Page 102 of Reaper
Mrs. Eng's voice cuts through the gunfire again, weaker now, coming from one room at the far end of the hall. I can hearher sobbing between the bursts of automatic fire, and it tears at what's left of my soul. How many more women am I going to fail? How many more casualties in my personal war with the world?
"We're pinned down here!" Tank shouts, his voice barely audible over the chaos. "Can't advance with three of them laying down that much fire!"
The Russians have us locked down tight. Every time one of us tries to move, they fill the hallway with lead. I'm about to suggest we fall back when I hear it—a voice drifting up from the stairwell, loud and completely fucking unhinged, singing at the top of his lungs.
"Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est!”
The voice gets louder, more maniacal, and I recognize it immediately. Mayhem. Of course, the bastard would be singing Talking Heads while charging into a firefight. “Better run run run run run run run awaaaay!" His voice echoes up the stairwell, punctuated by the distinctive crack of his shotgun and the screams of dying Russians.
Heavy footsteps thunder up the stairs, and suddenly Mayhem appears at the top of the landing, his mohawk streaked with blood that definitely isn't his own, eyes wild with combat euphoria. Behind him, Diesel emerges looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, his jaw set in that grim expression he gets when shit goes sideways.
"Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est!" Mayhem continues his deranged serenade while putting precise shots into the Russians holding down the hallway. "Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better!"
"Jesus Christ, Mayhem!" Diesel growls, taking position and laying down covering fire with surgical precision. "Could you maybe not sing while we're trying not to fucking die?"
But Mayhem's already moving, that manic grin plastered across his face as he advances down the hallway with reckless abandon. "Run run run run run run run awaaaay!"
The Russians, caught in crossfire from four directions now, start falling back. Tank and I surge forward from our positions, the tide of battle finally turning in our favor. The narrow hallway becomes a killing field, our combined firepower overwhelming their defensive positions.
That's when I hear it — another voice joining Mayhem's insane chorus, high and trembling but surprisingly on-key.
"Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est!"
Mrs. Eng. The woman is barricaded somewhere behind these bullet-riddled doors, probably scared out of her mind, and she's fucking singing along like we’re at a fucking summer camp. "Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-far better!" Her voice wavers but holds the melody, echoing from one of the rooms ahead.
"Holy shit," Tank mutters, dropping the last Russian with a headshot. "Is that Eng’s mom?"
"Run run run run run run run awaaaay!" Mayhem and Mrs. Eng belt out in unison, their voices creating the most surreal soundtrack to carnage I've ever experienced, sober or high. At the end of the high note, an explosion rattles the building, coming from the lower floors. The kitchen, maybe. A gas line or something that’s going to turn this building into a towering inferno in minutes.
The hallway falls silent except for their singing and the ringing in my ears. Bodies litter the floor, blood soaking into the rotting wood, but somewhere behind these doors is a seventy-something-year-old woman with pipes strong enough to cut through automatic gunfire.
"Mrs. Eng!" I call out, moving carefully down the hallway. "It's Reaper! We're here to get you out.” I reach her door and rap on it. “Mrs. Eng, we’re here. It’s safe.”
“I am so glad you’ve come. My son, he is upstairs. Some of his men were guarding me when those Russians attacked, but not enough, and so I have locked myself in this room. You know, powerful as he is, my son is so unprepared. I am very disappointed in him, though I love him very much.”
I knock on the door again. “That’s great. We can talk about your family life later.” Another roar and a pillar of smoke rises up through the stairwell. Above, I hear the resumption of the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. This battle is far from over. “Open the door. We need to get you out of here. Now.”
There’s the sound of something heavy being moved — the scrape of furniture sliding across the floor — and then the door opens. Mrs. Eng stands there, hair in disarray, face flushed, and a smile on her face. Her posture tilts to one side, and with a frown, I look down and see a growing swell around her right foot. “Hi, Mayhem.”
“Hi, Mrs. Eng,” Mayhem says, returning her smile with one of his own and a wave. “Come with me. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“I cannot walk very well. I hurt myself getting in here. Old women like me, we are not made to run down hallways while being shot at.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got you,” Mayhem says. Without hesitation, he kneels down, scoops her up, and throws the old woman over his shoulder.
Mrs. Eng whoops and hollers with delight. “It is just like in those pictures. You are my Fabio, Mayhem, but more handsome and with better hair.”
“Obviously.”
Diesel snorts so loudly it reminds me of a car backfiring. “Can we get the fuck out of here and away from their flirting before I shoot myself?”
“It is not flirting. It is only the truth,” Mrs. Eng says.
“Clearly, Diesel, you have no idea what real handsomeness and self-confidence looks like,” Mayhem says.
Another explosion rocks the building from below, and chunks of plaster rain down from the ceiling. The acrid smell of smoke grows thicker, mixing with the metallic stench of blood and cordite. We need to move now, before this whole place becomes our tomb.
"Enough fucking around," I growl, checking my ammunition. "We're getting out of here before this place collapses."
