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Sheila was almost to the top when Lou thrust the barbecue fork upward. Its tines popped through the seat of her jeans. They sank into her right buttock and she squealed. He shoved. The fork slipped in deeper. Instead of stopping her, it seemed to speed her up. He felt the wooden handle twitching with the flex of her muscles. A patch of blood began to spread over the denim surrounding the twin holes. |
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He rammed again. She reached back and grabbed the fork as she bounded up the final stairs, but she couldn't dislodge it. Lou leaped to the top, driving her ahead of him. He steered her across the corridor. He slammed her against the wall and pulled out the fork. |
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Sheila whirled around, slashing at him with the knife. He lurched backward. The blade flashed across his chest, missed, but sliced through his right sleeve and nipped his upper arm. She swept it at him again. Lou took another quick step back and swung the fork at her arm and his foot came down on air. |
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Yelping, he flung the fork from his hand. He reached out for the banister. His fingers hooked over the rail, but the weight of his tumbling body tore his hold away. His back struck the stairs. He saw his wet, black legs fly up. His neck twisted. He felt his legs kicking high, flipping him over, coming down. His knees thumped the carpeted stairs and he slid down, treads rubbing their way up his body like the rungs of a ladder. They bumped his face. One edge caught his genitals and mashed them up against his crotch. Then another did the same, and another. |
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