frustration.
The Walther sprung to mind first – he really wanted to have a play with that and its allure was strong. But no, that was not needed. He pulled out the hunting knife as he gradually closed the gap, his footfalls squelching in the mud as the rain continued to drizzle down around them.
She struggled on, shaking and crying, her hands and knees oozing blood that instantly mixed with the dark, gritty mud. Snot and tears dribbled from her face and were lost on the cold wet ground. As he loomed over her, rain spattering his head and shoulders, Mandy spun onto her back, holding her trembling, gory hands up in defence. Seeing the knife, droplets of clear water dripping from the tip of the jagged blade, caused the panic in her face to twist into utter terror. Suddenly the stark reality of it all crashed upon her. “No! God-please-no!” Raindrops struck her face, causing her to blink feverishly and smearing blood and muck down her cheeks in tiny rivulets.
“Sorry, Mandy, God isn’t going to help you.” His tone was morose, matching the sudden and unexpected sadness he felt inside. He couldn’t quite understand this new feeling, but he had to finish what he had started. There would be time later for reflecting. “You’re going to die here, and then after I’ve tasted of your flesh I’m going to chop you up and bury you. Your remains will never be found.” He had no intention of eating part of her body, hell he liked his steak well done for christsake, so the thought of a little raw long-pig almost made him gag. It just sounded like a cool thing to say that would hopefully banish the feeling of sorrow that now marred his earlier feelings of excitement. It was like a bitter aftertaste of a much savoured sweet.
Mandy screamed again, her features contorted with both rage and horror, and then all at once, she launched herself at him, propelling herself up using both elbows and feet with surprising speed. Her voice was hoarse as she spat, “Not if I kill you!”
Whitman was surprised by the counterattack and stumbled backwards with the force, his boots sliding in the mud. Snarling, she scratched and slapped at his face, blood and muck spraying from her clawed hands. He stepped back another couple of feet, before he recovered enough to block her next torrent of desperate blows. Then, as she blundered forward once more, half-blinded by rain and tears and muck and blood, he stabbed her in the stomach, burying the knife all the way to the hilt.
She let out a soft gurgle and her attack abated at once. For a moment she just teetered in front of him, trembling, her arms still raised in readiness for a renewed assault. They were as close as lovers, his wet, mud-daubed face inches from hers. There was no pain in her face, just surprise. Attacker and victim stood staring into each other’s eyes, panting. After the momentary pause, as rain pitter-pattered down over them, she toppled backwards, the knife sliding back out of her soft flesh, as if through water. The tip of the knife snagged on her drenched purple-monster jacket and she hung there, drooping like a sodden rag doll. A trickle of blood appeared in the corner of her mouth as she uttered, faintly, “But … why?”
With the last syllable still adrift, he cast off the two bags with a shrug of his shoulder and then, at once, sprung upon her, straddling her slim wet denim legs as she landed flat-out in the mud. The sneer returned to his quivering lips as he ripped open her jacket and blouse to reveal her bra-less, rounded breasts. The sight of her pert nipples and soft skin caused him to pause. Her skin, being spattered with droplets of rain, looked porcelain in the failing light, with a pure, untouched innocence. Then his gaze fell upon the clean entry wound into her stomach with dark blood oozing out down her side. It reminded him of the unashamed lie of it and that abruptly renewed his fervour.
Lashing out in a sudden and violent frenzy, the knife plunged into