Seraphic Dispatch
Chapter Three: I Can't Forget
I’m gonna fight ‘em all, a seven nation army couldn’t hold me back.
- “Seven Nation Army,” the White Stripes
Chapter 3: I Can’t Forget
There were hands on her. One hand ran from her throat down her collarbone and the other grasped her hip. Mercy couldn’t feel the heavy breathing, but she could hear it. Her gun was no longer in her hand. Fucker was at least sort of smart. Without opening her eyes, Mercy moved her arm slowly, slowly across the floor without moving the rest of her body. The breathing didn’t pause and the hands moved inward toward the centers of her body from where they’d lingered at the edges. Mercy’s fingers found the gun, though, and curled around it victoriously. Fucker wasn’t too smart, though.
“Back the fuck off!”
Mercy forced her knee upward into Hariz Chamoun’s stomach, rolling off his lumpy couch to avoid the hand that would inevitably shoot back out once it forgot the reflexive need to touch the spot where pain has been created. Pointing the gun at Hariz without another moment’s thought, Mercy squeezed the trigger and watched the man who she’d shared lunch with the day before’s head leak black blood. Shaking, gritting her teeth, she leaned against his fancy coffee table and squeezed off three more rounds into the motionless shape of a man, cursing unintelligibly. Then she shot a hole in the wall opposite her.
The blue cellphone was in her left hand. Her right seemed cemented to the gun. She dialed the only contact in the phone, Jones. Jones picked up on the first ring, even though it was three A.M. He didn’t say anything when he picked up, but waited. Mercy could only tell because the phone didn’t ring anymore.
“Mother fucker’s dead,” Mercy said mechanically. “Where the shit do you hide a body in North Carolina?”
- “Seven Nation Army,” the White Stripes
Chapter 3: I Can’t Forget
There were hands on her. One hand ran from her throat down her collarbone and the other grasped her hip. Mercy couldn’t feel the heavy breathing, but she could hear it. Her gun was no longer in her hand. Fucker was at least sort of smart. Without opening her eyes, Mercy moved her arm slowly, slowly across the floor without moving the rest of her body. The breathing didn’t pause and the hands moved inward toward the centers of her body from where they’d lingered at the edges. Mercy’s fingers found the gun, though, and curled around it victoriously. Fucker wasn’t too smart, though.
“Back the fuck off!”
Mercy forced her knee upward into Hariz Chamoun’s stomach, rolling off his lumpy couch to avoid the hand that would inevitably shoot back out once it forgot the reflexive need to touch the spot where pain has been created. Pointing the gun at Hariz without another moment’s thought, Mercy squeezed the trigger and watched the man who she’d shared lunch with the day before’s head leak black blood. Shaking, gritting her teeth, she leaned against his fancy coffee table and squeezed off three more rounds into the motionless shape of a man, cursing unintelligibly. Then she shot a hole in the wall opposite her.
The blue cellphone was in her left hand. Her right seemed cemented to the gun. She dialed the only contact in the phone, Jones. Jones picked up on the first ring, even though it was three A.M. He didn’t say anything when he picked up, but waited. Mercy could only tell because the phone didn’t ring anymore.
“Mother fucker’s dead,” Mercy said mechanically. “Where the shit do you hide a body in North Carolina?”