“How was your day, darling?” She asked apprehensively. By the look on Walter’s face she could tell that it had not gone well at work. Twenty-three years of marriage had taught her to distinguish such insignificant traits as the slight lift in his upper lip when he was happy, or the little creases around his eyes when he was troubled. Today, the tell-tale wrinkles in his forehead were as deep as furrows dug in a farmer’s field. She prepared for the worse. Her first instinct when he entered the front door a few seconds ago was akin to the fight or flight condition experienced by animals trapped in the wild. She fought back the urge to bolt out the backdoor. "It wouldn’t do any good," she reasoned. It would only make things worse. Walter was prone to fits of rage which had, in the past, escalated to violence. The anger management classes that he attended weekly seemed, at first, to subdue him, but lately he had found excuses for not attending. “Anyway,” he added, “the judge ordered me to go for twelve months. That was finished last August. I don’t see why I should keep wasting my time with those losers.” She pleaded with him to no avail. She tried placing the blame on herself. Maybe somehow it was her fault that he acted this way. If only she could be a better wife, a better lover. Something. Anything. She had spent a plethora of sleepless nights trying to arrive at a solution. He, on the other hand, failed to recognize anything wrong with his behavior, and flew into a rage whenever she brought up the subject. She was tired of living in such a predicament. He had excuses for every rational argument she pursued. “The judge was a racist!” He screamed when she pointed to the fact that he had gotten in trouble with the law the last time he beat her. She was sick and tired of living this way, and she was falling off the cliff into action. Something was about to take place to change this situation. She could feel it growing daily within her like a child growing in her womb. “Thank God,” she thought, “the only child I ever conceived was stillborn. No child should have to endure this misery”. Now she had only this entity which had sprung to life several weeks ago. It was nothing like a fetus. This growth felt more like a tumor gnawing away at her insides. It was gaining control. Any day now, she felt, it would assume command and lead her to whatever destructive end it desired. Walter wasn’t a drinking man. If he had been it would have made things easier for her to accept: being simpler to place the blame on alcohol. But Walter had watched his father drink himself to death at an early age, and swore off alcohol when he had reached the age of majority. He refused to talk much about his childhood. It was another subject that summoned the rage monster that dwelt within him. The rage monster was going to be visiting tonight. She sensed it. She could smell it on him like a bad cologne. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “Is my dinner ready, yet?” He snarled. He slammed his thermos and lunch box down on the flimsy Formica table sending several empty glasses crashing to the floor. She didn’t bother asking about work again. There wouldn’t be time enough for that. She retrieved the broom and dust pan from the closet to clean up the broken glass. “God damn it,” he swore, “why the fuck are those glasses out here?” His eyes were wider now. The rage was surfacing quickly. “I bust my ass all day so that you can sit around on your fat, lazy ass. Do you think I got money to throw away?” He slowly approached her until he was a few inches from her trembling face. “Well?” He asked again. His movements were like a panther stalking prey. His hands moved quickly grabbing her by the arms. She let a small shriek of pain escape her tightly pursed lips as his fingers dug into the meaty flesh of her upper arms. She could feel small trickles of blood running down the backs of her arms. Suddenly he shoved her backward, hard. She fell against the sink and cabinets. Her back ached from the impact, but she didn’t make any noise. She only lie cowering in a heap. Covering her face with her trembling hands. “What did I do?” She squeaked. Her voice cracking from both the pain and the fright. “I don’t know why I ever bothered with such a lousy piece of ass,” he spat. He flung the cheap table against the far wall, turned, and left the room. “Bring my fucking dinner out here.” She could hear him settling into the deep leather recliner. The television clicked on. The evening news broke the tense silence. A small breath of relief rose in her throat. “Maybe it’s over,” she thought. But the little cancer, tumor, demon, whatever it was that was gaining strength within her, whispered in her mind “No, it isn’t.” She knew that the silent voice was right. Walter was only postponing the punishment until he was well fed and satisfied. Later he would demand sex, and she could not refuse. Even, God forbid, if she were on her monthly. Fortunately, that had ceased a few years ago. The doctor had called it menopause. She called it relief. Dinner came and went without a word between them. She ate in the kitchen, and quickly washed the