CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

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CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Both men (Mr. Reluctant and the one I now think of as Captain No Face.) are still sprawled and motionless on the front lawn where I left them.  Good.  That's at least a wee bit of luck in my favor.

            Seeing them (And more importantly, smelling the ichor that has dried on Captain No Face's...well, face.) causes a fist of dizziness to reach up and punch me in the gut, and I drop both tanks onto the dirt.  The tanks are quickly followed by my own body as I drop onto all fours and stare at the dirt in an attempt to block out the human forms only a few feet away.  The hunger fights me for control of my body as I once again work to suppress it, but I know I'm running out of time.  I can't keep ignoring its pull on me.  The more I push myself and my abilities, the stronger the argument for giving in to it grows.

            But I don't have time for that now.  I have to finish with the house first, and then I can entertain thoughts about appeasing the hunger.  The darkness will just have to learn that I have priorities, and right now it is not at the top of the list.

            Breathing shallowly, I push the knowledge of what is lying on the grass a few feet away from me out of my mind and focus on the tanks.  I need those things to explode, but how am I going to make that happen?

            One step at a time, that's how.  There's no point in getting them to explode out here on the lawn.  I need to get them inside the building first, and that's going to require me to get up and get moving.

            "Baby steps," I say to the patch of dirt and grass a foot in front of my vision.  "Let's do this in small, accomplishable baby steps."

            I stand and grab the two white tanks from where I'd dropped them on the ground earlier.  Lifting them much more easily than I should be able to do (Given the fact that I'm a girl whose weight barely clears three digits on a good day, and these canisters have to each weigh nearly as much as both my legs combined.  Plus I've been shot and I'm still bleeding.  All of those are good reasons as to why I shouldn't be able to heft these like they are just grocery bags to be brought in from the car.), I stumble towards the open doorway and toss the tanks through it.  The solid thud of their landing can be felt even out on the front stoop where I remain standing.  One spins for a moment before rolling gently backwards and resting against the wall.  The other just lands, wobbles for a moment and then rights itself without bothering with further theatrics.

            "Now they're placed," I breathe out and say quietly before turning to face the two bodies I had unceremoniously dumped earlier.  "Let's blow 'em up and get out of here, what do ya say?"

            Looking at the two men, I remember that Captain No Face never released his gun earlier after I introduced him to the future world of plastic surgery (and he's going to need a lot of it.).  Limping over towards him (My legs are fine, but my belly pain from the bullets has started to spread to my entire left side.  I'm sure it can't be a good sign.), I bend down and grab the gun so I can wrestle it from his hand.

            It's large and silver and shiny and I can feel the oppressive weight of it in my hands as I pry his fingers off of it.  I hate guns.  I always have, and now having to hold one in my hands is anything but calming.

            In the movies guns are always very cool, and I can appreciate them in that setting.  I love action movies, and I love watching a hero fight his way out of a horrible place by shooting everything in sight.  Dumb action movies were always a way for me to bond with my dad, and we loved going to the theater and watching them together.  There are few things more enjoyable to watch in cinema than a well-choreographed shootout with spectacular acrobatic jumps and gravity- and reality-defying shots.

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