The Undertaker

He came toward us in a low crouch, taking one small, hesitant step at a time as if he was trying to figure out his next move. Not that there was much we could do to stop him. We were safe for the moment, hidden in the deep shadows behind the cans, but we were trapped. I thought of making a run for it to draw the goon's attention away from Sandy but I knew that wouldn't accomplish much either. After he killed me, he would come back and do her. I looked through the crack again and saw the goon still hadn't come much more than halfway across the alley. That was something. He missed with his first three shots and that was something else. I couldn't see his face, but maybe he was scared of us, too. Maybe he was new at this. Maybe he wasn't sure if we were armed. Maybe there was a river of cold sweat running down his back just like mine. Maybe, but he kept edging closer, swinging the pistol back and forth.

“Ay! Give it up, guy,” he growled in a nervous, bass voice. “Youse two can come on out, I won't shoot ya, honest. I just wanna talk.”

“That's no Fed,” I heard Sandy mumble.

“Shut up!” I whispered, pushing her against the wall.

The goon was getting frustrated. He raised the pistol and shot twice more. One bullet slammed into the battered metal trashcans next to me with a loud, 'Pa-loonk!' and the other exploded on the soft brick of the garage wall behind us, showering us with red dust and chips of cracked clay. Two more shots and two more misses. That made five in all, but he wasn't likely to miss with very many more.

Sandy jabbed her elbow into my ribs again and tried to get up, but I shoved her back down on the muddy ground and leaned on her. “You son of a bitch!” she mumbled into the wall, furious at me, but I kept her there.

Fortunately, the gunman wasn't very bright. He could have ended it quickly if he had circled around the cans and come in behind us, but he didn't do that. And by not doing it with speed and determination, he gave us a chance. Quickly and quietly, I drew my legs beneath me and pushed myself up into a low crouch. He had a gun, which was his edge, but I was wound tighter than a Swiss watch. All I had to do was picture the bloody carnage back in the kitchen to flash back into a searing rage, but I needed something more. Something. Anything! My hands skimmed across the rough pavement of the alley searching for a weapon, or something sharp or heavy that might make a dent in the goon's skull. Other than a rotten head of lettuce and a bent soup ladle, the pickings behind the trashcans were slim.

When we didn't come out after the last two shots, the goon got really pissed. “I'm warnin' youse!” he threatened, but was cut short by the crash and clatter of an empty can tipping over across the alley and another screeching stampede of cats. When they dashed out Doug's kitchen door, they must have run through the back yard into the alley and the goon's gunshots spooked them all over again. They hissed and howled, tipping the can over. It went one way and the lid rattled the other and that spooked the goon. He turned and began popping shots at anything that moved. Just when I thought I would have to take him on with nothing more than a soup ladle, an angry, fifteen-pound ball of fur, teeth, and sharp claws skittered around the corner and bowled into me.

It was Doug's big, black Persian. I dug my fingers deep into the fur on its back and picked it up. The terrified Persian screeched, its sharp teeth bared and claws flailing the night air as I sprang over the top of the packing crate like a jack-in-the-box. The goon was not more than five feet away as I heaved the cat at him like a medicine ball and with that first quick look, I knew I had him. His eyes went round as saucers as he saw those teeth and claws flying at him. If he had the presence of mind to turn the gun on me, ignore the cat, and pull the trigger, I would be dead, but he did not do that. He couldn't. All he saw was a ball of razor blades coming at him and that sealed his fate. He froze. I may have gotten low marks for form, but a perfect ten for accuracy. The big Persian hit the guy flush in the chest. In that instant I had no doubt the cat understood what had happened to Doug and who was responsible. With claws flashing like four chain saws, it dug in and ran up the goon's chest, face, and over the top of his head, sending blood, strips of cloth, and flesh flying. The goon screamed and stumbled backward, using both hands to fend off the cat. His pistol clattered on the rough concrete and I knew he had forgotten all about me.