The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

deep into her flesh.

 
    Fifty-One

 
    Flake looked into the eyes of
the Bourbon Kid and watched him raise his gun again and aim it at the centre of
her face. ‘Close your eyes,’ he growled.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because this is gonna sting.’
    She did as instructed and closed
her eyes. Maybe he was kidding around?
    BANG!
    Maybe not .
    He’d fired the gun all right,
just as she had expected he would. But she was still alive. At least, it felt
like she was still alive. Somewhere behind her, near the elevators at the back
of the reception area she heard a body slump to the ground. The Kid had killed
someone, but she had no idea who. Maybe the next bullet would be for her? She
winced, readying herself for what was to follow.
    And she waited.
    Was the Kid deriving some sick
pleasure from prolonging the agonising wait? After what felt like an eternity
but was most likely about five seconds, she heard another sound. A rattling
noise. It was a familiar sound to Flake. She recognised it immediately. The
rattling lasted three or four seconds then stopped. It was followed by a
hissing sound, coupled with something splashing on to her eyelids and across
the bridge of her nose. What sick twisted shit was this guy pulling? Much of
the upper half of her face from the tip of her nose, up to just above her eyes
felt the impact of the spray. This renowned psychopath, the Bourbon Kid was
spraying her face with the can of black spray paint she had left on her desk.
    When the spraying came to an end
and she heard him place the can back down on the desk, she squeaked out a
question from the corner of her mouth. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m making you look like a
vampire,’ came the reply.
    She opened her eyes and blinked
a few times.
    ‘Keep your eyes shut,’ said the
Kid.
    She snapped them shut again,
closing them tightly. The paint had a strong vapour that had stung her eyes
when she opened them.
    ‘Is this some kind of sick
game?’ she asked.
    ‘You wanted to help your friend
Sanchez, right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, if you wanna get into the
Casa de Ville, you’re gonna need to look like a vampire. There’s a clan called
the Pandas. They paint part of their faces black. You can pass off as one of
them.’
    Keeping her eyes closed, Flake
grimaced. ‘Surely there’s a better way of doing this than using spray paint?’
she reasoned.
    ‘It’s short notice,’ said the
Kid. ‘It was either this or I punch you in both eyes.’
    ‘This is good.’
    Flake heard the Kid shuffling
around for a while before she suddenly felt him grab her left arm. He began
rolling up the sleeve on her shirt. Feeling relatively confident that he no
longer planned to kill her, she pulled her arm away. ‘What are you doing?’ she
asked.
    ‘I’m going to inject you with a
serum. It lowers your blood temperature so you can walk undetected amongst the
undead. You’ll have a free run of the Casa de Ville.’
    Flake wasn’t a fan of
injections. ‘Oh,’ she sighed. ‘Is it absolutely necessary? My doctor always
struggles to find a vein when giving me injections and my arms bruise easily.’
    ‘Open your eyes.’
    She opened her eyes slowly,
blinking a few times to make sure it didn’t sting too much. The Kid’s face was
in front of hers. He was holding a long syringe in his right hand and he had a
serious look on his face.
    ‘This is necessary,’ he said.
‘Otherwise the vampires will spot you for a phoney straight away. And they’ll
eat you alive.’
    Flake pulled a face like a sulky
teenager. ‘Seriously, my arms bruise easily. There’s got to be another way to
do this?’ she groaned.
    ‘There is,’ said the Kid. ‘Pull
your pants down, bend over the desk and I’ll stick it in your ass.’
    Flake could see from the
expression on his face that he wasn’t kidding. She rolled the sleeve up a
little further on her left arm. ‘Just below the elbow is probably good,’ she
said.
    As the Kid squeezed her arm,
looking for the best spot to inject her with the serum, Flake readied herself
for the inevitable pain and bruising that would follow once he stuck the needle
in. Glancing over her shoulder so that she didn’t have to see the needle as it
penetrated her skin, she saw the dead body of William Clay. He was
spread-eagled on the floor by the elevator behind her, lying in a pool of his
own blood. The blood was seeping out from a gaping head wound. Clay had
obviously walked in at the wrong time. He had been the poor