dishes. A dishwasher was something other people had. Long ago she had tried to accept her fate. She knew nothing else. This was life. She was forbidden to leave the house for anything but the most trivial errands: Walking to the grocery store, Laundromat, or Post Office. During the weekends Walter would rise early, usually before six o’clock, and work at small chores around the house. He seemed to be less inclined to his fits during his days off. Once she had suggested that he look for a new job. Perhaps it was his work that made him crazy. He had slapped her hard across the face and told her not to interfere. He “god damn provided well,” for her. “What was a new job going to do?” Walter had been at the factory for ten years and he’d be damned if he was going to start at the bottom of some “piss-ass job,” somewhere else. There had been good times. Although they grew fewer and farther between. There were moments where she was lulled into a false sense of feeling that everything was normal. She recalled vividly how he had brought her a dozen white carnations, her favorite, and taken her out to an expensive dinner at the French restaurant in town only two years ago. He dressed in his best Sunday clothes. She wore the special dress that she kept hidden in the rear of the closet. The dress had only emerged twice before: Her wedding, and her father’s funeral. The dinner was delicious, and afterward they made passionate love in the front seat of the old Chevy; not arriving home until well after midnight. The night looked as if it would erase the memories of everything that had gone wrong in their marriage. If that were possible. For a fleeting moment it appeared as if he had succeeded in disconnecting the severe beating she received the evening before. It was necessary to flush memories like that. Periodic flushing was the only way to make life more bearable. On good days Walter could even be romantic. At other times he was like a wild animal using her body only for his carnal satisfaction. It was “her wifely duty,” he would hiss before thrashing on top of her until he released satisfaction, rolling off and quickly falling asleep. After dinner that night, she meekly took her place at the end of the couch. A final glimmer of hope that maybe, somehow, he would lose interest in her. Silence reigned for less than hour before he started. Obviously his food had digested; energizing and revitalizing his violence. The raging monster was rested and ready to prowl. “You like this show?” He asked sarcastically. It was a trap, and she knew it. If she answered affirmatively he would assail it with a tirade of cussing. If she answered in the negative he would launch into a frenzy accusing her of not knowing intelligent programming when she saw it. He would tell her that her genes lacked the refinement to understand a good show. Either way, it was only an excuse for him to summon the rage monster from deep within the inner sanctum it resided. She had been through this cycle too many times. She remained silent. “What, you don’t talk to me anymore?” The refusal to participate in the game only infuriated him. “It’s like a fucking morgue in here.” He leaned toward her, and she instinctively crouched deeper into the corner of the couch. The length of the couch stood guard between them. “Are you disrespecting me?” She remained silently staring at the television screen. The smell of rage permeated the room. It was thick like a musky, sweaty smell. “You goddamn answer me when I’m talking to you!” He flung the television remote control at her. It crashed against the wall only inches from her head. Shards of sharp black plastic exploded around her. A few stuck in the wall leaving a wild design of sharp punji sticks protruding in a sloppy circle. “No, Walter.” She started to cry. Tears burst from the edges of her worn eyes and rolled in great streams down her cheeks. “Please,” she pleaded, “not tonight. I can’t take it tonight.” She started sobbing hysterically putting her head down toward her lap and covering the sides of her face with her hands. “Not tonight,” came the muffled sound of her voice broken by sobs of anguish. “Come here,” he beckoned. His voice was different. It sounded almost pleasant. He sounded sorry. “Come give me a kiss.” It was soothing. She fell for the trap. As she rose the darkened stain left by her tears on the front of her plain house dress was visible above the swell of her breasts. She moved slowly, cautiously like a fearful doe approaching an outstretched hand of oats. “Come on, baby. I’m sorry for yelling at you.” She bent over to kiss him on the side of his cheek. Maybe he really was sorry. Maybe things were going to be different. He turned instantly before her lips could contact the coarse hair of his beard. The moment she looked into his eyes she could see that it was a mistake. The rage monster blazed from behind his soft brown eyes. He had a strange smile on his face. One she had never seen before. She tried to retreat a step backward, but it was a moment too late. His hand came up from the side of the recliner in a blazing flash. Her own hands were too slow to react. The pain of the blow