Third Great Purgy Mash-Up

Mash-Up #17

In the last hour of her life, Calyx McMaster was bored out of her skull.

Surrounded by perky fake breasts and perfect noses, plagued by the rustle of Dior and Armani and half blinded by a endless explosion of flashbulbs, she might have welcomed her impending death, if anybody had warned her it was coming. As it was she thought the flash of a gun scope from the half-open second floor bathroom was just some starlet's earring catching light, and when Jackie Savannah, soap queen and press diva extraordinaire, squealed and pointed, Calyx made only a halfhearted effort to get to her high-strung charge's side. Paparazzi scattered: her dark coat and sunglasses marked her, and nobody wanted their camera trashed by security. Jackie's sequin-covered arm swept up in a dramatic point. Calyx, still elbowing through the crowd, shoved fellow star-sitter Don Allen aside, stumbled into talk show czar Jon Borgman, and was at that moment struck between the shoulders by what felt like the fist of god. She sneezed reflexively and filled the air in front of her with a thousand tiny drops of red. Ali Jordan, looking like a boiled salmon in her pink dress, screamed and backed away batting at her face.

A split second later the unmistakable noise of the shot reached her ears.

All the noise in the hall took on a hysterical tone that peaked, then slowed into a surreal drone as the checkered black carpet rose up to meet her. A thicket of Louboutin spikes stampeded past her nose. Calyx blinked groggily, coughed copper, and tried to push herself up, if only to protect her face from those deadly heels. For the first time in her memory her muscles failed her. She thumped back to the carpet, and the impact pushed a hot, choking gout of blood out of her mouth and nose. The world filled with shadows, syrupy and peaceful. Over the screams filling the hall there was an inexplicable throbbing hum that raised the hair on her arms.

The pain came for her then, suffocating and huge, and it was just as bad as she'd always imagined it to be.

###

Then with a thundering that reminded her of a 747 roaring off the Tarmac, darkness rolled over her. And all was silent.

_________

There was a bright light, of that Calyx was sure. Not the kind near-death experience survivors describe on the mid-morning talk shows: a white light in the distance accompanied by celestial harps and the full might of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. This felt more like a fluorescent spotlight, boring a hole right through her eyelids and into her brain, and giving her an ungodly migraine.

"Ungodly." Shit. Poor choice of words. Calyx wondered if whoever was in charge could read her mind because she was pretty sure that was going to piss someone off.

She tried to lift her arm to shield her face from the light but found she couldn't move. Had the bullet pierced her spine, paralyzing her? And if so, did that mean she'd have to spend eternity as a paraplegic? And if so that would really suck lime green donkey balls. Wasn't Heaven supposed to be Paradise?

Panicked, Calyx clenched her fists. She could feel her fingernails digging into the callused flesh of her palms. Fingers work. Good sign. Then she tried her toes, wiggling first the rights, then the lefts. She almost cried out in joy. Not paralyzed.

But why the hell couldn't she move her arms? Prying her eyelids open, Calyx squinted into the blinding light. Her eyeballs quivered from the intensity of the beam and it took a few seconds before her pupils acclimated. Through the veil of eyelashes, Calyx could just make out the source of the offending light: a large stainless steel lamp – the kind you're assaulted with in the dentist's chair – hung just inches from her face.

A blurred figure leaned over her, silhouetted above the lamp. "She's waking up. You'd better get Max."

Max? There was an angel named Max? If this was the afterlife, so far it sucked.

Mash-Up #18

The incessant moaning suddenly ceased. Abby’s head jerked up from where she’d been studying her carefully drawn map. Her light eyes focused on the now soundless walls on either side of the iron-bound door up the stairs to her left.

“This is new,” she muttered to herself. She’d taken to grumbling phrases at the empty basement in the seemingly endless days of solitude.

Slowly, she rose from her curled up spot on the cushy, purple couch. She set down the map, and her hand immediately trailed over to the coffee table to grab the loaded shotgun. Her eyes remained on the door.

She knew she shouldn’t dare hope they’d finally gone away. Nothing in this world was that easy anymore. No, either they were up to something or they’d found another living human to focus their endless attack upon. Abby sighed. If that were the case, she doubted she could get to the victim in time.

Her hands barely trembled as she crept toward the bottom stair. As soon as she placed one foot up, she knew the stairs’ dilapidated wood would alert the intruders upstairs with a resounding creak. It had always been an annoyance before, and she’d tried to get her dad to fix it for months.
At the thought of her father, she swallowed hard and gripped the shotgun tighter. Now wasn’t the time to go strolling down memory lane.

#

No, now was for mounting a possible rescue mission, or failing that, replenishing her food supply.

When a half-minute passed without any evidence she’d been overheart, she eased up the next stair, and then another, until at last she stood in front of the door. Then she held the rifle in her right hand while with her left she worked at the bolts. They moved silently this time, courtesy of the lubricating oil she’d located in her dad’s workshop yesterday. Good. A small victory, but she’d take every one she could get.

Now came the hard part. No matter how much she prepared, she never felt ready for this.

She reminded herself to breathe through her nose, firmed her grip on the rifle, and used its muzzle to push the door outward a few feet.

That was enough to see the rust-coloured handprints on the wall opposite. And to agitate the flies, so that when she slipped into the hallway, her first view of the kitchen was obscured by a buzzing snowstorm of black. They whirled around the room, crawled over the three sets of human remains that still rested on the linoleum, and whizzed past her ears.

One landed on her lips and at the thought of where it might have just been, she spat it away – a mistake. The movement triggered her gag reflex, and for a long treacherous moment, she fought against bile that stung the back of her throat. But she shuddered, closed her eyes, willed the nausea away. The idea of being pounced on by the werewolves, helpless as a baby as she puked her guts out, got her through.

Once under control, she headed down the hallway, keeping her back tight to the wall. Up ahead was the doorway to the living room. If there were any survivors, that’s where she’d find them. Hopefully without a furry guard standing watch.

And now that she was finally moving, she never wanted to stop. Her veins hummed with nervous energy. She thought a quick prayer, then whirled into the doorway as soon as she reached it, ducking low to make herself less of a target. Her eyes made a sweep of the room. Her hands aimed the rifle to follow her gaze. Her ears strained for any sound beyond the buzzing of the flies. And she found nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Until the low growl rumbled behind her.

Just remember to reference everything by number since everybody's in the pool.

And Lara....no.

alias octavia said:

#15 is pretty amazing. Is the originator JenWriter?

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Nope.

houndrat said:

I've got Hope down for #14, part 2 as well....tho my lack of organization skills are really bringing me down here...

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Uuuuummmmm, no.