Post by Benny Fleetfoot on Jan 9, 2018 16:17:41 GMT -5
If you're going to kill a man.... You might want to make sure he's dead. Buster pushed himself up from the gravel; bloodied and bruised. Beaten but not broken. His shirt hung haphazardly torn from his shoulder. His leather jacket stripped away and stolen. They will fucking pay. Buster had laid in that mud for a day and a half.
A full day and a half before he found the strength to will himself to his feet. Luckily for him no biters came roaming through in that time. He wouldn't have had the energy to fend them off. He would have been a Buster fucking sandwich with no mayo. Dry as a bone and not to appetizing. The fact of the matter was.... Buster was just to damn stubborn to die. Not that he opposed it. He had nothing in particular left to live for. His club was gone. His girl was gone. His pride and his dignity walked out the door with bags packed and waved goodbye to him. On the way out his pride and dignity chuckled and said "So long fuckwad, nice knowing you!"
His demeanor was all sunny rainbows and unicorn kisses. Only with a side order of what were you thinking and a large glass of vengeance. See it wasn't entirely honest saying that young Buster didn't have anything to live for. He had plenty to live for. The chance to crack a few skulls and spill a few pints of blood that wronged him was all the reason he needed to finally push himself out of the mud nearly two days later.
Buster stumbled to his feet. His hair was matted to the side of his head thick and sticky with blood. His eye on the right side was swollen shut. The left eye was blood red from a ruptured blood vessel that filled his cornea with crimson. Dirt and blood stained his ripped white shirt. Half of his body was a rust colored brown from the mud and gravel. Buster swayed on his feet.
Blood rushed from his head and he turned pale as a sheet. He stumbled back and fell against a tree. A fresh start. All he fucking wanted was a fresh start in some place unfamiliar. He thought about all the shit that had happened to him since the very beginning. It was almost too much to wrap your head around. He had jumped from the good side of the fence to the bad guys so much by this point it was impossible to tell; even for him, if his motivations were pure of he was still just an asshole looking to get a little gore beneath his fingernails for the sake of it.
Buster was always a violent guy. You didn't cross him because his cross hurt twice as bad. There he stood. Barely standing. If it wasn't for the tree he was leaning against he wouldn't be standing at all. Still the only motivation keeping him on his feet was the taste of blood against his skin as he gored whatever asshole stood in front of him. Buster stumbled forward. He only made it a few feet before he had to lean against the next tree. His progress was slow. A series of short stops and sporadic rests that made getting anywhere a pain in the ass all together.
They are going to fucking pay! He thought with a sneer pushed across his bloodied face. They took the last of his food. His water. They took his guns and ammo all in one tidy little duffle bag. His entire god damned world was within the contents of that stupid bag and he'd get it back if he had to die to do it.
Buster knew who took his bag. He knew where they were too. They were holed up in a little backwoods farmhouse just off route 9. They were a family of inbred hillbilly fuckoffs who managed to survive this long off their own inbred special diet of cannibalism and deer jerky. They may have taken Buster as well if he had any more meat on his bones but Buster was a scrawny guy and they didn't see him as worth the effort. Not when it was getting dark and they still had to go through the trouble of tying him up before they could ride off with him.
It was a combination of laziness and forgetfulness that spared his life in that moment. One of the huckabillies forgot to bring the rope and they left him for dead happy with what meager offerings he had in his bag. Buster pushed himself through the pain. Every step was agony screaming in his face, but he pushed on anyways. Buster stumbled forward and leaned against another tree. The shade felt nice. The sun was still rather high in the sky.
He smelled something awful. A sweaty corpse lying out in the sun for nearly two days caked in mud. He had a musty, earthy smell to him that was enough to stagger you when it hit your nostrils. Buster glared at the farmhouse that was across the field. He could see Buck standing out back with a couple of horses. Buck was the youngest of the brothers and he was also the stupidest. Buster made his way through the corn field. He pushed through stocks of corn thinking about how much food these inbreds really had and how he was sure to stock up before he left.
