Free The Last Days of October by Jackson Spencer Bell Page A

face a numb slab of meat, her head swam as she tried to
piece together what had just happened, what was happening now.   She blinked, trying to clear her vision.   In the upper corner of the store, a security
camera stared at her with a sightless eye.  
    Her Ruger lay on
the floor beside another stack of bags.   Out of reach.
    “You’re mine
now.   Both of you.”
    His profane
fingers closed into fists and he jerked her underwear down to mid-thigh, with
her jeans.   It had felt warm in the
hardware store there in the sun coming through the window, but now the air was
cold against her bare skin.   The hands
kneaded and fondled her backside for a moment and then pulled away.
    She heard a
zipper.
    No .   No, this is not happening .
    But it was happening, it was.   She had come downtown
to get beef jerky and batteries and now she was getting raped on top of a
gardening display.
    No.   No .  
    “Gotta warn you,”
he gasped behind her.   “I’m not gentle.”
    Those rude bony
hands reached between her thighs in search of something that was not
theirs.   When his skin touched hers, an
electric shock suddenly coursed through her body and she jerked to life.   In a single motion, she whirled around and
drove her elbow into his face.
    His nose exploded
in a shower of blood and he fell back.   He fell on his butt, his erect penis pointing at the ceiling like some
sorry little twig, his eyes open wide in surprise.   Something moved in the shadows behind him,
but Heather paid it no mind.   She fell
sideways.   Her legs mermaid-useless
within the bindings of her jeans and underwear, she scooted along the floor
until her right hand closed around the Ruger’s grip.   She brought it to bear just as Clyde
struggled to his feet.  
    “YOU BITCH!” he
screamed.
    She leveled the
gun at him, his face in her sights.   “Don’t move,” she said.
    “My fugging
NOSE!”   Blood poured from his face and
splattered his shirt.   He sounded like he
had a cold.  
    She was barely
aware of the floor beneath her naked bottom.   “Move and you die.”
    He looked down at
her, blinking.  
    And then he
smiled.
    Suddenly conscious
that she was laying on the ground with her private parts exposed, a small part
of her wanted nothing more than to cover up so that Clyde—so that no one—could
see.   But the rest of her held the Ruger
steady.
    “You can’t shoot
me,” he said.   “I’m the last man on
Earth.   There’s no one else.”
    “Don’t move,” she
repeated through clenched teeth.
    “Put that gun
down.”
    “Clyde…”
    “Come on,” he
said.   “We’ve got to do this.   It’s the way
of things.   Adam and Eve, right?”
    He took a step
forward.
    Heather squeezed
the trigger.
    A flash and peal
of thunder, and a neat round hole appeared on Clyde’s left cheek a split-second
before the back of his head disappeared.   Something dark and red splattered on the ceiling tile.
    He fell
backwards.   This time, he didn’t get up.
    She held the gun
on him for several moments.   When he
didn’t move, she stood and laid it atop the bags of fertilizer while she pulled
up her underwear and jeans.
    Something moved at
the back of the store.   She snatched the
pistol and aimed it towards the shadows, barely visible in the back.   Three of them—one tall, two short.   She couldn’t see their faces, but something
inside of her head told her she was looking at Jack Walker, the proprietor of
Revolution Hardware.   And his children;
she had seen them in here working alongside their father when she came to buy
supplies before.   They had come here
after turning, or they’d been here when it all happened.   And they remained here because…
    The storeroom.   The storeroom has no windows, and it’s
dark.   They like that.
    They didn’t
move.   She glanced down at Clyde, lying there in a pool of slowly-spreading blood in
that space where the sunlight began weakening and giving way to the darkness
beyond.