The lift was a small metal slab. A good coating of rust lined many of
the gears and chains that allowed for it to operate. From what
Samantha could observe, there were no guard rails, either they were
absent in the original design, or they had weathered away.
A
dusty control panel lay against the wall. There was a sign right
above, labeling clearly, a warning about a weight limit. Samantha’s
nose scrunched as her eyes rested upon the bold words.
Moment’s
later, Samantha was scaling the wall, finding that the rough,
dilapidated surface provided many convenient handholds and places to
rest her foot.
Unlike
the lift, the balcony above possessed a guard rail. In better days,
it would have been painted a dark green. In the present, however,
most of that paint had been chipped away, and gave way to scraggly
rust. Samantha winced as she took hold of the guard rail, feeling the
metal bend under her unrelenting grip.
There
was a massive pang of pain that shot through her hand. She was forced
to release her grip, now hanging precariously to the guard rail with
her other hand. A heavy wrench had been brought down , courtesy of
Oddball. His bearded face portrayed satisfaction, as he brought his
makeshift weapon back for another swing.
As
the wrench was brought down once more, Samantha managed to shift to
the side, finding another area to grip the guard rail, as her
targeted hand was released. The wrench hit nothing but metal, denting
and cracking it. The entire structure had become unstable, thanks to
the amazon’s formidable weight. Oddball’s strikes did not have to
hit true for him to force her off.
Yet,
Oddball was not one for waiting. He had discarded the wrench, and had
brought his hands to his waist, reaching for his sidearm. With no
time to waist, Samantha hoisted herself over the guardrail, causing
an entire section to bend back. Her body rolled over the frail metal,
threatening structural integrity.
By
the time she had breached the balcony, Oddball had brought his pistol
to bear. His finger was upon the trigger, and the barrel was oriented
towards Samantha’s massive frame.
The
red-haired girl wasted no time, using her long legs to sprint towards
her attacker. He was but one pace away. Not once did she break
stride, even as it appeared inevitable that she would be taking a
shot. One her her knees crashed into the man, sending his gun flying
out of his hand. A shot was squeezed off, sending the bullet
careening off towards the ceiling.
Meanwhile,
Oddball himself was careening through the air, taking the full brunt
of the girl’s momentum. He was stopped by a wall, the impact
sending traumatic shocks throughout every fiber of his body. Briefly
was he paralyzed, and made no effort to raise his hands to break his
inevitable collapse upon the floor.
As
he came to, Samantha stood above him. She grabbed the collar of his
jacket, lifting the entirety of his body from the floor. With a grunt
she threw him. He was carried over the railing, down to the floor
below. He impacted head first, snapping his neck as the rest of his
body followed him.
The
air lay still. For once, the amazon could not hear the shuffle of
feet, or the shouting of voices. None other approached to challenge
her.
A
moment passed, a moment which Samantha spent looking all around,
attempting to spot snipers or other concealed ambushes. Her blue eyes
could not spot anything concerning, but that in of itself was a
concern.
Her
sight came to rest upon a closed door. There was a small window that
allowed limited visibility within, but all that could be perceived
was the warm glow of incandescent light. Samantha carefully
approached it, pulling out her Colt. Taking a hold of the handle,
something which was completely swallowed by her hand, she pulled down
carefully, finding the door to be unlocked.
Samantha
had to crouch down to mind her head, while the width of the doorway
left little room for maneuver. She felt her grip tighten upon the
handle of her Colt, for her position was incredibly vulnerable. There
would be sparse maneuvering should another adversary rush her, even
her gun’s aim would be compromised.
Thankfully
no such attack transpired, and Samantha managed to make it through.
The room she had entered possessed a notably low ceiling, nothing
troublesome for an average man of six foot. Samantha’s twelve foot
frame, however, made it necessary for her to hunch over as to not
smack her head against the ceiling.
Her
pace remained slow and methodical. From left to right, her eyes
veered. At her hip, her gun rested, the barrel already directed to
her front, ready to smoke any assailant that dared cross her. It
would not be long before she would encounter someone else.
He
was seated in the center of a clearing. Two long tables flanked him,
filled with all manner of objects, including guns, knives, wallets
and a rather sizable golden ring.
The
man was slumped over, his curly matted hair falling over his swollen
face. Darkened, dried blood stuck to his skin like a sickly motley
body suit.
As
she peered down her beloved’s broken body, a metallic sheen caught
her eye. To her surprise, it was held by a hand, a hand that did not
belong to Peter. She followed the arm to its owner, who stood behind
Peter. The face of Handsy was pulled into a sickening smile, as he
felt the eyes of the amazon fall upon him.
