A Maidens Grave

Melanie took she was broadcasting exactly where she was. So he’d called to Wilcox to shut the lights out.
    It was wild how dark the place was. Pitch. Couldn’t see your hand. At first he was real careful about making sounds. Then he thought, Why, you fuck, she can’t hear you! And he hurried after her, pausing every few minutes to listen for the sound of the wet squish.
    There it is.
    Beautiful, honey.
    Closing in.
    Listen . . . .
    Squish.
    Can’t be more than thirty feet away. Look, here we go. There she is. He saw a ghostly form in front of him, walking back toward the main room of the plant.
    Squish, squish.
    He walked closer to her. He knocked a table over but her footsteps just kept rollin’ along. She didn’t hear a fucking thing. Closing the distance now, fifteen feet . . . ten. Five.
    Right behind her.
    The way he’d been behind Rudy, smelled the man’s Vitalis, seen the oak dust on his shirt and the bulge in the back pocket that was a wallet filled with what it shouldn’t’ve been filled with. “You fucker,” Handy’d screamed to his brother, not seeing red, like the expression, but seeing black fire, seeing nothing but his rage. Rudy had sneered, kept on walking. And the gun in Handy’s fist began firing. A little gun, a .22, loaded with long, not even a long-rifle, slugs. Which left little red dots on the neck and his brother doing the fucking scary little dance before he fell to the floor and died.
    Handy raged again at Art Potter for bringing up the thought of Rudy today, like he was planting the memory in Handy’s soul the way a pebble got pushed into your palm in a prison yard fight. Raged at Potter and at fat, dead Bonner and at Melanie, the fucking spooked mouse bitch.
    Two feet behind her, watching her timid steps.
    She didn’t have a clue . . . .
    This was fucking great, walking in step with her. There were so many possibilities . . . .
    Hello, Miss Mouse . . . .
    But he picked the simplest. He leaned close and licked the back of her neck.
    He thought she’d break her back she leapt away from him so fast, twisting sideways and falling into a stack of rusted sheet metal. His hand closed on her hair and he dragged her after him, twisting and stumbling.
    “Yo, Shep, put those lights back on!”
    A moment later the room filled with dim light and Handy could make out the doorway to the main part of the slaughterhouse. Melanie struggled to pry his hands fromher hair but he had a good grip and she could beat till kingdom come and he’d never let her go.
    “You’re making strange little peeps. I don’t like it. Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” He slapped her in the face. He didn’t think she got what he was saying but in any case she shut up. He dragged her through the cascading water, through the aisles of junk.
    Straight to a decapitation guillotine.
    It was basically a huge piece of butcher block, carved out with an indentation for the pig’s or steer’s chest. On the top was mounted a frame holding a triangular blade, operated by a long rubber-covered handle. A big fucking paper cutter.
    Wilcox watched. He asked, “You really gonna . . . ?”
    “What about it?” Handy screamed.
    “It’s just we’re so close to getting out, man.”
    Handy ignored him, grabbed a piece of wire from the floor, and wrapped it around Melanie’s right wrist. Twisted the tourniquet tight. She struggled, hit him in the shoulder with her left fist. “Fucking freak,” he muttered, and slugged her hard in the back. She dropped to the floor, where she curled into a ball, moaning, staring in horror at her hand turning blue.
    Handy lit his Bic lighter and ran it slowly over the blade of the guillotine. She shook her head violently, eyes huge. “Should’ve thought about it before you turned on me.” He scooped her up from the floor and slammed her against the guillotine.
    Sobbing, slapping at him, the mouse bitch tried to struggle away. He figured the pain in her right hand, now deep purple from the wire, was close to unbearable. Handy shoved her groin against the guillotine and pushed her forward, facedown, extending her right arm under the blade. He kicked her legs out from underneath her. She lost all leverage and dangled, helpless, from the machine. Handy easily pinioned her hand in the cutting groove.
    He hesitated a moment and looked down at her face, listening to the gasping sound that rose from her throat. “God, I hate that fucking sound you people make. Hold her,