Free The Bad Ones by Stylo Fantome

back of his head into the rail line.
    There was a loud growling noise and she looked around, halfway expecting to see a bear or a coyote. But it wasn't coming from the woods above her. It was coming directly across from her. It was Con, growling as he beat the absolute shit out of the hobo.
    Dulcie stumbled over so she was right behind him. His growling grew to an open mouthed yell. His hands were coated in blood and he struggled to keep his grip on the hobo's hair.
    Well now, let's just rip this ol' black curtain away and see what's been hiding behind it!
    “He fucking touched you,” Con was gasping for air as he finally stepped back from the damage. “No one is allowed to touch you. I can't believe he fucking touched you.”
    He was right. She'd thought it before – what had made the man think he could possibly be allowed to touch her, to sully her with his presence, and not pay the consequences? Didn't he know he was trespassing on private property? The sole property of one very dark boy?
    Dulcie looked around her, almost manic in her movements. A couple feet away, there was a metal rod laying in a ditch, and she hurried to pick it up. It was a post for a stop sign, though the sign itself was long gone. The edges were rusty and a couple of mean looking bolts jutted out of the top.
    This'll do.
    She calmly walked back to the thing that was laying on the tracks. Con hadn't moved at all, though he still had a wild look in his eyes, and he kept staring at the man. Dulcie moved so she was next to him and looked down as well. The hobo was gurgling, spitting up blood, but still managing to laugh.
    “Baby … this what … whatchu need ... ”
    With a shout, Dulcie swung the post in a wide arc. It landed smack across the man's face, driving his head harder into the rail underneath him. She could hear bone break, hear teeth crack, and it was like music to her. She swung the post again, and the man's face was unrecognizable as human. Another swing, and an arterial spray of blood shot through the moonlight. Finally, one last swing, one last primal scream, and there was a crunch. Something hard crumbling against something soft. Mr. Hobo would never be touching anything, ever again.
    She realized she was panting again, and she dropped the rod. It hit the rail and sent a gonging noise echoing off into the night. Somewhere in the distance, she heard an owl scream.
    “ Move him. ”
    Con's voice was deep, like normal, but also slightly breathless. She didn't even ask what he meant, she just walked around and grabbed the hobo under his shoulders. Con grabbed his legs and they lifted together.
    Half of the man's head stayed on the track.
    While they carried the body to the ditch, she could feel his blood running over her hands. She glanced at Con and realized his hands and forearms were coated in the red substance, as well. It was dark out, and there was only a full moon for light, but for some reason, the blood was scarlet in color. Shiny and bright.
    They didn't say a word. They dropped the body and Con rolled it onto its stomach. Then he grabbed her hand and began pulling her along behind him. She still didn't say anything, just jogged to keep up with his pace.
    They were around the corner from where a bunch of cars were parked at the base of a hill. He didn't lead her to them, though; he pulled her in the opposite direction, through an old railroad crossing. There was rusty fencing that ran along the side of the tracks and they followed it almost all the way back to the station. His truck stood there, easily within five hundred feet of the old building. Why had he parked so far away from the trail?
    Because he knew he'd be bringing me here. Because he knew we'd need privacy.
    While he dug around for his keys, she stared at her reflection in the passenger window. There was a bright slash of red going across her neck, and there was blood all over her arms. She looked like the walking dead. She began wiping her hands against her