Buster's stomach was growling. He would loved to have stopped and taken an ear of corn and just devoured it, but vengeance was heavier on his mind than his hunger. He didn't take his eye off Buck who was now playing laughing about something. Won't be laughing much longer asshole. Buster thought to himself as he kept pushing his way through the field.
Buster emerged from the cornfield. Buck saw him come out of the clearing and just looked at him. The red clay of the soft earth beneath his feet baked in the golden sunlight. Somewhere off to the west a crow cawed. It was almost as if he could sense the tension and wanted to break it with a startled cry. Buck turned his head to the side and scratched his chin. He didn't recognize Buster right off. It was nearly two days ago that they left him and he was much less recognizable when he was swollen and battered. "You look like shit mister."
Buster said nothing. He only stood there with a vacant expression on his damaged face. Anger twitched in the palm of his hand as his fingers curled into tightly wound fists. "Hey ain'tchu that sumbitch we left out in the woods?" Buster still said nothing. Buck laughed. He was delighted at the thought that this guy saved him the trouble of carrying him back and he was already imagining Buster as a plate of barbeque ribs. Buster stepped forward with malice intent and the smile slowly faded from Buck's face.
"Hey you...you... Just fuck off mister! You ain't getting up in here! Door's locked see!" Buck grabbed the backdoor handle and jiggled it to show Buster that he couldn't get in if he tried. Buster kept walking. "You deaf boy!? I said it's locked!" Buster grabbed Buck by his long ratty hair and smashed his fast through the window pane on the door. He slammed his head again and again embedding glass in his eyes and mouth until he slumped to the floor. Reaching through the door Buster unlocked the door from the inside. "No, it's not." Buster said as he opened the door and stepped inside.
The air inside the farmhouse was musty and stale. It left a bitter taste dancing on the tip of your tongue. Buster closed the door, but it wouldn't close all the way. Buck's hand blocked the door and kept it slightly ajar. Buster looked around the kitchen. Spices and moldy pots lined the walls and shelves. A pewtrid smell swam down the back of his throat and nearly choked him. Buster walked over to a pot on the stove and lifted the lid. Inisde was a human foot cut off just halfway up the calf. It was boiling on the woodstove. Supper time was almost here. Buster made a face and set the lid down beside the pot.
He was about to move to the next room when someone grabbed him from behind. One of the 6 brothers. He put Buster in a chokehold and gripped him tight. Buster could already feel his face turning red. His feet kicked wildly. Buster's limbs thrashed and kicked. His hand searched for anything that might be helpful. He found a kitchen knife. His hand wrapped around it and he slammed it down into the man's arm. "Sumbitch!!!!" He cried. His howls of pain were enough to get his other brothers attention. Clint came running in from the living room holding shotgun. "Billy joe what happened?" He asked confused. Buster had darted under the table. "Shoot that piece-o-shit!" He retorted.
Clint looked confused for a brief second until Buster came bursting out from beneath the table. He grabbed Clint by the shoulders and without hesitation rammed him into the stove. He shoved his head inside the pot with the boiling foot. Clint squeezed off the trigger on the shotgun and shot Billy Joe right in the face. As his arms and limbs were now the ones thrashing. Buster held him there. Buster grinded his teeth in sick satisfaction as he boiled his face in Athlete foot stew.
Thunderous footsteps came thudding down the stairs. It was Pa and two more brothers. "What in the hell are yall...." Buster saw a rifle being aimed at him and he pulled Clint out of the pot in time to use him as a human shield. The blast from that range put poor Clint out of his misery and knocked them both back several feet. Buster landed on the ground beside the mangled Billy Joe with half a face left on his head. Clint landed on top of him. He took the full force of the blast. "Pa! You shot Clint!" One of them cried.
Buster was beneath Clint. His eyes rolled over to the knife sticking out of Billy Joe's arm. The dark dank kitchen had very little light, save for the bright sunlight casting across the kitchen onto the dirty refridgerator. Buster pulled the knife out of Billy Joe's arm and laid still. "Go check'em boy!" Pa cried out angrily. Buster had already killed 3 of his sons. He wanted to make sure the son of a bitch was dead. Jeb walked up cautiously. Buster could hear the slow creaks of the floorboards moving closer. The weight of this good old boy was massive. The floorboards cried for mercy under every step. Buster could hear when he got close. Suddenly Clint was pulled off of him as Jeb checked to see if Buster was really dead. Buster jammed the knife into his neck.