across her face momentarily darkened her vision. Stars appeared in front of her eyes. She fell sideways across the length of the couch. Thankfully the couch had cushioned her fall, but it had not protected her from the powerful slap. The pain consumed the side of her face like a giant splash of sulfuric acid burning her skin. It hurt so much that she was unable to respond for a few moments. She blacked out, but not long enough. The monster’s voice slapped her out of the solace of unconsciousness. “Get your ass in the bedroom,” he commanded. It was an order not to be disobeyed. The authority allowed no room for questions, nor disloyalty. She knew what was to come next. “Oh God,” she prayed silently, “please let that be enough for tonight.” “What the hell are you still laying there for?” Came the booming call for action. She shuffled silently to the rear bedroom. Her head hung low as a cow might enter the abattoir. She heard the distinct sound of his belt sliding noisily through the coarse Levi belt loops. It was a thick leather strap almost as wide as a man’s hand. “Please let him just be taking off his pants,” she pleaded silently with a god that seemed to be deaf to her plight. “Not the belt. Not the belt. No damn it,” she continued as she lie down on the cold bedspread her teary gaze lost in the ceiling tiles, “not that god damn belt!” “Lucy, I’m home,” he mimicked with a Cuban accent. His eyes were wide, and crazy looking even in the half-darkness of the bedroom. His belt hung limply at his side. His hand held the belt upside down. The buckle almost touching the top of his work boot. A sudden energy rose from deep within the recesses of her inner mind. It seized control. First controlling her voice. “Mother fucker!” it screamed. “You lay a hand on me and I’ll KILL you. You bastard!” She listened to the sounds coming from her mouth. It seemed like a stranger was talking through her. She never swore at Walter before. A surprised look came over his face. He stepped back almost instinctively. It was a look of fear. She watched the scene unfolding as if she were a patron in a movie theater watching a drama on the big screen. The fear left Walter’s face as quickly as it had surfaced. He swung the belt in slow menacing circles as he approached the bed. “So, you want to play tough, huh? Well you’re in for a treat tonight, sugar.” He cackled half in laughter, half in uncontrolled rage. Sugar was what he called her when they had sex, or like tonight, when he thought it time for “disciplining” her. II Officer Grabowsky had been on the city police force for twenty-four years. Retirement was only, as he mentioned casually to his partner five minutes ago, “eleven months, twelve days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes away. Grabowsky, or Walrus, as he was affably nicknamed by his peers, enjoyed police work. Walrus was getting older. His tired, old bones were ready for more relaxing pastimes: Hunting, fishing, reading, and midday naps. Police work could be very demanding. Stressful at times. Walrus had seen his share of excitement, and it was time for the younger patrolmen to takeover the reigns. Miguel had been on the force for only seven years. His entire stretch served under the watchful eyes of the ubiquitous Walrus. Usually Miguel called his partner Wally for short. Wally also had a name for Miguel: Taco. An obvious reference to Miguel’s Hispanic origin. The racist epithet had bothered Miguel at first, but he held his tongue and learned as much as he could from his portly trainer. Walrus had years of experience to share with his rookie partner. Miguel was a good student and a quick study of the fine art of protecting the good citizens. Wally glanced over at his young, muscular partner and smiled surreptitiously. He was proud of his protégé. The Captain had called him into the office, three months after the two became partners, to congratulate Wally on the excellent job he had done with Miguel. The squawking voice over the police radio broke the silent moment of introspection between them. “Car 71, domestic disturbance. Respond to 301 Chestnut Ave. Neighbor reports screams in the house.” “Shit, so much for coffee,” Miguel snickered. Wally would have been heading toward Patsy’s Coffee Shop in the next few minutes. It was ten minutes to eight. Wally had his routines deeply entrenched. “Just grab the radio, Taco.” Wally snapped. A tincture of aggravation dripped from his lips. Wally swung the car around in a tight u-turn. “Ten-four, dispatch. Car 71 responding code two. 321 Chestnut Ave.” Miguel spoke calmly into the radio handset. “That’s 301 Chestnut Ave.,” Wally corrected. “Roger Car 71. Be advised the address is 301 Chestnut Ave.” The dispatcher sounded like she had seen the better side of fifty, probably pushing retirement herself. “Nice going, Taco,” Wally chuckled. “I bet Larry and Paul are laughing their asses off at us,” he continued. Officers Larry Michaels and Paul Jones were the only other police car on patrol. Although went it came time to back each other up on calls they were complete professionals, Larry and Paul liked to pull their share of practical jokes on Wally