Throughout
her campaign in the warehouse, Samantha dealt with those who opposed
her with nothing more than sheer loathing and contempt. But now, she
could not hide her trembling lips, her widened eyes, and skin which
had grown paler than the moon itself.
“Oh
man, a genuine supersized broad!” commented the man most jovially,
“The things you find in the forest these days!”
Samantha
felt her foot lurch forward. At this, Handsey’s free hand rose,
stopping her in her tracks.
“Ah
ah ah,” he warned, clicking his tongue, “I’m assuming the man’s
something special to you. Come any closer and my hand just might
slip. Don’t blame me, it’s a condition.”
“What’s
the condition?” Samantha inquired, her voice now meek, and quiet.
Handsey’s
outburst was immediate. The amazon could only wince, for she feared
the worst.
“Hey!
That’s a sensitive subject!” he bellowed. Yet, he did not allow
the knife to move, neither to slit his captive’s throat, nor to
relieve him.
“For
him!” Samantha clarified, as desperation clung to her, “What’s
your condition to release him?”
Handsey
tilted his head, “What are you talking about?”
Samantha’s
eyes darted about in a frenzy. She felt her breathing quicken to an
almost dizzying pace. “You captured him for a reason right? You
want money, weapons, a thank you note? I’ll do anything, just give
him back to me!”
An
eyebrow rose upon the dark-skinned man, “Anything you say?”
Samantha
felt movement behind her, yet she did not turn to satisfy her
curiosity.
“Watch
your words, ‘cause we’ll hold you to them.”
She
immediately felt weight on her back. Another had leapt upon her,
wrapping one arm around her neck. Such an action didn’t choke her,
but it allowed him to maintain his grip. Samantha’s nose was
immediately assaulted with a pungent smell, something she had never
experienced. It emanated from a cloth her assailant forced over her
nose.
Immediately
did conciousness leave her. Her legs lost their tension, and her arms
fell to the side, allowing her Colt to slip through her fingers.
Samantha fell forward, landing with a heavy thud upon the cold floor,
motionless.
As
she landed, did the slimy form of Sinclair roll off. He stood
immediately, throwing his hands out, as if he had performed a magic
trick.
“Tada!”
he shouted gleefully, much to the laughing delight of his last
remaining peer.
Handsey
removed the knife from Peter’s neck, rushing over to his boss’s
side. It was difficult for him to hide his gleeful smile. Dark eyes,
however, lay host to ill-intent, as he gazed upon the massive,
unconscious form of Samantha’s body.
“You
want the honors?” Sinclair offered, raising a thin eyebrow.
“Oh
yeah,” exclaimed his underling, rubbing his hands together, “I’ve
been waiting for some meat. Mmnh!”
Both
men assigned themselves the task of moving Samantha, a monstrous
undertaking. Sinclair had gripped her from her arms, while Handsey
was at her feet. The combined strength of both men could not lift her
off the floor, but they managed to drag her body closer to Peter,
providing him a full, unobstructed view of what was to transpire
next.
Sinclair
flashed a sadistic smile towards the young man, who could not take
this eyes off of Samantha. Her eyes were shut, and betrayed no signs
of stirring. The only movement she made was in her chest, involuntary
breathing that indicated life, as well as the will to live.
“Want
to make sure you’ve got the best seat in the house!” the
psychopath exclaimed, “I promised you a show didn’t I?”
A
pained moan escaped Peter’s lips. His eyes, gazing through swollen
flesh were beginning to water, while his blood stained mouth had
begun to tighten.
“Haha!
The bastard’s excited!” Sinclair continued, before turning to
Hansey, who was currently fiddling with Samantha’s belt, “We
don’t have all day!”
Already,
Handsey had discarded her boots. They weighed almost as much as
boulders, and were caked with dirt and blood. Pulling off the belt
was akin to starting a massive generator. The leather material was
rough and worn. In many ways, it was a patchwork of materials
designed to be bigger than it was originally designed.
After
he thew aside the belt, Handsey allowed his tongue to slip between
his lips as he undid the button to Samantha’s jeans. Eager fingers
gripped the waistline, both to her pants, and upon the band of
underwear he felt beneath. His breath grew heavy as he pulled,
revealing bare skin, and a heavy forest of hair that matched the
drapes.
Sinclair
meanwhile had undone Samantha’s jacket, tossing away such an
article that could have been used as a small tarp. Underneath, the
girl only wore a tank top, showing off arms and shoulders made toned
and substantial through significant work. He could even trace sparse
bulges of vein from arm, to wrist, then to hand.
