The Pulptress (14 page)

The Pulptress unwound like
a released spring. She held the line about two inches from the
swivel. She pushed off from the tiny inset while throwing her legs
almost into the splits.

Her feet looped around the
hand holding the gun. The weapon discharged into the night as the
gunman's hand slammed into the railing. She released one hand from
the line to grab the gun and hand holding it. Now she released her
feet, and slammed them against the top of the railing. Then kicked
outward. Gun, and man, sailed out into the night.

Before the remaining five
could react the Pulptress vaulted over the railing and into their
midst. She leaned to the left to unleash a devastating kick to one
man's jaw. She used the force of the impact to slam her fist into
another's private parts. Then she tucked everything in to roll
forward. She came to her feet in a crouch. One hand snatched the
wind-up alarm off the table. She hurled the device straight at the
infernal machine. As one man tried to catch it she unleashed a
flying side kick to the temple of the other. He fell hard against
the phony I-Max camera.

While the one man dropped
the clock and moved forward she saw the apparent leader go for a
gun. The Pulptress snatched the folded purse strap from its mount
and snapped it open. She dodged the charging clock catcher to
unleash the weighted end of the strap at the leader. He took three
inches of flying brass across his center three fingers. As his
automatic fell to the floor the last man leaped into a side kick
aimed at her throat.

She pulled back with barely
an inch to spare. The man landed with a neat pivot to come at her
again. She dodged a series of front kicks as the leader worked his
way to the stairs down to the main observation deck. Then her
opponent tried to catch her with a knife-hand strike as she dodged.
She crouched as he planted his foot forward as part of the strike.
That's when the Pulptress' heal slammed forward to destroy his
kneecap. She snatched up the fallen gun to send a volley of
silenced shots into the machine.

She sprang to her feet just
as the leader's head disappeared down the stairs. She realized
catching the mug might make her exit difficult. If not impossible.
But he had to be taken.

Time seemed to slow down
for her, somewhat. She vaulted off the upper deck. To the left she
barely saw a man's arm let something fly. But dim light and
peoples' heads kept her from seeing what.

Below the fleeing terrorist
took another long step. Then something seemed to float in from the
side to impact his temple. The man began to fold up. He rolled
bonelessly into the framing of the steps down to the beach. “Anus
over appetite,” her friend Dillon called the maneuver.

The Pulptress managed to
land on a table without collapsing it. Just barely. She sprang into
a half-gainer with a twist. Her shoes absorbed the impact as she
landed three steps from the terrorist. Then, as she hurried over,
her eyes focused on the object that took down her target. A custom
throwing knife still in its sheath lay on the deck. Instantly she
realized she had seen knives like this before. Dillon kept one in
an office drawer. Li Suan and Dunklin each had one.

Barely had she paused
beside the fallen man when there came an incredible voice. “Time to
exit, little lady. Trouble's over here. And please lose the knife
for me.” The words came from a small disk on the floor, not too far
from the knife.

She took three seconds to
verify the situation. As she finished the disk began to
smoke.

But, before the smoke, she
had barely heard a female voice wryly say, “I thought you left all
that stuff at home.”

“
Something told me I'd need
it...” Then came the smoke. She snatched up the knife.

The Pulptress vaulted over
the railing and down the ten feet to the beach. She began sprinting
up the shoreline. Once out of sight of Space Palms she yanked off
her wig and her outer clothing. She wadded them in one hand. Clad
only in a bikini she angled into the waters separating Space Coast
from Space Center. She hooked the clip on the knife's sheath
between the cups of her bikini.

When she dove into the salt
water she felt the dyes begin to leave her skin and hair. She spat
out cheek pads and over-dentures. In deeper water she dropped her
wad of clothing. As she swam she wondered just how the legend known
as the Voice had recognized her after ten years and all of her
training.

A quarter of a mile later
she climbed up the ladder of her boat. The noise of the engine
kicking over disappeared under a blast of sound. She turned with a
smile to watch Discovery safely lift off.

THE END

by Andrea Judy

The tires screamed across
the wet Paris asphalt as the knife ripped into the driver’s chest.
His head slammed into the window and glass fell like stars across
the night sky. I pulled the car to the side of the narrow
roundabout and shoved him out the door, letting his body roll onto
the pavement.

He was still breathing. For
now.

I pulled the car into gear
and sped off into the night. No one tried to kill the Pulptress and
got away with it that easily.

Paris was different than I
remembered. I hadn’t been back since finishing my training with
Amaury almost 15 years ago, and now I was only here because my old
mentor had called for help.

But then he hadn’t been at
the airport to pick me up. Instead this strange man in a tacky old
suit had claimed to be my chauffeur, lured me into this piece of
crap car and then pulled a knife on me. Instinct had taken over at
that point. The gears groaned under my hand and I pressed the
clutch, smiling as I remembered Amaury teaching me how to drive a
stick.

I had trouble navigating
the roundabouts and narrow roads of the city, but it was nearly 2
am and the city of lights was quiet. The street was quiet; that was
one of the main reason my mentor, Amaury, had decided to live here.
Rue Valette was everything he wanted. Near the major attractions,
but on a street that few, if any, tourists would ever wander
down.

I parked the old car and
hurried up the rickety staircase to the back entrance of the
apartment. It took a few moments for me to dig through my keys to
find the spare he had mailed me. It slipped in the lock and the
door swung open.

Even with all of the lights
off, I could tell that something was wrong. Amaury kept an
immaculate place; he was even tidier than I was. His antique
armoire was broken, sagging against the wall, doors open, entrails
gutted and spread across the living room. The couch cushions had
been ripped open, stuffing coating the ground like the first heavy
snowfall of the year.