and Taco. “Seven years on the job and you’re still a fuck-up.” Wally wasn’t mad, it was a simple mistake, but he knew some smart-ass remark would erupt from the other car. He hadn’t long to wait. “Want some help finding it, ladies?” Came the laughing male voice on the car-to-car frequency. Every police car had two channels. The first channel allowed them to talk to dispatch. The second was a car-to-car channel only heard by the other officers. “I think will be fine, smart-ass,” Miguel shot back. “Why don’t you guys pull your pants up, and get out on your beat.” Wally turned his head toward his partner. “Watch it, Taco. The Sarge is supposed to be patrolling tonight. Just let’em have their little laugh.” He turned his attention back to the road just in time to spot an elderly woman pulling a bag of groceries slowly across the darkened street. “Shit!” he exclaimed slamming on the brakes with the full force of his two-hundred forty pounds. “You see that old lady?” He asked nervously as the car came to an abrupt halt inches from the two-wheeled shopping basket. “Man, you gotta keep your eyes on the road.” Miguel fired back. It was his turn to persecute. “Maybe your night vision ain’t what it used to be.” They sped off toward the domestic disturbance call. “Isn’t that the same house we went to about a year ago?” Miguel asked his sweating partner. Wally’s heart was still beating wildly in his heart from the near miss. He visualized the scene unfolding in an entirely different ending. “Officer Grabowsky,” the Captain’s voice solemn. The stoic drawl continuing, “I’m sorry to inform you that the department has investigated the accidental killing of the elderly pedestrian and found you negligent.” The Captain’s eyes looking up from his desk to meet his. “In consideration of your long service with the force and you’re unblemished record I recommended to Internal Affairs an early retirement option, but there are other considerations I’m afraid.” The Captain now unable to hide the grief of what was about to come. Wally flinching at the look on his commander’s face. Hell, they had gone to the academy together. Only Bill, the Captain, had the brains, and the political sycophantic ass-kissing attitude that would propel him through the ranks while Jolly Wally remained one of the foot soldiers pounding the streets. “Jim, look I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. The family’s suing the city, and the city attorney thinks there is goods chance the settlement could reach several million. The city manager wants your ass.” Bill leans back into his chair, but can’t maintain eye contact. “There’s nothing I can do,” he repeats quietly. He almost looks as if he is going to cry. “Jesus, Bill give it to me straight. It can’t be that bad.” Although they were classmates, they were never really friends. Wally always felt that his commander was nothing more than a wimp. A spineless bastard. Bill had run for the cover of the back office as quickly as he could qualify for the Sergeant Exam. Wally had never even signed up for the exam. “Jim, I’m afraid the powers to be have to decided to fire you.” “What powers to be?” Wally asked. He could not contain the anger in his voice. The Captain shrunk a little in his chair. “That’s not all. They’ve also decided that due to your negligence you won’t receive any of your pension.” The Captain shrunk back even farther, and with good reason. “What?!” Wally screamed. “They’re taking my fucking pension? Twenty-four years of nearly killing myself, risking my ass for them, and they’re going to yank my pension?” He was over the desk in a flash. His movements uncharacteristically fast for a man of his corpulence. Before the Captain could blink Wally had his hands tightly wrapped around the scrawny commander’s pencil neck. The Captain started turning blue and apparently was trying to say something. Nothing escaped from his mouth except a little gasp for air. Wally squeezed tighter, and tighter.... “Hey, man you’re driving right by the house.” Miguel said. The sound of his voice snapped Wally out of his nightmare. “Sorry, Taco.” Wally Stopped the car and backed up two houses until they were in front of 301 Chestnut Ave. There were two lights on in the small dingy house. Several neighbors were already standing outside on their porches. One of the neighbor men ran up to the patrol car before they could get out. “Car 71 code six at 301 Chestnut.” Miguel barked into the handset. The tension was thick here and Miguel’s adrenaline was already pumping. “Roger, Car 71. Code six at 301 Chestnut.” The dispatcher responded. “Damn,” Miguel thought to himself, “those dispatchers have ice in their veins.” “You boys need some back-up?” it was Larry from the other patrol car. He sensed the stress in Miguel’s radio transmission. “We’re only five minutes away.” Wally grabbed the handset. “Nah, we’ve dealt with this guy before. I’ll give you a call on the walkie if things get out of hand.” Wally knew how to keep calm. To think with his head. Miguel still lost his cool occasionally . “I think somebody’s dying in there,” the wide-eyed man wearing the flannel bathrobe shouted at them through the