The Church of Minos #9

The following takes place after The Walrus of Death, which you can purchase HERE


CHAPTER FOUR - FIST OF RAGE
Part Two

-This is a first draft-

Lightning flashed again and the creature was in full sprint, bearing straight for me. Officer King had run left, arching around where the ogre had been standing previously.

Myself, I fought every instinct I had and ran toward the beast rather than away.

The next flash of lightning and the ogre was just ten yards away and closing fast. I popped off two quick shots on the fly, one from each gun.

The light fled before I could see if the shots had hit their mark, but I didn’t need to see to know that they had. I always hit what I aim for.

The thing roared. I wasn’t lying when I said that shooting it would only make it angry, but I didn’t really have a choice.

An ogre has thick skin, like armor. Bullets will pierce it, eventually, but the few times I’ve ever come up against one I’ve found that it’s best to just run.

I don’t like to run.

Another flash of light and I was able to throw myself aside the instant before the thing could barrel into me.

I fired off two more shots as I fell, hitting it in the back of one of its knees. By the next flash I could see it take a header into the mud. That made me smile.

There was another burst of light, but this time it wasn’t the lightning. Office King had pulled the patrol car around and now had it pointed into the yard, its headlights falling over me and the creature in the mud.

The ogre pulled itself to its feet.

“I kill you,” it said in a voice like a thunder. “You die now.”

“You first,” I said, and shot it in the face.

The ogre roared in pain. It was one of the most terrifying sounds I’d ever heard. Then it was on top of me.

The thing hit me like an entire offensive line. I slammed into the ground, my breath pulled from my lungs like a rabbit from a hat. I felt a few ribs break and then I was face down in the mud.

A fist the size of a Buick Roadmaster hammered into my side and more ribs snapped like they were made of glass. I screamed and it pushed my face down into the mud, holding it there as I choked.

The creature toyed with me. Letting go of the back of my head long enough to allow me to catch my breath. Then it was back in the mud.

The third time it let me up for air I laughed when I realized that it had stopped raining.

Then there came the sudden roaring blast of a shotgun and the pressure on the back of my head relented as the ogre dropped heavily into the mud next to me, its head nothing more than a ruined mess.

Officer King stood over me, shotgun in hand and a grim look on her face. She caught me looking at her.

“Door busters,” she said.

“Say no more,” I said. “Help me up. I’m afraid the beast broke a few of my ribs.

“I’ll call and ambulance,” she turned.

“Don’t bother with all that,” I said. “I’ll heal up in good time. Just help me up.”

It was true, I could already feel the familiar itch that meant my accelerated healing had begun.

Officer King — I suppose I could refer to her now as Diana considering that she probably saved my life.

So, Diana held out a hand, I took it, and she pulled me to my feet. I groaned and winced as I rose. I heal fast, but that don’t mean that crap don’t hurt.

“Door busters, huh?” I said, wiping mud from, well, everywhere. “That was a little bit of genius.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You gonna be okay?”

“Eventually,” I said.

Door buster, or breaching rounds, are specially designed shotgun shells made for blowing the hinges or lock mechanism off of doors. They are frangible rounds, meaning that they can destroy a hinge and then disperse into harmless powder, thus reducing the risk of ricochet. Fired point black at an ogre head leaves next to nothing behind other than a corpse with no place to hang his hat.

“So that’s an ogre,” she said, looking down at the headless body.

“That’s an ogre,” I said.

She waved her hand under her nose, a disgusted look on her face.

“Yeah,” I said. “Fragrant, ain’t they?”

“They are at that.”

I limped over to the frame house and took a seat on the back concrete steps.

“They’re the cause of the stink, pun intended, behind the skunk ape legend,” I said.

“Skunk ape?”

“Yeah, you know,” I said. “Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Some claim that when they’ve seen Bigfoot that the creature was accompanied by an almost unbearable stench. Those folks didn’t see Bigfoot, though. They saw an ogre.”

“So Bigfoot doesn’t exist, then,” she said.

“Oh no, Bigfoot exists. And they smell just fine. They groom themselves regularly.”

She looked at me as if trying to decide if I was having fun with her. I wasn’t.

“Why do they stink so much?” She asked.

“Well, that’s up to debate. Scholars who know of such things will tell you a bunch of nonsense regarding how an ogre releases the scent to ward of enemies. Frankly I think they just have a serious aversion to bathing. But what do I know.”

I waved my own hand in front of my nose.

“I have to admit though that this thing is a mite ripe,” I said.

Then I noticed the wind. It was still blowing heavily from the west. The ogre carcass lay east of us. I rose, a jolt of paint shooting through my midsection.

Then I heard the roar.

I turned as Diana gasped. There, standing between us and the car, the shapes quite distinct against the backdrop of the headlights, stood not one, but two more ogres.

Here ends Chapter Four



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