“That it was!” yelled the Vulture, the voice somehow both masculine and high-pitched. Like the screech of a crow. “There’s three of us here. Better leave or I’ll tell—”
Ned’s eyes went wide, and his chest sank in on itself, preventing him from breathing. He rolled against the wall, pointed the barrel inside and shot.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck!
A glass bottle burst, sending shards everywhere, but before he could have reloaded, hands came out of nowhere and pulled on the barrel. Ned clutched the big gun, stiff as if lockjaw had infected his body and was about to break his back. Suddenly, he stared back into a long, wrinkled face with thin yellow hair that stuck from under a top hat like straw.
The bastard gave a caw-like laugh and smashed his forehead into Ned’s. The world spun with the force of the impact, and Ned found himself landing on the floor with the scarecrow man on top. Tall and skinny, but possessing the strength of a draft horse, he flashed Ned an insidious grin colored by the blood rolling from his nose. Ned should have shot him when he’d had the chance but couldn’t bring himself to just kill a man and hesitated with his finger on the trigger for far too long. The moment Scarecrow smacked the barrel of the shotgun aside, it was too late.
Panic settled in Ned’s chest when he remembered that Cole was up against two more Vultures, but when he tried to look toward him, the glint of a knife in Scarecrow’s hand forced him to think only of the here and now. Of the single claw about to pierce his neck and then gouge out his eyes out.
Scarecrow gritted his long, narrow teeth, but he was thin, and even though being on top gave him an advantage, the raw strength in Ned’s arms managed to keep the blade from sinking into flesh.
Gunshots came from behind an invisible wall, because as long as the sharp tip pointed at his flesh, nothing mattered beyond Scarecrow’s sweating face and the ache in Ned’s muscles. Now that death was so close, he regretted his hesitation to take this monster’s life. A revolver still sat in the holster at his hip, giving promises of safety, but he was already using both hands to keep the blade away from his face.
A shot somewhere down the corridor distracted Scarecrow, making him glance over his shoulder. Ned took the risk, let go with one hand, and grabbed his revolver. The moment his hand touched the now-familiar nickel, time stretched into eternity. Scarecrow must have spotted what Ned had done, and in a trick that left Ned stunned, he threw the knife into his other hand and jabbed.
Ned’s entire body was wood at this point. He grabbed the blade in panic, and as it ate into the flesh of his palm, he shot the revolver straight from his hip before the dagger could have pushed into his chest. His own blood dripped to his face from the injured hand, but the shock and pain painted all over the dried-out features above meant he hadn’t missed. Pushing away the weakening grip became child’s play. If children played with knives and guns.
Cole emerged from behind Scarecrow’s back and smacked his face with the grip of his revolver, sending the bastard at the wall. Unable to keep himself up, the Vulture rolled down only a few paces from Ned, gasping for air as he struggled to get to his feet. His hand went for the sidearm resting on his hip, but his fingers jerked when Cole took a shot and pierced the palm right in the middle.
Were… the others dead?
Ned held his injured palm tightly clenched as he willed away the pain, to no avail. His bullet had shattered Scarecrow’s shin, and blood pooled on the floor in a slow but steady trickle.
Behind Cole, Ned spotted an arm on the floor, emerging from behind the cupboard. Lifeless fingers didn’t even twitch anymore. Cole didn’t have the type of qualms that had led to the deep cuts in Ned’s palm. Like the grim reaper himself, he stepped toward the final Vulture, calmly reloading his revolver while the folds of his duster settled.
Scarecrow wheezed but threw Ned a hateful glance before turning his attention to Cole. “Spare me, please! I have valuable information. You will thank me!” he uttered, spluttering bloody saliva, but blood loss was already turning him ashen.
Ned’s stomach clenched, and he put his finger on the trigger of his revolver. Ned’s revenge wouldn’t be ruined by this motherfucker.
“I don’t think so. You died the moment you touched my man,” Cole said as he spun the cylinder and cocked his gun. A single shot in the forehead sent Scarecrow to the floor. One more twitch, and he stilled forever.