I reach for my gun, but it's not there, and the quickness of my motion is instantly nauseating. There's no way I can stand; my head is spinning, I can barely breathe for the blood caked around my face and the vague recollection of air holes that was my nose.
There's no moon and the stars aren't much for light, but I can see Sara looking at me through the darkness. Her face is soaked in trepidation and she stares at me with her hand sliding away from her own empty holster - those Mad Max rejects must've had enough sense left in their fear to disarm us before they turned their backs.
The baying of sick hounds goes up again, mingled with machine gun fire - sounds like a good twenty of 'em, mad with lust for death and the scent of McMurphy stewing in their nostrils.
I catch Sara's eyes and read a look that almost begs "What do we do now?" It's so cute she's still capable of being afraid. I have a hard time feeling fear when I can't even feel my face. She seems to take some solace in my look, which I'd intended to convey my preference for a good blowjob before I'm torn to kibbles. What blood I haven't lost seems to have pooled in my hips, and my hard-on rages until I'm yanked dizzyingly to my feet by that fat fuck Cupcake.
"Tut tut, girls, get your heads together. We're gonna be late for the ball." I retch as quietly as I can, even though my throat feels like I'm vomiting bottle caps and broken glass. Somehow my feet are under me even before the gagging stops and we're stalking carefully upwind through the blackness toward the campfire. My head's finally coming back together when the Cupcake squeals "Oh fooey, we're missing it!"
He's gone, sprinting, and I focus my eyes up ahead, notably the most startled I've been for nearly as long as this shit's been goin down. I don't believe my fuckin eyes, man, seriously.
Oozing dog parts and leather clad portions of people are strewn across a scene of utter carnage, though plenty are still vertical, engaged in a chaos ballet with one man at the center of the blood-soaked stage. Everything, road warrior and hell dog, are after this man with twin machetes, a flashing smile, and the most graceful movements I've seen since Sara drug me to what had to be the most cock-softening rendition of Swan Lake ever.
His movements were hard to track in the fray, but the sound of metal through bone carried in the night air and so much blood was let loose to the sky that the raging cook fire nearly sizzled out. Mere seconds passed and the last body hit the ground just as the Cupcake made it to the campground.
We hurried to catch up, a little curious to figure out what the fuck was going on, why the two most monstrous killing machines I'd ever feared to dream of were now kissing each other on the cheeks like little French chambermaids... and, to some extent, what these gross fucks had thrown in with McMurphy, cause that kettle was steaming out a mighty fine odor that I couldn't help but salivate at. Maybe I'm sick. Who's going to judge me these days though. A world like this, you've gotta push up the bounds of where perversion begins. I smile.
"Whatcha smilin' at, Darlin?" It was a familiar voice, but it wasn't. It was the Cupcake with a flat, round tone, a bigger smile, and a streaming cascade of shiny black hair. I was stunned and I stared. The Cupcake shoved a couple bowls at me and Sara and said "Eat up, dearies, we'll all need our strength. And show some manners, won't you, and blink. This is my brother, Larry."
"Enchante." Larry giggled. Holy fuck there were two of them.