The pain from the first head shot was so excruciating that MoXambeeqwa jumped clean out of her skin!  So, she didn’t much feel the second bullet, or the third.

Or, the fourth.

Terrence was nothing if not -thorough…

“You dogs meet me at my mom’s in 60,” Terrence dba Boss Ice, told his boys.

She’d been the only one Terrence had let call him by his given name, which had given MoXambeeqwa more than a little status in the ‘hood.

Until he’d gotten tired of her, and she hadn’t had the good sense to take the hints, and step aside voluntarily.

“What if we ain’t-finished- by then?” asked Clown Boy.  The rest of the pack backgrounding a hyena chorus.

“Be finished.”

Terrence walked out of the door.

The pack’s chittering grew.

MoXambeeqwa watched, only for second, then fled outside, phasing through the time-ravaged wall.

She floated backward over the rickety porch, the astral glow surrounding her including colors for which she had no names.

It occurred to her that she was a lot less upset about having just been murdered than she might have thought she’d be.

Dying, she decided, was so much more stressful than being dead.

Realization of movement roused her.

Dilapidated houses, hoopties, weed-filled yards and the faces of world-worn folk trained past her.

Only habit turned her in the direction she was traveling, which happened to be in the same direction that Terrence was leisurely pedaling.

A matter of interest.

But not much.

Terrence wheeled through an alley, expertly dodging debris.  He slowed enough to toss a small, plastic bag into the liquor store’s dumpster, then cruised on.

Soon, he pulled into his mom’s front yard, leaning the bike, unchained, against the house.

Once inside, he slammed the door through MoXambeeqwa, pausing momentarily to scan the perpetually spot-less living room for any errant dust flecks.

“I’m hungry,” he told the reed-thin woman trembling there, as he strode into the kitchen.

“I’m almost through fixin’ dinner, Boss Ice,” she told him, avoiding eye contact.

“Almost?”

MoXambeeqwa felt more than a twinge of annoyance.  She’d never liked how Terrence treated his mother and had frequently told him so.

Nobody should be terrified of their own child, in their own home.

“W-w-would you like something to hold you?”

“No, I want you to have my dinner ready when I come in,” Terrence told her, quietly.

MoXambeeqwa had never heard Terrence raise his voice.

He never had to.

“Boss Ice,” said a small voice, “Can we come in?”

“Yeah.  Sit down and keep quiet.”

Terrence’s three younger brothers silently entered the kitchen, took their assigned places, sat very, very still.

Hovering behind the eldest of the three, MoXambeeqwa noted that her aura had settled into a throbbing ember-red.

Apparently, Terrence noted it, too.

He looked over the head of his eldest-younger brother, locking glares with MoXambeeqwa.

“You bein’ dead don’t bother me none.”

Fury blasted away the last of her lassitude!

She jammed one ghostly fist on one ghostly hip, cocked her shakin’ finger into the ready position!

Terrence twisted his lips into a rare smirk, then gasped!

He twisted right, grabbing at his spindly mother!

But, she scrambled past him and, yanking his eldest-younger brother from his own chair, huddling with him in the kitchen corner furthest from Terrence!

While reveling in Terrence’s distress, the oddest idea popped into MoXambeeqwa’s mind.

Couldn’t hurt, she told herself, seein’ as how I’m already dead!

She reached into Boss Ice’s chest, grabbed the blade his mother had so obligingly jammed into his back and jerked the whole butcher knife completely out through his front!

Loud, raucous laughter interspersed with pounding and kicking on the front door distracted her.

“BOSS ICE!  WE HERE!  SEND DA’BITCH TO LET US IN!”

Kah_-lown Boy…!

MoXambeequa willed the front door open, waited until the whole pack had trooped in, slammed it shut!

She took a moment to knock off the phone receiver and psychically punch nine-one-one, before wafting the blood-coated knife handle over to Clown Boy’s palm and, clamping his fingers around it, pounced him on the rest of the recently late Terrence’s former pack!

Might as well, she thought, smugly, be thorough…

____________________________

©2011 Acquanetta M. Sproule

I’ve learned the best way to manage NIGHTMARES is to share them.  Have some?

“Circle the wagons,” the Wagon Master shouted. “There’s an Indian war party on top of that hill.”
 
Two dozen wagons formed a circle. Women and children poured out and hid underneath, while men prepared for battle.
 
Clayton, the Wagon Master, checked their defenses.
 
“Mr. Clayton,” shouted the prettiest woman in the group. “Is there some way we can prevent them from attacking until dark?”
 
“None that I know of, Miss Elizabeth. Why do you ask such a strange question?”
 
“If they don’t attack until it’s dark, I can assure victory with no casualties on our side.”
 
“What makes you say such a foolish thing?” he said to the only single women traveling from Kansas City to California.
 
“Come closer, and I’ll tell you in your ear.”
 
An invitation from such a stunning woman was a gift from heaven. Clayton imagined her lips brushing his ear as she spoke. Maybe she’d even press her body ever so slightly against his.
 