The
psychopath worked with less visible enjoyment than Handsey who had
taken his sweet time at shimmying off the denim material from equally
tested legs.
Sinclair’s
hand took hold of the bottom of the tank top. As he pulled up her
body, he revealed chiseled abdominal that could have evoked envy from
classical statues. Material was pulled past Samantha’s significant
bosoms, full, taut and bare for all to see.
Such
violation of his lover only brought more torture to Peter. It was
painful than any gunshot, or strike that had been inflicted. Peter
tried to fix his gaze upon Samantha’s face, hoping this would be
the only thing left unravaged. It was then that he caught the
slightest movement of her eyelash, a flutter in a windless night.
“Damn,
I could make a tent out of these!” squealed Handsey, as he finally
managed to pull the last thread of denim off Samantha’s feet.
Sinclair
had made it to behind Peter. Both hands clutched his head, ruffling
matted hair, two fingers each held the young man’s eyes open.
“You’re pitching a tent!” Sinclair goaded, “C’mon, we want
some action!”
Handsey
could only roll his eyes. “Relax, I’ll let you have your turn.
I’m ready to plow me some virgin soil!”
There
was slight movement at Samantha’s neck. Her head was absolutely
clouded, and each limb of her’s felt weighed down with the force of
1000 tonnes. She could only gaze towards Peter, his head trapped in
Clockwork Orange hands. Her legs felt slightly elevated, and she felt
the shoulders of the one who made his way towards her.
Handsey
was visible struggling to further lift Samantha’s legs, yet the
weight proved too much. He let the massive logs of flesh fall to his
side, allowing them to straddle his waist. His own pants were
dropped, and left nothing to the imagination as to what he intended
next. A much smaller, yet rather stiff, rod of flesh made way to the
opening ahead.
The
muscles in Samantha’s legs flexed. Handsey was stopped in his
tracks. His hands clasped upon her legs, attempting to jar himself
free. His efforts were punctuated by desperate grunts, and his face
twisted from the strain, yet they were to no avail.
Sinclair’s
jovial expression had ceased, and was replaced by one of confusion.
He glared hard at Handsey, who had redoubled his efforts, futily
flailing against his victim’s grip. Grunts of effort became
strained, and then were laced with pain, as the lock around Handsey’s
waist tightened.
“Help
me!” Handsey cried, in clear agony, “Help!”
“What’s
wrong?” Sinclair asked.
“She’s
...” his underling’s voice was breathless. His efforts to free
himself had devolved into instinctual flails, “She’s got…”
Sinclair’s
eyes veered to the girl’s face. He could perceive the blue past
heavy eyelids. It did not take long for him to grasp the
implications. His hand’s released Peter as he reached for his gun.
“Son
of a bitc…”
He
was cut off, for Peter had suddenly pushed back, slamming his injured
body, as well as his chair, into Sinclair. The criminal’s gun was
knocked from his grip, sliding out of reach.
With
a quick move, Peter’s good hand fell upon Sinclair’s ankle,
preventing him from getting up. The man kicked at Peter with his free
leg, bashing his swollen face, reopening old wounds. Despite this,
Peter’s grip did not relent.
Upon
seeing her boyfriend struck, Samantha felt her rage rekindle.
She
pressed her thighs together, feeling Handsey’s bones strain and
buckle. The man’s grunts had turned into screams. The amazon had
mustered enough strength to where she could lift her legs off the
ground, carrying her assailant along. The crunch of pelvic bones
began making its way to her ears, causing her to push even harder.
“Oh
God!” Handsey yelled, as bones began to crumble, “Oh God! Help
me! Ahhhh!”
With
a mighty crunch, Handsey’s waist had been crushed. A stream of
blood was ejected from his mouth, spilling upon Samantha’s chest.
With a final push, the man-sized gap between her thighs closed. His
head, and torso fell forward, leaving a crushed pelvis and still lets
behind. The bisection was red and messy, no organ, nor muscle nor
bone could be discerned from the dark shredded mess.
Upon
the death of his peer, Sinclair finally managed to wrest Peter off of
him. From his pocket, he produced a knife.
“I should have just wasted you from the beginning!” he growled, his
eyes red with rage.
He
stood to his full height, knife in hand, readying to spill blood from
the whelps neck. It was there he would remain, knife in the air,
paralyzed in realization. In his fury, he had neglected a crucial
detail.
