Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella by J. R. Rain
Authors: J. R. Rain
Tags: ScreamQueen
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the knife. I picked him up by the throat. Screaming and gagging, he swung wildly at me with his good arm, connecting a glancing blow off the side of my head. I simply squeezed harder and his flailing stopped.
His face was turning purple; I liked that.
I raised him high and swung him around so that the others could see. They gaped unbelievingly.
“ You may run now,” I said.
And they did. Scattering like chickens before the hawk. They disappeared into the night, around hedges and into dark doorways. Two of them just continued running down the middle of the street. All of them were gone, save for one, the fifty-year-old. He was pointing a gun at my head.
“Put my nephew down,” he said.
“ It’s always nice to see gang raping and murdering kept in the family,” I said.
I put his nephew down. Sort of. I hurled the kid with all my strength into his uncle. The gun went off, a massive explosion that rattled my senses and stung the hell out of my hyper-sensitive ears.
When the smoke cleared so to speak, the old man was looking down with bewildered horror.
Switchblade was lying sprawled on the concrete sidewalk, blood pumping from a wound in his chest. Spreading fast over the concrete. A black oil slick in the night.
Blood.
Something awakened within me. Something not very nice.
The older man looked from me to Switchblade, then at the gun in his hand. A look of horror crossed his features and tears sprang from his eyes. Then he fled into the shadows with the others, looking back once over his shoulder before disappearing over someone’s backyard fence.
I was left alone with Switchblade. His right hand was trying to cover the wound; instead, it just flopped pathetically.
“Well,” I said to him, kneeling down, “nice set of friends you have.”
And as I squatted next to him, the flopping stopped and he looked at me with dead eyes. I checked for a pulse. There was none.
Aroused by the gunshot, house lights began turning on one by one. I looked down at the body again.
So much blood....
17.
We were alone in an alley behind some apartments.
The early morning sky was still black, save for the faint light from the half moon. I was nestled between a Dumpster and three black bags of trash filled with things foul. A small wind meandered down the alley. The plastic bags rustled. My hair lifted and fell—and so did the hair on the dead guy.
After my runs, I usually feed on cow blood. The cow blood is mixed with all sorts of impurities and foul crap. I often gag. Sort of my own private Fear Factor with no fifty grand reward at the end of the hour.
Before me lay Switchblade, the punk who had no doubt organized the gang bang. I had ferreted him away before anyone could investigate the shooting and now he lay at my feet, dead and broken.
I looked down at his chest, where blood had stained his flannel shirt nearly black.
Blood....
I ripped open his flannel shirt, buttons pinging everywhere. His chest was awash in a sea of caked red. The hole in his chest was a dark moon in a vermilion sky.
His blood would contain alcohol, as he had been drinking. I didn’t care. The blood would be pure enough. Straight from the source. The ideal way to feed. Then again, ideal was relative. Ideally I would be feasting on turkey lasagna.
I dipped my head down, placed my lips over the massive wound in his chest, and drank....
* * *
I returned the body to the same house, left it where it had fallen. I drifted back into the darkness of the school grounds, where I knew in my heart they were going to drag me off to be raped.
It was still early morning, still dark. No one was out on the streets. Curious neighbors had gone back to sleep; there were no police investigating the sound of a gunshot. Apparently gunshots here were a common enough occurrence to not arouse that much suspicion.
The attackers themselves were long gone. They were scared shitless, no doubt. One of their own had been shot by one of
His face was turning purple; I liked that.
I raised him high and swung him around so that the others could see. They gaped unbelievingly.
“ You may run now,” I said.
And they did. Scattering like chickens before the hawk. They disappeared into the night, around hedges and into dark doorways. Two of them just continued running down the middle of the street. All of them were gone, save for one, the fifty-year-old. He was pointing a gun at my head.
“Put my nephew down,” he said.
“ It’s always nice to see gang raping and murdering kept in the family,” I said.
I put his nephew down. Sort of. I hurled the kid with all my strength into his uncle. The gun went off, a massive explosion that rattled my senses and stung the hell out of my hyper-sensitive ears.
When the smoke cleared so to speak, the old man was looking down with bewildered horror.
Switchblade was lying sprawled on the concrete sidewalk, blood pumping from a wound in his chest. Spreading fast over the concrete. A black oil slick in the night.
Blood.
Something awakened within me. Something not very nice.
The older man looked from me to Switchblade, then at the gun in his hand. A look of horror crossed his features and tears sprang from his eyes. Then he fled into the shadows with the others, looking back once over his shoulder before disappearing over someone’s backyard fence.
I was left alone with Switchblade. His right hand was trying to cover the wound; instead, it just flopped pathetically.
“Well,” I said to him, kneeling down, “nice set of friends you have.”
And as I squatted next to him, the flopping stopped and he looked at me with dead eyes. I checked for a pulse. There was none.
Aroused by the gunshot, house lights began turning on one by one. I looked down at the body again.
So much blood....
17.
We were alone in an alley behind some apartments.
The early morning sky was still black, save for the faint light from the half moon. I was nestled between a Dumpster and three black bags of trash filled with things foul. A small wind meandered down the alley. The plastic bags rustled. My hair lifted and fell—and so did the hair on the dead guy.
After my runs, I usually feed on cow blood. The cow blood is mixed with all sorts of impurities and foul crap. I often gag. Sort of my own private Fear Factor with no fifty grand reward at the end of the hour.
Before me lay Switchblade, the punk who had no doubt organized the gang bang. I had ferreted him away before anyone could investigate the shooting and now he lay at my feet, dead and broken.
I looked down at his chest, where blood had stained his flannel shirt nearly black.
Blood....
I ripped open his flannel shirt, buttons pinging everywhere. His chest was awash in a sea of caked red. The hole in his chest was a dark moon in a vermilion sky.
His blood would contain alcohol, as he had been drinking. I didn’t care. The blood would be pure enough. Straight from the source. The ideal way to feed. Then again, ideal was relative. Ideally I would be feasting on turkey lasagna.
I dipped my head down, placed my lips over the massive wound in his chest, and drank....
* * *
I returned the body to the same house, left it where it had fallen. I drifted back into the darkness of the school grounds, where I knew in my heart they were going to drag me off to be raped.
It was still early morning, still dark. No one was out on the streets. Curious neighbors had gone back to sleep; there were no police investigating the sound of a gunshot. Apparently gunshots here were a common enough occurrence to not arouse that much suspicion.
The attackers themselves were long gone. They were scared shitless, no doubt. One of their own had been shot by one of
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