The Great Escapee Series

Chapter 3

Three

Katty Randolph floated into consciousness, hovering between drunken stupor and awareness of something terribly off.

She groaned. Someone had to be holding her head down. Little men with jackhammers pounded inside, even when she told them to stop in no uncertain words. Exhausted, her head fell back onto hard, packed ground.

Something licked her calf. Sandpaper would have felt better. She kicked at it. A startled and indignant snarl sent shivers up her body.

Her eyes wouldn't adjust; the visuals that reached her brain made no sense. Blocks of color bounced off the backs of her eyes. Movement tracked back and forth until she slammed them shut. Her stomach threatened to hurl.

She floated back to stupor. When she tried to open her eyes again, sunlight burned into her eyeballs, making her eyes slam shut.

Something roared, revved up and down. Oh stop!

Her hands flitted from rubbing her throbbing forehead to her ears. Then her watering eyes. Back to her ears.

Waves of dizziness spiked as she lifted her head too fast. Her stomach revolted, and up came too much pizza and too many rounds, the glory of her Bar Queen status tarnished. She moaned and rolled herself into a ball.

A low growl. Her skin crawled. She cracked her eyes open.

Monstrous dog house kingdom, surrounded by a crumpled fence, ruled over by a scarred and dozing dog—one eye open. He appeared more alert each time Katty peeked in his direction.

Shuddering, she pulled at grass and weeds—anything—trying to hide.

The roar in her ears stopped and the silence was broken by a man's deep laughter. "Hey Harriet. It moved. We don't have to bury it. And it's naked!"

The last word pierced her.

She squinted an eye open and peered through her fingers. All she had on were her favorite striped socks.

A sweaty mountain of a man in the next yard grinned. He raised a chain saw high above his head and pulled the cord.

The sound ripped through her head, her body. Every nerve jangled in pain. She inched toward the house, egged on by coarse laughter.

"Look it. Moved again. Nice socks." His laughter now joined by a guttural phlegmy cackle.

The dog king growled along with the laughter. It stood and stretched. Tensed.

Katty gulped.

The snarling dog leaped. Transformed into a huge lion, jaws open, fangs dripping, teeth snapping. It jerked to the end of the log chain, yelping, inches from her feet.

Katty screamed, crouched, scrambled toward the house, but a mud puddle stopped her.

"It speaks." More cackles. "Oh, no. It got its socks muddy." Nasty laughter.

Sobbing, she made a drunken beeline for the back door of the drug house. Her hand on her chest, she reached for the door handle, still crouching, her backside to the audience.

Laughter accompanied her escape. "Aww. Show's over. We could start a new show."

The saw revved, sending a final horror into Katty's soul—through her body—as she fell into the house.