I stepped over the piles of
broken wood and discarded paper. Each step was carefully measured
to be silent as I slipped into the narrow galley kitchen. The block
of knives had been tipped over and several of the blades were out
on the counter. Cabinet doors hung open, half off their hinges. A
loaf of fresh bread, uncut, was sitting on the table, and a splash
of red glimmered in the low light of the apartment.

I had to kick in the
bedroom door, shoving past the knocked over dresser that had been
blocking it. Nothing was intact, the linens, the furniture, even
clothes, were strewn wildly about. Splintered wood shards creaked
under my movement, breaking and cracking with each step. I tensed
my body; I kept expecting something to be summoned by the noise I
made as I moved towards the broken bedroom window. It was a long
drop down, but not impossible to survive. Amaury had shown me how
to survive falls like that before.

Something harder than wood
crunched under my foot, I found a long thin piece of bone under my
sole. I ran it over in my hands; the ends were broken and jagged,
and the sides were rough like sandpaper against my fingers. It
smelled like rot, dirt and dust.

There was a thudding sound
back from the living room and I put the bone fragment into my
pocket as I slipped down the hallway to peer out into the open
area. Two strange men in old, ratty grey suits were standing in the
kitchen arguing in some form of French.

Even with my years of
studying French, I could only understand every few words, not
enough to know what the topic of conversation was, but the way one
of the men was pointing a gun gave me more than enough information
to act on.

Another step forward and a
wood sliver cracked under my foot. Both men looked up, guns
pointing my way. One called out in French but the other one opened
fire without waiting for a response. I dove forward, rolling over
shards of wood; plaster, and glass to duck behind the old couch
resting on its side in the center of the room. Another bullet
ricocheted across it and wood pieces shattered across the
room.

The men advanced towards me
as I calculated my options. The couch wouldn’t be able to stop many
more shots before it gave out, but the small layout of the
apartment gave me few options for retreat. I took a deep breath and
prepared to move. I knew I was far too well trained and practiced
to panic, but my heart still felt like some wild creature had
gotten loose in my chest and was going to rip out of me at any
moment.

The men opened fire again.
This time the shots shredded through the fabric and remaining
cushions. One of the bullets screamed through the back of the
couch, grazing across my shoulder, singeing the fabric of my
uniform and drawing a slow steady stream of blood.

I cursed under my breath as
I dove into the kitchen, bullets pounded into the plaster overhead.
I grabbed a steak knife and hurled it towards the closest charging
man. The blade sank into the palm of his hand but there was no
blood.

As he tried to pull it out
the second blade hit his throat and he fell to the ground,
still.

The other man lurched
forward, finger curling around the trigger. The scent of burning
hair filled the air as the bullet whizzed past my ear. I rushed
past him and back down the hallway. I could hear him yelling as he
barreled after me, but nothing was going to stop me.

I leapt through the busted
bedroom window, bracing my knees and landing with a roll as I
darted into the dark of the city streets.

Three blocks later a car
pulled up near me. I kept my back against the wall, holding my
breath and trying to blend in with the grey walls. Two people
stepped out of the car. One of them was a woman, a little larger
and older than me. Her pale hair was streaked with grey and white,
but the way she moved told me that she had several years to go
before age would even think of slowing her down. The other was a
man who had to be around the same age; he pulled a beret over his
baldhead as he climbed out of the car.

“
You look ridiculous,” the
woman spoke in short French, “Where is your baguette and cigarette
then? Make yourself look like a real Frenchmen for the
tourists?”

“
It’s 3 in the morning, what
tourists?” he snapped as he tugged at the beret.

“
Oh, just be quiet and help
me find her before these men come back,” she tittered, “We can’t go
about town asking for The Pulptress can we? Why did Amaury not give
us better directions to find her?”

“
Oh, I don’t know, because
he was kidnapped?” the man snorted, “That tends to cut directions
short.”

“
Your mouth stinks, shut
it!”

I hesitated but finally
stepped forward, keeping one hand ready to throw a punch if I
needed to, “You know Amaury?”

The man jumped and the
woman took a step backwards, “We do. You are who we are looking
for?” the man finally asked.

I nodded, “I'm The
Pulptress. Where’s Amaury? You said he’s been
kidnapped?”

The woman began a rant in
French, speaking far too quickly for me to understand
her.

“
English you
Connard
!” he growled, “I am sorry for my sister, she excites
easily.”

She hissed at him, slapping
his arm before turning to me, “I am sorry for my brother, he is an
idiot.”

I only had the chance to
take a breath before he began speaking, “Oh, we are being so rude!
My name is Pascal and this is my sister Paulette. We are friends of
Amaury. He told us you were coming and to find you, but then there
was a noise great on the phone and then there was no more
Amaury.”

“
When was that?” I asked, my
head was spinning with worry.

“
It was only a few hours
ago. Just before dark.” Paulette was looking up at the sky, “The
Chiffonnier have taken him.”

“
The what?”

Paulette shook her head,
and wrapped her arms around herself. “The rag and bone
men.”

“
Shush Paulette, it is a
silly old tale, Chiffonniers are furniture now, not men,” Pascal
tutted at her, “Come, let us off the streets.” He moved to open the
car door for me.

I glanced at Paulette as I
reluctantly climbed into the car, keeping tight hold on the spare
kitchen knife still in my hand, “What is going on? When Amaury
called me he said something about strange people were showing up
all over the city.”