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.