Jeb's eyes went wide with surprise and he cried out gurgling wet sounds. Buster scrambled to his feet. Adreniline pushing him through all the pain now. The backdoor which didn't quiet close was pushed open by the wind during the scuffle. Buster burst outside into the brilliant sunshine... Even more covered in blood and not ready to stop anytime soon.
Buster's shoulders were tense. His body ached with a dull scream of hindsight. Maybe it would've been wiser to rest before he ventured into this endeavor, but Buster was never a thinking man's man. He was more of an action oriented soul. Buster ran around the side of the house and tripped over a root sticking out of the ground. He landed hard on he shoulder. Pain shot up through his right side as his full weight came down on his poor mangled arm. Buster held his tongue. He bit his lip and quietly groaned through the pain.
All that stopped when he started to roll over and stand up and realized he was inches away from his head landing in a bear trap. Buster's eyes went wide as he stared at the sharp bloody metal only an inch from his face. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he let out a cool exhale of 'holy fuck' He pushed himself up like he was doing a pushup and ignored the pain in his shoulder. He heard the backdoor slam as he pushed himself up. Buster jumped over the bear trap and rounded the next corner of the house.
He found a pickaxe lying against the cellar doors. The cellar was locked with a heavy chain and padlock. Buster could only imagine what could be in there. These people left human feet boiling out on the stove, what could they possibly be ashamed off to the point where they had to lock it up. Maybe it was their meat storehouse where they kept the bodies. Buster didn't know. He picked up the pickaxe and waited. He hoped he would hear the snick of the bear trap closing around an unsuspecting foot.
It didn't. He was obviously bright enough to remember it was there. Buster heard him rounding the corner and swung the pick axe into his gut. It buried deep into his stomach. Blood bubbled out from his mouth as he stared at Buster unbelievingly. Buster jerked the pickaxe and yanked it free. There was only one more fucker to deal with. Pa. Buster moved back over to the bear trap and poked it with the axe. It closed around it with a vicious snap. Buster grabbed it and set it up on the front porch, making his way quietly around the house.
His trap was set. Buster had no idea how many of these fucks were left, but he just had a feeling this was the last of them. There was still one more brother who was off on a supply run, but for now.... This was all of them. The last threat to deal with was Pa. Buster stood out in front of the house. His shoulder's rolled confidently as he cracked his neck. "Hey! Redneck!" He screamed in a harsh horse voice. Pa came opened the front door. Shotgun in hand.
Buster stood his ground. He was battered and bloodied, and ready for this shit to be over. Pa was wearing his leather jacket. He was wearing the fool's dice leather like he earned it. He hadn't earned shit. He didn't deserve to dawn that leather. Buster tried to keep the anger off his face, but it wasn't his strongest attritube, surpressing his anger. Pa looked down at the bear trap and laughed. "Boy did you thank that was gone work?" He laughed again and used the barrel of the shotgun to slide the bear trap out of his way.
Pa stepped out onto the porch and hit a tripwire. A crafty little greasy haired fuck had set up crudely and in a hurry. Buster watched as the wire snapped. An old weathered fishing line he found in a shack just beside the house. The line snapped and it was the only thing holding up the pick axe He hung up on the porch. The axe swung down in a swift arch and planted in the side of Pa's head. One eye pirouetted on it's axis and went all crazy. The other eye twitched as he dropped to his knees.
Buster walked up to him slowly and peeled the jacket back off his shoulders. Farmer fuck face was bleeding now, a lot. It ran down the side of his head and stained Buster's hands as he worked to free his club pride from undeserving shoulders. "Get off my jacket!" Buster said as he pulled it away and allowed Pa to fall back dead. Buster walked up the porch steps. Each step deliberate and triumphant as he slipped his jacket back where it belonged, over his own shoulders. Buster walked inside the cool, musty dark house and began to search for the rest of his shit. Just another day in the life of a fool.