closed car window. “I think he’s really killing her this time.” The man appeared to Wally to be about forty years old. Probably not to well off judging by the tattered bathrobe. His wife came running up to the car window as Miguel opened the door to get out. “Grab the shotgun,” Wally ordered. “Just in case. The screaming sound of a woman from within the house became audible as soon as the door was opened. A man yelling and cursing quickly blended into the cacophony erupting in the normally sleepy neighborhood. Several dogs could be heard howling in the distance as if they empathized with the woman’s mistreatment. “Hurry. There’s something awful happening in there officer,” the lady that had just joined Mr. Bathrobe shouted as the two officers ran for the door. As they mounted the dark porch the thick smell of lingering pork chops wafted through the sill of the closed front door. Wally pounded on the heavy wooden door with his baton. The sharp cracks of sound were drowned out by the high-pitched screaming from the woman followed by the man shouting “You fucking bitch! Take that you cunt!” This followed by the slap of leather on bare flesh. “Police! Open the door right now!” Miguel shouted as Wally ran around the side of the house to investigate. “Kick it in, Miguel.” Wally yelled from the side of the house. Miguel lowered the shotgun and kicked the door as hard as he could. The whole house seemed to shudder but the door stood fast. He aimed his foot near the door knob and kicked again. The door jamb split exposing a thin slice of raw wood, but the door remained closed. He thought about shooting the knob off, but the risk of injury prevented him. Someone could be just inside the door. On his third try the door could withstand no more punishment and relented. It went crashing inward. The glass from a picture against the near wall shattered from the impact of the inward swinging door. Miguel quickly jumped to the side taking cover to prevent an armed suspect from having a clear shot at him. He snuck a quick peek around the door frame and saw it was clear. Wally came running from around the side of the house. “That psycho’s beating the shit out of his wife with a belt in the bedroom,” he gasped to Miguel out of breath from the run. His adrenaline was pumping and his heart beating wildly. They entered the house cautiously. Clearing each corner, each room, as they neared the bedroom. The woman was screaming at the man. “Stop it you mother fucker.” She sounded delirious. Almost as if she wasn’t feeling the pain of the powerful blows. They heard the swish of the belt swinging through the air and slapping loudly against unprotected flesh. “I’ll KILL you, you BASTARD! She screamed again. When Wally and Miguel entered the doorway to the darkened room they could clearly make out the terrifying scene. A scene so gruesome that months of intensive therapy would have been unable to erase. Unable to even diminish by one iota. The belt of Walter’s buckle had inflicted so much damage to his wife that there was almost nothing to see except swollen bloody flesh where her face had been. Her nude body was covered with black bruises in parts and bloody patches of torn skin in others. One eye was dangling precariously from the socket, and her long hair was matted with blood. A large patch of hair had been torn away from the side of her head, and it was hard to tell whether the ear just below it had been ripped away or was hiding in the deluge of blood flowing freely from the exposed scalp. Wally and Miguel were so shocked by the massacre they stood witnessing they just froze dumbfounded for a moment. “Jesus,” Miguel muttered under his breath “how can she still be conscious?” He gagged on the vomit that was attempting to force its way from stomach to floor. “Drop the belt asshole!” Wally screamed regaining his senses. He aimed the service pistol, a Glock .40 caliber, at the back of Walter’s head. “You mother fucker!” The bloody mess screamed at Walter. “I’ll KILL you.” She was conscious. In twenty-four years Jolly Wally had never seen anything like this. Even the punks jacked up on PCP wouldn’t have had this much life left in them. Miguel raised the shotgun to Walter’s head as Walter slowly turned to face them. The belt hung limply at his side. As Walter’s eyes met the two officer’s, Miguel felt a tingle of fear tighten his scrotum. This guy was fucking gone. He had seem some crazy people, but this dude was fucking flipped out. Walter’s eyes were glowing, almost burning, red. His face had an evil grin on it. A scary smile spread almost from one ear to the other. The room reeked of fresh blood and other bodily fluids. A wisp of sex emanated from the bed. Not a wholesome lovemaking smell, but a smell like two dogs fucking. It made Wally’s stomach turn. As Walter turned he flipped the belt upward in an arching motion catching the barrel of Miguel’s shotgun. The belt wrapped several times, and Walter yanked it with superhuman strength. The shotgun went tumbling out of Miguel’s hands landing with a thud at his feet. Wally fired instinctively, but the round whizzed by Walter’s ear and entered the wall above the bed. Walter