His heart pounded as he approached her.  She smelled of lavender—so unlike the other women in the wagon train who reeked of brown laundry soap.
 
Elizabeth’s wonderful fragrance and voluptuous form made him think of things forbidden between married men and single women. Things he craved since waving goodbye to his wife and children back in Kansas City. Things that made him forget impending danger from hostile natives.
 
Her breast pressed against his arm when she leaned toward him to whisper in his ear.  Erotic fantasies filled his head, but they disappeared the moment she spoke. 
 
“What in the hell are you talking about?” he asked. “What does that word mean?”
 
“It means you’re saved. All of you.”
 
“Woman, I think the prairie heat softened your brain. Don’t waste any more of my time with crazy talk. Go over to Granny Higgins’ wagon and stay with her.  Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”
 
“Yes.”
 
He gave her a revolver and a box of bullets. “Make every shot count. Don’t shoot until you—”
 
“See the whites of their eyes,” she said. “My daddy was a captain in Lee’s Army. He said that all the time when he taught me how to shoot.”
 
The afternoon ended without a single attack by the hostiles. Everyone figured the Indians would attack when the full moon rose.
 
As it grew dark, Indians imitated coyote yells. The sounds unnerved everyone in the wagon train, except Clayton who’d fought Plains Indians during previous continental crossings.
 
“Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered, as he made the rounds again. “We’re lucky the moon is full. Keep a sharp eye out for moving shadows. They’ll sneak up on us in groups of two or three. If you hear a sound, shoot at it.”
 
He kept Granny Higgins’ wagon for last, hoping to speak to Elizabeth again. He wanted to inhale her aroma and hear her soft voice before the battle began.
 
“How you doing, Granny,” he said.
 
“I was fine until Elizabeth left me here by myself.”
 
“What do you mean she left?”
 
“She said she’d be back later. Next thing I knew, she was on all fours and heading toward the Injuns.”
 
“What? You sure?”
 
“Yep. Left me her pistol and bullets to defend myself.”
 
“Give it to me,” he said. “You might end up shooting yourself. Follow me. I’ll put you with the Fiddlers. You’ll be safer with them.”
 
After settling Higgins, Clayton went back to his own wagon. That’s when the terrible sounds began.  Sounds he’d never heard before.  
 
An hour passed. Still no attack.
 
Once again, Clayton checked the defenders.  “Just because you ain’t seen them yet, don’t mean they ain’t coming. They’re hoping you’ll get real tired and fall asleep. Don’t even let yourself close your eyes for a second. Soon as you do, they’ll sneak up on you and slice your throat.”
 
When he reached Higgins’ wagon, he was surprised to smell lavender.
 
“What going on, Miss Elizabeth,” he whispered. “I looked all over and didn’t see you anywhere. Why did you leave Granny by herself? Where’d you go?”
 
“For a walk. Everything’s fine now. You can tell everybody to relax. Tell them to build fires and make supper.”
 
“I never ran into such a crazy women like you before. You smell good and look good, but your brain’s soft as corn mush.”
 
“I swear on my mother’s grave, they’re dead. All forty-seven of them.
 
“How can you say such a thing?”
 
“Because I killed them.”
 
Clayton spat and went back to his wagon.
 
The night passed without an attack.
 
At dawn, Clayton and six others rode toward the hill where he’d first spotted the Indians. They found bodies torn to pieces and body parts scattered everywhere. He counted forty-seven decapitated heads.
 
“What on God’s Earth happened to these varmints?” he asked aloud, covered with chills. He’d never seen such horrendous destruction—even during the most savage battles against the Confederates.
 
Returning to the wagon train, he ordered everybody to resume their journey.
 
“What happened,” some asked.
 
“They’re all dead. Thank the Lord. We were saved by warriors greater than the Indians. Hopefully those brave souls are up ahead. Maybe we’ll spot them so we can thank them for saving us.”
 
As the wagons headed toward the Rocky Mountains, Clayton pondered what Elizabeth had whispered in his ear the day before.  Once again he wondered what the word meant.
 
Going from wagon to wagon, he asked if anybody had a book that told the meaning of words.
 
“We got one,” said Fiddler.
 
“Can you read?” asked Clayton.
 
“No, but my missus reads pretty good.”
 
“How about asking her to look up a word for me.”
 
“What’s the word?”
 
“It sounds like three words joined together…lie, can, and thrope.

___________________________________

©2011 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula’s stories have been published by 139 magazines and 42 anthologies. He’s won 1st prize in 12 contests and 2nd in 8.  He’s authored 3 books of flash and micro-fiction tales, plus a self-study book that teaches how to write minimalist genre flash fiction.  Titles:  The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales;  A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales;  I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance; Writing Genre Flash Fiction The Minimalist Way – A Self Study Book. eBooks at www.BooksForABuck.com.  Paperbacks at www.Amazon.com.