Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

7. A Taxing Problem (Part 3)

Smack-dab moved in slow motion.

Phoenix, still standing where he had stopped, opened his mouth in shock and, at snail-like-speed, bent his knees to move.

Hilda and Derick rocked back in their seats, their wrinkly foreheads catapulting upwards with the force of a slight breeze.

Terrance's face was contorted in a drunken rage, finally having given up on discussing anything with poor, gentle Meatsack. His right hand closed in on the giant as though it had all the time in the world.

And Bert? She moved quickest of all. She watched the shadow of Terrance Leeland recoil backwards to lead into a punch, and was on her feet, chair exploding out behind her, as his fist launched forwards. Her weapon was in her fingers while he was mid-way to the attack.

And his hand was exploding before it ever had a chance.

Time reset.

The floorboards shook, dust cascading off the walls as yet another shot rang out in Smack-dab. Terrance's hand burst like a grenade had gone off inside it, chunks of blood and bone spraying over Meatsack in the worst fireworks display ever. The big giant flinched backwards, nearly tripping over a nearby chair. Phoenix was crouched, about to pounce. Derick and Hilda were pushing their chairs back, ready to get under the table at the drop of a hat (or, in this case, the drop of a hand).

Bert, a pacifist remember, was squeezing the handle of her weapon, face glowing red.

Terrance screamed with a ferocity Bert had never heard before in a person, despite all the years she spent with bandits. A cold tingle ran down her spine, the hairs on her arms and legs pricking up. The man's automatic rifle fell from his shoulder, banging against the floor. Nobody in the room made any noise, except for, you know, the spine-tingling screams of pain and horror.

"You apologise to Meatsack right now, you arrogant son of a bitch," Bert snarled. She forced down the primitive caveman instinct that said 'Maybe don't push your luck with this one, he seems a bit angry,' and cautiously approached Terrance - a Waste Beast ready to finish the job. "Nobody hurts my staff."

"Aww," cooed Phoenix.

She glanced back. "Not you, Phoenix."

"Aww..."

Terrance, hunched over on himself and tucking his arm up in his stomach, looked up at Bert. His face was twisted, almost unrecognisable. "Fuck you, you damned ... ugh ... bitch!"

And then the wounded man of many titles launched himself forwards, a wolfcat unleashed. His hand (the intact one, obviously) went for his belt, where it revealed a colossal knife made of what looked like a Waste Beast's tooth. Something deep in the stranger's throat boiled and gurgled with a wild berserker rage, his stub hand hanging loosely by his side and spraying flecks of gore all over the show.

Bert the Holy Pacifist tensed and stepped backwards as the knife careened for her chest cavity. She was too close to fire another shot, instead sidestepping to the left in an effort to create more room. But with the chairs all scattered about, there was too much clutter on the floor for easy manoeuvring. The wild figure of Terrance Leeland missed her, but he caught her arm with the edge of the blade. Bert flinched at the sudden sting, grabbing hold of a chair to get her balance. Then she growled and swung her robotic left fist as hard as she could.

One of the major benefits of having a prosthetic hand was that, when times were tough, Bert always had a weapon. You might have said she had the ... upper hand. But Terrance was like trying to catch a naughty child (that was covered in blood). He half-rolled, half-stumbled his way out of her fist's arc, roaring all the while with words too ghastly to think about.