|
Nurse Jones
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Nurse Jones
steps out into the sun from behind a crumbling concrete wall and
plants her boots well apart in the dirt. She's wearing fatigues,
the shirt sleeves torn off at the shoulders, buttonless, knotted
above a rock-hard midriff.
Taking her time, she shakes her pack, checking the napalm level
in the canister and hikes up the shoulder strap, shifting her
breasts inside the worn fatigues. A bead of sweat starts it's journey
downward from the hollow at the base of her throat, plowing a furrow
through grime and dust.
A wooden match shifts from one side of her mouth to the other and
she spits expertly in the dust at her feet. Her boots used to be brown
leather. One of them has duct tape wrapped around the toe, and her
pants leg is ripped, revealing a brown muscled thigh steaked with
sweat and dirt. Life in v-town has been tough since The Fall.
She has a smudge on one cheek, and a ring through one nostril.
A steel ring. Like I said: tough.
Her gloves have the fingers cut off, revealing dirty nails. She runs
one hand through her matted, short cropped hair and waits,
impassive, looking down the decaying road. Knee-high clumps of
dusty grey-brown grass are growing through the cracked asphalt.
Blank and expressionless aviator sunglasses reflect a cloudless sky.
-*-
A breeze stirs her hair. Her head turns a fraction of an inch
and her nostrils dilate. She senses something.
Not yet, but soon.
A faint sound, felt rather than heard, like distant thunder.
Her face doesn't look like it has ever smiled, but if you looked
closely you could almost see her lip curl. She knows she's picked
the right spot to wait.
The thunder grows.
At the end of the ruined street there is a crunch of broken
glass underfoot; a ragged figure staggers around the corner, sees the
Nurse, and stops. He looks back up the street; a cloud of dust can
be seen over the jagged tops of the broken concrete buildings. He
looks back at the Nurse, back up the street. The thunder is louder.
He decides, and runs toward the Nurse, stumbling over the cracked
and crumbling asphalt. The thunder resolves to become the pounding
of hooves. The clanking of weaponry can be heard.
The lone figure nears the Nurse and slows to a staggering walk,
uncertain, looking back over his shoulder.
"You gotta help me," he croaks, his lips cracked and dry. His shirt is
torn and he limps. One shoe is missing.
She says nothing. He can see himself reflected in the glasses. The
wooden match shifts again.
Suddenly the earth shakes as a tidal wave of armored horsemen pour
through a side alley onto the main street. The lead horseman reins to a
halt, his horse rearing, and scans the road for his quarry. The other
horses clatter onto the street behind him, bringing a cloud of dust.
The horses are tired, panting, their flanks heaving.
The leader sees his prey and wheels his huge horse. One by one, the
riders spot the two figures at the far end of the street, and one
by one, the ragged metallic scrape of sword against scabbard echos
down the sunbaked concrete canyon. Spurs jingle, and they move
forward at a trot, a rolling, unstoppable, clanking, armored steel
wave, filling the street from side to side.
The lone fugitive scrambles to hide behind the Nurse and looks
over her shoulder at the horsemen reining to a halt in front of her.
He whines, "They're gonna kill me. You gotta stop 'em."
She turns her back to the horsemen and faces the lone figure. The
horses move forward at a walk to stand close behind her, snorting
and stamping their hooves. The dust begins to settle. Swords rest
across saddle pommels, and the riders look down, towering behind the
diminutive female figure in fatigues. The ragged fugitive looks
up, squinting against the sun behind the armored riders, and
realizes for the first time that they are huge. Seeing them
in the distance, he hadn't realized because the horses,
too, are enormous creatures. Their hooves alone are as big as his
head.
The lead horseman has a dirty rag tied around the end of his
lance. It was once a scarf. He speaks, his voice sounding as though
it hasn't been used in a long time. "You're a hard man to reach, Mr.
Nain. Or is it Rich?"
The ragged stranger stood, swaying, mouth open, looking from
face to face. At the use of his first name, he smiled uncertainly, a
glimmer of hope crossing his face like a furtive stray dog crossing an
alley.
