Dancing with the Dead ✔

Chapter Ten - Teenage Rage

I wish I hadn't told the kids to go. After all, if they hear the gunshots, there's a huge chance they'll cry and become poltergeists, which means that crazy teenager out there will run for his life instead of shooting at me like crazy. God, I sound awful, don't I?

As much as I want it to happen, the wind around me stays still. There aren't any screaming nor clashing sound of kitchen appliances flying across the room attacking that boy. Bullets after bullets keep flying through the air, hitting one of the jars and windows in the process.

Breathe, Alexis. Breathe.

I gulp, trying to calm myself down even though I can feel my heartbeat getting faster and louder. The fact that I can't see anything except for the boy's shoes from here makes it worse. My hands won't stop shaking while my feet slowly become numb. Cold sweats dripping down my temple as I close my eyes and pray.

Usually, when I'm watching movies, it's times like these when I shout at the heroine to get up and attack the bad guy, only to blurt out a series of curses because she doesn't. But now that I'm actually living the moment, I realize the impossibility of it. Believe me, I want—and try—to move, but the fear causes my body to freeze. I curse myself for it, but there's nothing else I can do.

"Holy crap! A bullet just went right through me!" John shouts, his voice filled with shock and disbelief.

If only I could see that! I bet his expression is to die for. It takes every power I have inside me not to laugh. Even so, I can't help but let out a small chuckle.

"Oh, it's funny to you, isn't it? Haha," he says, clearly irritated.

Before I know it, the tremor in my hands begins to decrease at a slow but steady pace and I can feel my heartbeat slowing down. Even though my legs are still heavy, I force myself to kneel, getting ready for what I'm about to do.

As I stay alert, I find myself thinking, did he know what those words would do to me, or was he just plain dumb?

All of a sudden, the loud noises stop, leaving a continuous clicking sound of an empty gun and the boy's ragged breath. Not long after, I can hear his footsteps closing in. I put the pan on the ground slowly before placing my hands on one of the stool's legs. Right when I can see his black boots next to me, I push the chair with all my might.

As the chair hits his body, he screams out loud. The stool hits the floor, but not before sending him a few steps backward. In a swift move, I grab the pan and crawl out from underneath the island. The second I get out, I aim low and swing the pan, hitting his right knee.

"Argh!" The boy winces in pain. He bends slightly, rubbing his knee. I stand up straight, looking at him face-to-face for the first time. His painful expression confirms my previous belief that the pan is indeed a powerful weapon.

Suck on that, Evil Me!

Now that I finally get a clear view of my attacker, I find him a lot less intimidating than before. Without his gun, he looks like an ordinary everyday pimpled-faced high school kid; albeit one who probably spends his time in the gym more than in school. Even though his rather short stature makes his body proportion slightly odd, his huge muscles convince me he's not just a regular high school kid.

I pant. With both hands still clutching the pan, I slightly raise my hand, ready to strike again if the boy dares to make a move. After all, there's nothing wrong with being too careful.

"What the fuck, lady?" he shouts, looking at me with rage in his eyes.

I scoff. "The fuck, is you"—I point my pan at him—"were shooting at me!" I bring the pan closer to my chest. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I protest, waving my pan in the air.