; her cunt, swimming in an admixture of blood and female ejaculate, burned like acid. All sensation fused into an overwhelming orgasmic overload. It gave her strength, so she fought him, squirming and kicking on her blood-slicked mattress of majorettes.
He grabbed her arms and forced them back over her head, mashing the backs of her hands into the breasts of the dead woman beneath. "Don't fight me, bitch!" he growled. "This is your last fuck! You might as well enjoy it!" He resumed thrusting, his speech now punctuated by animalistic grunts. "And don't tell me...UNGH!...you haven't been missing this...UNGH!...since the day we broke up! UNGH!"
She bit him. As he lowered his head to thrust deeper, she snatched at his earlobe with her lips and brought her teeth down hard on it, tasting hot blood in her mouth, blood that wasn't her own welling up from inside her. Brad shrieked and got up off of her like a shot. The rush of cool air on her pussy and the loss of his weight pressing down on her felt immensely liberating.
He towered over her, one hand clutching his spurting ear. "YOU FUCKING BITCH!" he bellowed, kicking viciously at her legs.
But Jocelin couldn't feel her legs anymore, and she just laughed at him.
Brad's face twisted in a paroxysm of rage. "THAT'S IT!" he screamed. "YOU DIE NOW, AND I'LL FUCK YOUR BLEEDING CARCASS, YOU FUCKING CUNT!"
He straddled her and knelt down, his weight shifting the cushion of tender corpses beneath her. She could feel his pulsing cock on her tummy; for a moment, she thought he might try to stick it in a particularly nasty wound there. His hands closed on her throat and he squeezed.
Jocelin started to black out. Brad's arms, and his sneering face, filled her narrowing field of view. She didn't want to die like this, not in ignominious squalor beneath that sniveling, snotty, grimacing face...
The face came apart--literally blew in half--as she watched in stunned amazement. A thunderclap sounded nearby, booming like the voice of God--and Brad's T-shirt puffed and bucked, stapled with red spurting holes. Then Brad disappeared, yanked out of view like a bad vaudeville act jerked off-stage with a looped pole.
She blinked and lay there a moment, wondering at her deliverance. Summoning the last of her strength, she propped herself up on her elbows (bolts of pain/pleasure shooting through her like hail) and saw Brad's body sprawled near Alexis, his face and pectorals ravaged by gunshot wounds, his still-erect penis pumping out a feeble stream of jism as he died.
"Fuckin' two-timing asshole," coughed a hoarse voice from beside her.
Jocelin twisted her head and saw Cherrill propped up on a Paganette's arm, one hand placed in the trigger of her MP-5. Smoke twisted from the muzzle of the gun.
"Rather fuck me, would you?" Cherrill said. Her lips twisted into a wry grin. Blood ran from her mouth. Her eyes glazed over, and as Jocelin watched, the Hagen captain, her sworn enemy, finally passed into death, her chin slumping onto the belly of the dead girl who supported her.
So this was it: the end at last. Jocelin had been shot, abused, violated; there was nothing to do now but die herself. She lay back and gazed up into the black night, her consciousness spiraling down toward an ever-broadening darkness of its own.
Far in the distance, sirens wailed. She imagined herself floating out of her body; surveying the whole scene from above; imagined police and fire-fighters coming upon a field full of slain cheerleaders; imagined the erections underneath their uniforms as they zipped the pretty corpses into body-bags. She thought of all the shot and arrowed girls laid out one by one on morgue tables to be stripped, their wounds cleansed and bodies dressed for burial. She shivered, almost feeling the cold touch of a mortician's gloved fingers on her bullet-dimpled flesh.
All those caskets, all those funerals! It'd be far easier just to dig a trench, she thought. Maybe beneath the goal-posts. Take our bodies and dump 'em in, one by one. She could see it in her mind's eye: A mass grave full of uniformed young girls, vibrant youthful lives brutally snuffed out, innocent mystified faces turned to the sky or indifferently ground into the dirt, breasts squashed on breasts, cunt pressed to cunt, skirts flaring like parachutes as each fresh corpse was tossed in.
They'll remember this, she thought. What we've done here tonight. They'll be horrified, repulsed. But somewhere deep down they'll nod their heads and understand. They'll see we died in passionate defense of our beliefs. And they'll see that cheerleaders are more than just pretty pollies prancing on the sidelines. They'll see we're warriors, fighters for the team, the greater good. They'll ennoble us. What we did tonight, it'll enter the national consciousness, like the Alamo or Gettysburg. Girls will flock to join squads. The squads'll be the new girl gangs, organized for feminine empowerment and defense. Cross-town school rivalries will take on new depth. That might be good or bad...
Jocelin didn't know, nor did she care anymore. She drifted toward eternal night, leaving the last of her pain behind in the shattered frame of her numb and cooling body.
Jocelin's cheerleading days were finally over.
THE END