A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 4.4

Blasts of guns collided with the screams of the Nightwigs. Delilah was quick to shoot. Her finger ready on the trigger, gun already loaded.

She missed the first shot; the grey scrambling creature had jumped sideways out of the way. She pulled back, cocked her gun, and shot again. Prayed that the bullet met its target.

It's scream was worse than when it emerged. Much higher. Much louder. And much longer. Delilah's ears throbbed and ached, as if they had been stabbed numerous times and all the blood in her body was spilling out. Disorientating seconds passed, then the sound stopped.

The Nightwig slammed to the ground, black blood squirting from its head.

The creature was hideous. So much worse up close. Like it had pulled itself out of Delilah's nightmares – a living model of a Fear Gorta but miniature. Delilah's heart was beating so fast she couldn't breathe. The gun in her hand was shaking. It was disgusting – nauseating. She could barely make out its form beneath the clumps of flesh and blood. But even so, she could make out its face staring up at her. Teeth blaring, eyes missing where hollow sockets existed. Even without the bullet wound, it's face was mangled, squished in like it had been stamped on.

Delilah wanted to run. Her thoughts screamed at her to drop the gun and leave. But, dropping it meant failing. Running meant she was a coward, and cowards never see victory. She would be Baroness in less than a month and she still had to prove herself. Prove she could succeed. Prove she was worth something, that she was not useless after all. And that meant, regardless of the terrifying corpse at her feet, she had to steel her hands, pick up the gun and kill every last one of the rotting liver-eaters.

Douglas and Keith were not dead...yet. She could hear their guns firing constantly.

The sheep were not dead yet. Their bleating was as loud as the Nightwigs' screams and their hooves slammed against the wooden panels they hid upon.

The Nightwigs were not dead yet. And it seemed more and more were replacing the ones she killed.

Most of the Nightwigs surfaced in the paddock. Delilah could not see them, nor go to them. Stepping off of the hay barrels would secure her demise, send her directly into the hands of the God of death and whatever eternal punishment awaited her in his palms. Instead, she stood on the highest barrel, aimed her gun to the paddock and fired relentlessly.

The war cries of the creatures mixed with screams of agony. The bullets thudded into the earth or squelched into their flesh. Their numbers were unknown and until it was lighter outside, it would remain that way.

Delilah moved with muscle memory. Her thoughts were an echo to her focus. Cock. Shoot. Cock. Shoot. It was like fighting the highwaymen all over again. Only this time, the targets were much smaller, and Delilah's aim had improved some.

Snarls came from her right.

Three or four ran at the bales, lunged onto them, and crawled their way up.

Delilah inhaled. The chill breeze cooled her now boiling skin through her clothes. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, ready for their attack. The rifle needed to be cocked before she could shoot again.

One of the rotting creatures was almost to her feet. She swung the butt of the gun. Crunches rang out as it met the Nightwig's body and sent it back out into the darkness. With her rifle back in hand and the next Nightwig a couple of bales below, she expelled the case, cocked the gun and shot again.