Posted by Megaton on August 13, 2000 at 19:29:43:
The arrow in Nikki’s big white breast had finally stopped twitching. Beside her, her husband lay, also naked, an arrow
jutting up from his chest, a trickle of blood running from his mouth. Meg put down the crossbow, walked into the room,
shaking with desire to know these two new lovers. She had watched them a long time from the apartment across the
street, and decided that tonight was the night she made both of them hers.
The small, thin young woman stopped at the man’s body, ran her fingers through his long hair, bent down to kiss his
slightly open lips. Gently pressed her tongue into his mouth, tasting all the subtle flavors of his death. Kissed his neck,
his shoulders. Stood up, moved her hand down his hairy chest, across his slightly soft belly, fondled his penis, stiff as the
arrow that had killed him. She pumped it with shaking fingers; semen spurted from the tip, ran down the back of her
hand.
She brought her hand to her lips; gingerly lapped at the hot, wet saltiness. Delicious.
She stepped to the other side of the bed, bent down and kissed Nikki’s cheek, brushed the dead woman’s hair from her
beautiful blue eyes. She gently lifted the woman’s head; her tongue found Nikki’s mouth, sought out the tastes of her
death as well. She had first noticed Nikki at the restaurant where she worked; had followed her home, carefully,
secretly. Now the voluptuous beauty and her muscular, manly husband were both Meg’s forever.
Meg had been doing this for almost a year. Over two dozen murders, men and women alike. She remembered all of
them with equal pleasure, equal love. Death was her gift to everyone she loved; beautiful, sexy death, liberator from
miseries and woes, from the torment of disease and the ravages of age. So many lovers since the far-off day she stabbed
beautiful, half-Korean Candy Yuen to death in the parking lot at Vertron Inc. So many faces to kiss, so many bodies to
explore. These were the latest, but not the last. There would be more. There were always more.
She was lovingly kissing her way down Nikki’s belly when the sirens screeched to a halt in the street below. Meg
jumped up, looked out the window; below her policemen poured from three black vehicles.
“Oh Jesus,” she moaned. She had to get out. No time to have her way with these warm, luscious bodies. From outside
came the roar of a bullhorn: “Megan Westfall. Megan Westfall. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands
up.”
She grabbed the crossbow, readied another bolt. Over the past year Megan had become very proficient in the art of
killing. The door flew open; an arrow flew to meet it. A policeman staggered backward, dropping his pistol, clawing
futilely at the shaft in his throat. Meg threw down the crossbow, grabbed the gun. With a din of shouting, more people
filled the hallway, running toward the open door. Meg fired two shots, felled two of them, ran back into the room.
Nikki and Andrew stared at her with dead, glassy eyes as she took to the fire escape. More shouting behind her. She
bolted down the metal steps, desperate. She’d never been this close to capture. Above her there were shots. Just as she
cleared the last step, something struck her hard, hard, hard in the back, over her frantic heart.
She coughed and stumbled, fell on the hard cold sidewalk, writhing. Pain shot through her chest with every heartbeat;
she felt something wet and hot running down her back. More bullets ricocheted off the concrete. She forced herself to
her feet, ran across the street to her little blue Suburu. Threw open the door, fumbled for the keys, drove off.
She got out of town, got almost twenty miles away before she had to pull off the road. Nausea gurgled in her stomach;
every heartbeat felt like an explosion in her chest. She slowly reached down, yanked on the lever beside the seat, laid
back, gasping for every breath. She knew she was hurt, hurt badly; maybe she should turn herself in.
Her hand came up, reached under her t-shirt, found her heaving breast, fondled it almost unconsciously. Her heart
shook the flesh beneath her palm. The other hand was at her crotch, fingers gently moving, scratching against the
surface of her jeans. Meg tossed her head from side to side; sweat ran down her pale forehead.
It was so hard to see. Everything was blurry, indistinct. Her big brown eyes opened wide, wider, trying somehow to
focus on something. In just a minute she would feel a little stronger; in just a minute she would drive back to town and
turn herself in. And the doctor would make everything better.
She felt her sick heart slam against her hand. Heard the hissing of each panted breath as if through cotton.
The back of the seat was soaked, dripping with blood.
Meg no longer knew exactly where she was. She felt the gentle touch of her lovers’ hands on her shuddering body.
There was Bobby, and Candy, and Thomas, and Sue. Rita Blakely leaned over, kissed her mouth, held her close. Phil
McCullen, strong and virile, stroked her cheek, whispered to her in words she couldn’t quite understand. Jenny and
Nikki, Kevin and Kim, Danielle and Andy all stood before her, watching her, applauding her as she walked toward
them. All her lovers were here, yearning for her. And she yearned for them.
Somewhere in her dying brain, the realization that in seconds she would join them. She relaxed, sighed, resigned to her
death. She had often wondered how it would come to her; now she knew.
Beneath her hand, her bullet-burst heart twitched, quivered, stopped forever. She breathed three more breaths, slow,
sensual, deep. And Megan Renee Westfall died, there in the Suburu, alone.