Samantha
was on her feet. Blood stained her chest, forming a morbid veil of
modesty that obscured her breasts. She did not bother retrieving her
pants, nor her jacket. Heavy breath was heaved from her mouth. Her
eyes, once sent to rest with the power of chloroform, were now open,
and brimming with unrelenting fury. Strings of red hair hung in a
haunting curtain in front of her face. She was as beautiful and
terrible as the dawn sun, that had peaked over the horizon.
Sinclair
did not see this. He did not need to. His scowl had vanished, and had
been replaced with a smile. It was the smile of a lone outlaw,
charging into a doomed crusade. It was with the twisted bravado of a
serial killer that he turned around and charged.
His
knife rose, readying to strike. It’s blade would not even meet a
millimeter of flesh.
Samantha
had grabbed the charging man by the head. Her hand absolutely
engulfed him, obscuring his eyes and nose, leaving his mouth to gasp
desperate breaths.
Sinclair
was lifted up, his weight insignificant to the amazon. Her muscles
didn’t even need to bulge. The criminal’s legs flailed, while his
body twisted and turned. Nothing would free him.
Samantha’s
finger’s dug into flesh, as she tightened her grip. Her teeth
gritted and her brow furrowed. All her contempt, all her disgust
flowed into her veins, coursing through the arm, the hand that held
Sinclair. From the moment she heard his voice upon her cell phone,
revealing him the culprit of her worst nightmare, her goal was this
moment.
The
pressure increased, until it was too much. Like a piece of fruit in a
press, Sinclair’s head exploded, spraying blood and brain matter in
an expansive radius. His skull had been absolutely annihilated,
soaked in the liquefied material of the organ it had been evolved to
protect. Samantha did not care to linger upon her latest kill, and
unceremoniously dropped what remained of Sinclair.
Slowly,
her gaze rose, veering to Peter, lying prone, soaking in what he had
witnessed. Samantha moved towards him like a blood stained specter,
her footfalls soft, yet heavy. It was such a frightful sight that he
instinctively began moving away from her.
A
small gasp escaped her lips. In a moment, Samantha’s rage cleared,
and her eyes focused, drawn to Peter’s broken, cowering form.
“Peter…
“ she begged, her voice now soft and wavering, “Peter please, I’m
not gonna hurt you.”
Peter
could only witness her form towering over him. From her feet to her
sinewy legs, her sculpted abdominal and shapely bosom’s, Samantha
appeared taller than she was, if that were even possible. She
appeared to stretch forever into the ceiling. It was only until he
gaze upon her face, that he was brought to his senses.
Samantha
knelt down. Her hand was extended, making it’s way to Peter’s
cheek. Her massive palm caressed his cheek, running over various
wounds that Sinclair had inflicted. Her other hand found it’s way
around his waist.
Before
he knew it, he was pulled into a hug. The sensation consumed him, of
his wife’s flesh against his dirty, bloody clothes. His face buried
into her shoulder, sinking into soft flesh and taut muscle.
Samantha’s
eyes peered about the room once more. Her eyes settled upon the ring
she had seen earlier, the ring far too large for any ordinary finger.
As one of her hands tenderly moved across Peter’s back, she bend
her head down, her lips breathing against his ear.
“That
ring, when were you going to ask?”
Peter
strained his neck, bringing his face away from her flesh. Gazing into
her eyes, he answered, “I was gonna ask you … today.”
A
warm smile spread across her lips. They were then brought to Peter’s
forhead, tracing over matted hair, cracked blood, and swollen flesh.
There they remained, as Samantha cooed, “I think you know the
answer.”
It
was then, and only then, that Peter found within him, the reason to
cry.
….
“We’ve
spotted several shells and id a couple of the bullets that impacted.
Massive slugs were used, and the bullets were 50 cal, likely fired
from a pistol. We only know of one person in the area packing that
kind of firepower.”
The
uniformed man held a casing high above. The sun had clearly shown
through the windows of the ware house, and reflected off the metallic
material.
An
older, uniformed man, clearly distinguished, shook his head. He gazed
upon the corpses left, tattered and torn.
“What
a damn mess.” he exclaimed.
“This
is a clear case if vigilantism.” his fellow proposed, his voice
laced with caution, “Shall we proceed?”
The
older man gave him an incredulous look, as if he suggested that he
was wearing a bikini.
“Proceed?
Son, the only thing we can take from here is a lesson.”
“A
lesson?” the officer questioned, “In what?”
Echoes
of a rougher, nobler age flowed forth, on behalf of the officer of greater experience.
“If
you take what isn’t yours, you get what you fuckin’ deserve.”
Without
another word, the agents of the law departed, their purpose satisfied.