Page 35 of Stalker

The door at the top of the stairs stands locked. Ancient wood, reinforced with steel bands. My boot connects with a satisfying crunch. The door explodes inward, splinters flying.

I burst through, McPistol raised. The garish weapon feels wrong in my hand, but it will serve.

The attic reeks of blood and fear. Vorpa hangs from a ceiling beam, chains biting into her wrists. Silver tape covers her mouth, but her golden eyes blaze with fury.

Four humans crowd the room, all sporting fresh injuries. One cradles a mangled hand against his chest, knuckles purple and swollen. Red scales cling to his broken fingers.

"Nobody move." The McPistol's sights settle on the nearest thug.

Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead where Vorpa clearly headbutted him. Another sports a black eye and walks with a limp. The third's nose points sideways, dried blood caking his chin.

My ancestors would laugh. Vorpa gave better than she got before they managed to chain her.

The one with the broken hand edges toward a rusty pipe lying in the corner. His good hand twitches.

I click off the safety. The sound echoes in the cramped space.

"That includes you, friend. Unless you want to lose the other hand too?"

The nearest thug squints at my weapon, his bruised face scrunching up.

"Wait a minute. Is that... is that a McPistol?"

Heat crawls up my neck. The thug with the broken hand leans forward.

"It IS a fucking McPistol!"

Laughter erupts from all corners of the room. Even Vorpa's shoulders shake, muffled snorts escaping around her gag. The clown on the grip leers at me, mocking my choice.

My ancestors' disapproval burns in my chest. The bone spurs along my arms bristle.

"Shut up!" The word tears from my throat. "I said nobody move!" I jab the gaudy weapon at the first smart-mouth. "You, Mr. Comedian, cut her down."

He smirks, shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. "Do you want me to cut her down, or to not move? Because I can't do both?—"

The McPistol bucks in my hand. The crack of the shot drowns out his final word. He drops, clutching his groin as a high-pitched keen fills the room.

"I had enough of his fucking McShit," I tell the others, the weapon's stupid slogan suddenly feeling appropriate.

The remaining thugs freeze, their amusement evaporating like morning dew. Blood spreads across the floor beneath their writhing companion.

"You." I point the McPistol at the thug with the black eye. "Get her down. Now."

He scrambles to comply, fumbling with the chains. The moment Vorpa's feet touch the ground, she spins. Her tail whips around, catching her rescuer in the temple. He drops like a sack of rocks.

The remaining thugs don't even have time to blink. Vorpa moves like liquid mercury, her scaled fists connecting with brutal precision. Bodies hit the floor in rapid succession.

"Efficient." I lower the McPistol.

Vorpa rips the tape from her mouth. "I should kill them all."

"But?"

"But dead men tell no tales." She kicks the nearest unconscious form. "Wake that one up. He seemed chatty before."

I grab a fistful of the smart-mouth's shirt, hauling him upright. Cold water from a nearby pitcher brings him around.

"Who hired you?"