Hope Sullivan McMickle by An Axe to Grind

Author:An Axe to Grind
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-06-01T13:08:44+00:00

The girl was right where he’d left her, strapped to the table and gazing at the ceiling. She perked up as he entered the room; the chains on her ankles clanked against the steel table. John was glad he’d kept her. She was attractive, for a corpse, and he’d seen a lot of corpses. He’d put her in the front row for sure. Working quickly, he slipped a thick black leather collar he’d specially designed around her neck and buckled it tight. The collar was attached to a seven foot metal chain that trailed down to the floor. Considerably more harmless without her teeth and nails, John unstrapped her feet from the table but did leave her ankle shackles on - a measure that constricted her mobility - just in case. He next unfastened the straps securing her waist, shoulders, and arms to the table and grabbed a shorter, telescoping capture pole. As she sat up on the table and turned to face him, John slipped the noose over her head and set the brake.

He tugged her off the table and keeping her in the lead, guided her out of the clean up room and into the hallway toward the auditorium. She tried to turn around but he kept a steady pressure on the pole, forcing her forward. The girl fell to her knees when her feet became tangled in the ankle shackles. The second time she fell, the skin on her right kneecap split open, revealing an expanse of raw dark maroon inside gray-blue flesh, but the injury did not bleed so much as ooze. John figured he’d stitch it back up once he’d gotten her seated and properly situated with the others.

A pair of heavy wooden doors were at the end of the hallway. An iron bar was shoved through the door handles as an added precaution. Before removing it, John glanced up at the video monitor mounted above the doorway. The occupants were restless, tugging against their chains and collars. Charlie Simmons, the one walker he knew by name, a heavyset man with thinning hair who had once been city manager, had somehow gotten his suitcoat wedged between the old wooden seats and now crouched awkwardly in front of his seat, unable to change position. The Twins, two young women with nearly identical long blonde hairstyles, anorexic figures, and tank tops emblazoned with Greek letters for some now utterly irrelevant sorority, had become tangled up in each other’s chains and now lay squirming and struggling against each other in an aisle close to the stage. John wasn’t sure if he would untangle them immediately or wait a while.

Even though they were corpses, it was still kind of hot. He’d actually played a gig in this town once before in late 1998, back when Wranglers had been a strip club. Kickstart had been the opening act for a troupe of hot oil wrestlers. The tips had been particularly poor that night, John remembered. The cowboys were saving their small bills for the girls.

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