said Mr. Chuckles. The creep didn't move. "Hey!" he said, popping the back of the guy's head. "Wake up! There's plenty of time for that—just get something to tie her hands!" He looked at me and lifted my baton. "You! Sit!"
I sat.
This was going south real fast, but I couldn't do anything with Mr. Chuckles holding my baton and slapping it against his meaty paw.
Mr. Creeps finally woke up and looked around stupidly, then picked up a piece of nylon cord.
"Tie it tight," said Mr. Chuckles. "I like it tight." He guffawed at that joke. A real comedian, this guy.
I held out my hands with tight fists, knowing this was my best chance at getting these guys complacent. Mr. Creeps sure enough didn't know what the hell he was doing. As he wrapped the rope around, I pushed against it with my closed and clenched fists, making it as loose as I could. Mr. Creeps tied it as tight as he could, but it was plenty loose for me whenever I relaxed my hands.
I tried to look frightened and worried. Well, really I didn't have to try too hard—I was frightened and worried.
Mr. Chuckles put down my baton and picked up the backpack, while Mr. Creeps just backed away and stared at my chest, licking his lips.
I tried to breathe slowly. I tried to count down from twenty.
When I reached zero, I started again at nineteen.
My breathing calmed. I looked away from Mr. Creeps, who was still staring at me, and looked at Mr. Chuckles. "Nothing in there but clothes," I said. "Food is in the other bag."
Mr. Chuckles looked at me, then continued riffling in the backpack. But Mr. Creeps looked away toward the bag and turned to walk over to it.
Just as I'd hoped.
I slipped the rope and pushed out from the couch with all my strength, coiling both legs and striking Mr. Creeps sideways on his knee. It snapped and buckled and he cried out. Mr. Chuckles jumped up and reached for me, but I was already on the floor, rolling away toward my tool belt. I picked it up and swung it into his knees, then continued rolling away. He grunted and stopped reaching for me for just a second. I stood up and pulled at the machete in the belt. It stuck for a second—too long. I swung the belt again at Mr. Chuckles' reaching paws and connected, then backed away some more.
He yelped, and stopped. He laughed, and said, "Very nice, Buffy. Now give me the belt. You be nice and we might let you go in a few days, after we've had a little while to get to know each other."
I stood up straight and put the belt behind my back. "You'll let me go?" I asked innocently. My fingers fumbled blindly at the machete, but I found the zipper to the sheath and quietly pulled it open. "You can have my stuff," I said with a tremor. "Just let me go home."
"Heh, sure, right, Cal?" he asked the guy on the floor. I guess that was the name of Mr. Creeps.
He just moaned and clutched his knee. "I think she busted my knee, man," he said.
"Oh well, we'll definitely have to take that tool belt as recompense for that."
Who knew a dumb tub like this guy could grasp the proper meaning of a three syllable word?
"Here," I said, and tossed the belt to him. He caught it easily, but sure didn't expect me to jump at him after it. I swung the machete at him across my body, aiming for his thick neck, but he put up his arms in time and the blade chunked into his meaty forearm and he bellowed in rage. I held it with my left hand as I turned my body backwards, bringing my right hand up in a solid chop at his neck.
I'd broken four boards doing that in class.
Didn't really seem to hurt him much, unfortunately, but my momentum carried me and helped me pull the machete from his bones. I continued the swing, and in a single motion embedded it in the back of his neck.
He went down like a sack of potatoes.
Or a whole pallet of them.
I’d been yelling and screaming the whole time, but that fact barely
I sat.
This was going south real fast, but I couldn't do anything with Mr. Chuckles holding my baton and slapping it against his meaty paw.
Mr. Creeps finally woke up and looked around stupidly, then picked up a piece of nylon cord.
"Tie it tight," said Mr. Chuckles. "I like it tight." He guffawed at that joke. A real comedian, this guy.
I held out my hands with tight fists, knowing this was my best chance at getting these guys complacent. Mr. Creeps sure enough didn't know what the hell he was doing. As he wrapped the rope around, I pushed against it with my closed and clenched fists, making it as loose as I could. Mr. Creeps tied it as tight as he could, but it was plenty loose for me whenever I relaxed my hands.
I tried to look frightened and worried. Well, really I didn't have to try too hard—I was frightened and worried.
Mr. Chuckles put down my baton and picked up the backpack, while Mr. Creeps just backed away and stared at my chest, licking his lips.
I tried to breathe slowly. I tried to count down from twenty.
When I reached zero, I started again at nineteen.
My breathing calmed. I looked away from Mr. Creeps, who was still staring at me, and looked at Mr. Chuckles. "Nothing in there but clothes," I said. "Food is in the other bag."
Mr. Chuckles looked at me, then continued riffling in the backpack. But Mr. Creeps looked away toward the bag and turned to walk over to it.
Just as I'd hoped.
I slipped the rope and pushed out from the couch with all my strength, coiling both legs and striking Mr. Creeps sideways on his knee. It snapped and buckled and he cried out. Mr. Chuckles jumped up and reached for me, but I was already on the floor, rolling away toward my tool belt. I picked it up and swung it into his knees, then continued rolling away. He grunted and stopped reaching for me for just a second. I stood up and pulled at the machete in the belt. It stuck for a second—too long. I swung the belt again at Mr. Chuckles' reaching paws and connected, then backed away some more.
He yelped, and stopped. He laughed, and said, "Very nice, Buffy. Now give me the belt. You be nice and we might let you go in a few days, after we've had a little while to get to know each other."
I stood up straight and put the belt behind my back. "You'll let me go?" I asked innocently. My fingers fumbled blindly at the machete, but I found the zipper to the sheath and quietly pulled it open. "You can have my stuff," I said with a tremor. "Just let me go home."
"Heh, sure, right, Cal?" he asked the guy on the floor. I guess that was the name of Mr. Creeps.
He just moaned and clutched his knee. "I think she busted my knee, man," he said.
"Oh well, we'll definitely have to take that tool belt as recompense for that."
Who knew a dumb tub like this guy could grasp the proper meaning of a three syllable word?
"Here," I said, and tossed the belt to him. He caught it easily, but sure didn't expect me to jump at him after it. I swung the machete at him across my body, aiming for his thick neck, but he put up his arms in time and the blade chunked into his meaty forearm and he bellowed in rage. I held it with my left hand as I turned my body backwards, bringing my right hand up in a solid chop at his neck.
I'd broken four boards doing that in class.
Didn't really seem to hurt him much, unfortunately, but my momentum carried me and helped me pull the machete from his bones. I continued the swing, and in a single motion embedded it in the back of his neck.
He went down like a sack of potatoes.
Or a whole pallet of them.
I’d been yelling and screaming the whole time, but that fact barely
Similar Books