Another rider spoke. The shape of her dented steel breastplate
revealed her to be a woman of heroic proportions. "Dick will do."
One of the riders in back sniggered. There was a sharp clank and
the sniggering stopped. A crow cawed in the distance.
"Who are you people?" the fugitive quavered.
The lead horseman scratched absently at the four days growth on
his neck. He lifted his lance and pointed it down at the fugitive,
resting it on the right shoulder of the Nurse. A faint breeze
stirred the dirty scarf hanging just behind the point of the lance.
"Meet Nurse Jones."
The fugitive's attention focused on the woman that he had hoped
would protect him. "You're her?" He backed away from her and looked
to the sides for cover, somewhere to run. Anywhere.
The nurse slid her hand slowly up the lance to where it rested
on her shoulder. Her left hand stayed on the flamethrower nozzle at
her hip.
The riders watched without moving.
"You can't hurt me," the fugitive said, unable to take his eyes
from the tiny half-gloved hand resting on the battered lance. "I got
rights...."
"Yeah," rasped the mounted armored woman, disgusted. "Virtual
rights." She spat. The horse next to her shied away. She had
something brown and shrivelled tied to the hilt of her sword. It
had human hair hanging from it. A second glance, and you could see
she was beautiful, under all the armor.
Comprehension dawned on the ragged man's face. "You're the people
from ASB...!" He was staring in horrified facination at the necklace
worn by the woman. "Those are human fingers," he said, paling. "You
cut off somebody's fingers...!"
The horsewoman looked as though she was too tired to be offended.
She said nothing.
One of the riders in front leaned forward in his saddle,
dusty leather creaking. He looked down at the cowering fugitive.
"Nah. She only takes middle fingers from left hands. Don't worry
sonny, those folks just hadda find another way to say good mornin'
to her." The hand he rested on his left knee was missing a finger.
Another snigger in the back row was ended by another sharp clank.
A second rider spoke. He was big, even among these. "We're
wasting time. Let's do it." The woman backhanded him without turning
her head to aim.
"You're always in a hurry," she rasped.
The rider wiped a trickle of blood from his lip with a dirty
thumb and grinned at her. It was not a pretty sight. "Later," he
said.
The ragged fugitive looked up, puzzled. "You let a woman top
you...?"
Snigger, clank.
The armored woman shook her head patiently, almost sadly, as
though she were dealing with a child. "I'm the bottom," she said,
and paused. "You're right, Moon. Let's do it."
The fugitive's shoulders slumped as he realized he was out of his
depth.
"But I got rights ... there are laws ... you people can't..." he
faltered and stopped, took a step back.
The wind stopped blowing and the dusty street was silent.
Even the horses were still, watching. An insect rattled in the dry
weeds.
Finally, the Nurse spoke, her voice so soft that at first it
sounded like a whisper.
"I knew a Richard once ..."
She took the wooden match from the corner of her mouth and toyed
with it between her fingers, watching the fugitive.
The Nain creature sank to his knees, broken, babbling to himself.
"Whadda ya say, Nurse," one of the riders said, "he looks like he's
had it."
Another hoarse voice said, "Toast 'im, Jones."
She paused, considering, for nearly a full minute, immobile,
impassive, her blank sunglasses revealing nothing. The riders waited.
The ragged man realized his life was in her hands. His face
became a study in fear and uncertainty. He looked up at her, searching
her face for a hint of sympathy, mercy, pity. Anything.
The nurse held the match poised, ready to strike against her
thumbnail. The ragged man stopped breathing, his entire being focused
on the head of the match.
The faintest trace of a smile played at the corner of the nurse's
mouth, and for just a second she let the man dare to hope.
"Let's find out..."
the match flared to life,
"...if this is a carbon based life form."
-*-
Nurse Jones,
who could put up with it, or fight back, but
given a choice between two evils, she always picks the one
she hasn't tried yet.
Snigger.
Clank.
|
|