lunged for the pistol before Wally could squeeze off another round. He swatted the gun from Wally’s hand as easily as an adult slaps a toy from the hands of a small child. Miguel sprung like a cat leaping for a mouse and grabbed Walter around the torso. A whooshing of air escaped from Walter’s lungs. Miguel struggled to take him down, but Walter spun around and threw Miguel off of his back sending Miguel flying out the doorway. Wally scrambled to his knees trying frantically to retrieve the pistol from underneath the bed. Walter kicked his head hard and shoved Wally to the floor. Wally shrieked. Miguel, shaken and dazed, picked himself up from the hallway floor. He froze in terror as Walter leveled the shotgun at Wally’s head. The shotgun blast exploded in the tiny room. Everyone’s ears were still ringing as Walter slowly rotated around facing Miguel with the shotgun. He pumped another shell into the chamber expelling the spent cartridge onto the carpet. A wisp of smoke trailed the cartridge like a smoky tail. Miguel screamed in fear. He remained frozen; mesmerized by the look of wild insanity in Walter’s eyes. A small smile crept across Walter’s face. Suddenly a sharp report sounded from behind Walter and his eyes looked first confused then seemed to go blank. Walter fell forward landing inches from Miguel’s trembling legs. As Walter fell, the scene behind him appeared. The wife was squatting in front of the bed. The smoking barrel clutched in both shaking hands still pointed forward. Her devastated body still wet with dripping blood from every extremity. Her face blank; unemotional. III The force had assumed complete control of her. It urged her on. “Grab the gun.” It had commanded her. She felt her body moving, but her muscles seemed to be responding to an alien command center. It was as if her consciousness, her mind, had retreated to a distant corner of her brain. Now things were happening that she could only watch. Detached from the pain. Detached from any sensations. Removed from reality as the alien within steered her body. The report had not frightened her. She watched from a safe place in her mind as her husband crumpled to the floor. There were neither fear nor thoughts as her fingers tensed and then squeezed tightly firing another shot. This time the cop crumpled, grabbing at his abdomen. He fell to his knees. His eyes pleaded with her. “Why?” they seemed to be questioning. She knew this was not right. A tiny fragment of sanity cried out for her to stop, but she was powerless. She watched as the life seeped from the cop’s eyes with the gush of blood spreading across the hardwood hallway floor. Officers Michaels and Jones responded code three to the second call. A shots fired report from the domestic dispute address. They were on the scene in three minutes. As they ran from their car they heard the last shot that had permanently separated Miguel from his pretty Mexican wife and two young boys. They ran to the porch assuming defensive positions on either side of the open doorway. The neighbors had retreated to the safety of their own homes long ago; running wildly across green lawns after the shotgun ripped through the still night. “Wally. Miguel. You guys all right?” Larry Michaels yelled into the house. His answer was the dying moans of Miguel writhing on the hallway floor. They peered in and saw Miguel’s muscular figure motionless on the ground. “They’ve been shot!” Larry screamed at his partner. “Call for back-up.” Both cops were terrified. A bloody figure emerged from the semi-darkness of the adjoining room. It was walking slowly. Painfully moving down the hall toward them. It took Larry a few seconds to realize it was a woman. The breasts were covered in dark, caked blood. There seemed to be blood oozing from everywhere. “Are you OK, lady?” Larry offered still panicking from the scene. The figure moved closer to them. That was when Paul noticed the gun hanging at the end of her limp arm. “She’s got a gun!” Paul shouted to his partner. They raised their pistols aiming for the woman’s head. “Drop the gun, lady.” Paul ordered. His voice cracked and warbled. “Now!” Larry added. The bloody figure continued moving at the same sluggish pace. She was expressionless and now only a few feet from the front door. “Drop it or we’ll shoot.” Paul tried desperately to disarm the situation. She slowly raised her arm bringing the revolver to eye level. Paul and Larry emptied their entire thirteen round clips. The shots rang out in the house like a string of firecrackers at a Chinese parade. Some shots hit the bloody figure. Other shots burrowed into the walls or tore chunks from the sparse furniture. It was their academy training coming into action. Instinctively they fired until the noise ceased. The woman stumbled forward with each shot finally stopping. She looked into their frightened eyes and smiled as she dropped to the floor. “You’re free,” the alien voice whispered to her mind. “I’m free,” she whispered as the lights around her grew dimmer. “What did she say?” Paul asked his partner. They both stood shaking outside the doorway. “It sounded like ‘it’s me’”, he answered. The End GFM