The Pens of Niverton

[ryeguy146]

"Diana? Diana, I need you to get your sweet ass moving. Din' bring ya on this job for your looks."

No response. Just like her, leave him alone in this damn place. At least his arm had stopped bleeding. Clif took the woman lying in the hall by her good leg and slid her to just between the childrens' rooms for easy collection later. Right now, he wanted to have a look at the that trophy room upstairs, mainly the gun collection. He climbed the stairs behind him, tracing a finger through the blood marks on the wall and drawing idly as he ascended.

Clif leaned into the bedroom to check on the man, didn't want anyone waking and sneaking up on him. No, the slumped figure wasn't going anywhere, and Clif hoped that he hadn't killed him. They were useless dead, and he had already damaged one. Nothing to do about it now, and he walked across the room to the cabinets of weaponry. He felt like a junkie in a cardamine shop.

Each firearm was polished to a fine sparkle. Each glimmered, even in the meager light from the windows. There wasn't much room for rifles and carbines, but a sweet collection of pistols and submachine guns. "Blasters, plasma cannons, and photon rifles, oh MY!" he sang to himself, but one pistol gave him pause, "What's this then?" Clif pressed his face against the glass of the display, leaving obscene marks on the carefully cared for cabinet. The pistol was unlike anything he had ever seen. No obvious power supply, and an overly large muzzle meant a slug thrower of some sort, but he couldn't quite tell at the angle. He tried the latch but it wouldn't budge. Shrugging, he gripped the handle of his tranq gun and smashed the glass out with the butt end. He reached through the shards and retrieved the pistol with care.

SMASH

The loud noise sounded like it was outside. Clif dropped the gun into one of his pockets and rushed to the window to see what all the commotion was about. A grey looking vehicle had lodged its self firmly into one of the fluted columns in front of the house. "Who tha..." He reached into another pocket and retrieved the radio.

"DIANA! What the hell was that?"

"That?" she repeated sweetly, "That is our getaway. It's in position. You're welcome."

"Getawa- Fine. I still need you to clear the basement. Expect a few, just stay sharp."

"I'm always sharp," She snorted back before turning off the radio. Clif watched her saunter up to the front door and make her grand entrance.

"Bloody finally," He groaned to himself. Clif stood back and scratched his chin, trying to remember what he was doing before remembering the man. He crossed back to the bedroom. The man's pulse was a slow but steady throb, and Clif nodded approvingly. Taking the man by his arms, he heaved him onto his back and slowly made his way down to where the rest of the unfortunate family lay bound. He wished that he was in better shape, Diana certainly wasn't about to help him carry down these three. Clif decided to check the ground floor for something that he could haul them with. He wasn't looking forward to heaving each over his back and carrying them to Diana's van.

It was the daughter's room that produced a tool sufficient: a plastic table. I carried it to the hallway and dropped it with the legs sticking into the air, reminding him of a dead animal of some kind. He first placed the woman onto the table and then slumped the man on top, ignoring the muffled protests of the children. He then removed his belt and secured it around one of the plastic handles on the table and slid the pile to the head of the stairs. Using the belt as a handle, he lowered the pair to the base and found himself panting from the effort. The front door stood wide and he wondered if Diana was already done with her part.

Before he had a chance to continue his internal dialogue, ice and pain erupted from his right shoulder. He felt metal scrape across his shoulder blade and he screamed. He heard it scrape across the bone and spreading fire as it passed. He dropped away from his assailant and grabbed for his newly acquired pistol, praying to whatever gods would listen that it was loaded.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK

Each shot rocked Clif's wrist back and lit the room from the muzzle flash. It illuminated the attacker, who appeared to be a fat dude wearing some sort of white puffy hat. "A chef," his mind thought dully, and he watched the man's body ripple from two points of impact and slowly fell backwards. Funny the things you latched onto in situations like this. Clif focused on the comical white hat as it fell from the head of the now dead chef and settled to the floor. Everything faded to black as he passed out.