Title: The Kiss
by Curtis from Northern Ireland | in writing, fiction
I couldn't even watch her. It was sick. What had they paired me with? She didn't just shoot them, she tore them apart.
This is the part of the business I hate. I turn up the volume on my I-Pod, trying to escape the scene. Their screams seem to become even louder. Slowly, I open the door.
Her back is to me, her blonde hair now red with the sticky remnants of her victims. Though holes torn in that once white dress I can see she is wearing a kevlar vest. I though she'd put on a little weight since last time.
The halls littered with bodies. There's only one left alive, but I can't see him past her. It's him who's been doing all the screaming. As I wade through my would-be opponents I call out to her. No response.
I try to gain her attention again, this time in her native french. "Mademoiselle CH**N, je voudrais parler avec vous." At this she turns and I can see what she been doing. She spits out the mans tongue, blood skitters over her lower lip and down her chin.
"Oui?"
The thug in her arm reaches out to me with a pale hand, the only sound he makes is a low gurgling followed by a fluttering of coughs.
She stands, letting him fall to the floor. She blows him a kiss, and then blows him all over the floor with her gun. "Lets proceed," she bellows, and compelled, I follow her.
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