shop, carrying several kittens and puppies by their collars. Millie was dancing around them in hysteria, her eyes wild and tearful. "No, please! You mustn't. You can't do such a horrible thing!"
Rott ignored her. He brought a good-sized German Sheppard pup to the hood of the Mustang, drew his cleaver, and began to hack it up. The dog's head dropped to the street first, rolling beneath the souped-up Ford, then its tail and legs followed. Rott chuckled as blood pulsated out of the ugly wounds, bathing his hands and arms in warm, wet gore.
Millie screamed long and loud, over and over again. She couldn't have been more horrified if they had slaughtered her own flesh-and-blood child before her eyes. Taking leave of her good sense, the woman leapt at the murderer and tore at his triceps with her fingernails
"Aw, shut the hell up, lady!" growled Rott , shoving her away forcefully.
Millie stumbled and lost her footing. She fell backward and the rear of her skull collided with the top of one of Maple Avenue's four fire plugs. The release bolt punched through the bone with a sickening crunch.
As the spike of the plug burrowed into her brain, Millie bucked and flailed. Once she got her feet underneath her, as if trying to stand up. But the bolt held fast and she failed to pull herself loose.
It was at that moment that Sam Wheeler could no longer sit there. "Millie!" he yelled, standing up, the Winchester fisted in his liver-spotted hands.
Immediately, Rott lifted his eyes and stared at the old man in a way that seemed to freeze the course of time. "Un-uh, Pops. You take your popgun and sit your wrinkled ass back down in that chair. There ain't nothing you can do for her now, anyway."
Sam stood stone still and didn't move. His hands clutched the old .44-40 so tightly that they hurt. But he knew Rott was right. He turned his eyes back to Millie. She was still and limp, still hanging awkwardly off the fire plug. There was no mistaking that she was dead.
Rott's eyes continued to stare him down. "I said… sit… your…ass…down."
Sam did as he was told. He dropped heavily back into the rocker, his heart pounding wildly in his shallow chest. I'm going to have a heart attack, right here and now! he thought to himself. But he knew there was little chance of that. He simply wasn't that lucky.
"You behave yourself and maybe I'll cook you up a hamster or something," Rott told him and laughed.
Sam sat there helplessly and watched them skin and gut almost every animal in Millie's Pet Shop. They even skewered goldfish on sticks and roasted them over the heat of the grills. The odor of roasting meat filled the air, causing Sam to feel lightheaded and nauseated.
The men had their feast, washing it down with beer they had stolen somewhere during their travels. Then, as night drew on, they split up, taking up residence in the pet shop and hardware store. Before Rott went in, he turned and gave Sam a toothy grin and a wink. "Good night, Pops."
Sam sat there, feeling cold and exposed, despite the warmth and humidity of the July night. He sat there for an hour or two longer, until no light shown from within the neighboring buildings and only the sound of men's snoring could be heard. Then he got up, went into the fix-it shop, and retrieved the Radio Flyer. Wearily, he pulled it across the street, toward the fire plug. Halfway there, he noticed one of the men – a skinny, little skin-headed guy with black swastikas etched up and down his arms – standing near the side of the pet shop, taking a piss . Sam's sudden appearance startled him so that he pulled a 22-caliber pistol from his waistband and leveled it at him. "What the shit do you want, gramps?"
"I just want to bury my friends," he told him, pulling the big red wagon up next to Millie's lifeless body.
The man thought about for a moment. He looked nervously toward the pet shop, where he knew Rott slept. "Well, okay… but hurry it up, will you? If Rott finds out I let you go, he'll
Rott ignored her. He brought a good-sized German Sheppard pup to the hood of the Mustang, drew his cleaver, and began to hack it up. The dog's head dropped to the street first, rolling beneath the souped-up Ford, then its tail and legs followed. Rott chuckled as blood pulsated out of the ugly wounds, bathing his hands and arms in warm, wet gore.
Millie screamed long and loud, over and over again. She couldn't have been more horrified if they had slaughtered her own flesh-and-blood child before her eyes. Taking leave of her good sense, the woman leapt at the murderer and tore at his triceps with her fingernails
"Aw, shut the hell up, lady!" growled Rott , shoving her away forcefully.
Millie stumbled and lost her footing. She fell backward and the rear of her skull collided with the top of one of Maple Avenue's four fire plugs. The release bolt punched through the bone with a sickening crunch.
As the spike of the plug burrowed into her brain, Millie bucked and flailed. Once she got her feet underneath her, as if trying to stand up. But the bolt held fast and she failed to pull herself loose.
It was at that moment that Sam Wheeler could no longer sit there. "Millie!" he yelled, standing up, the Winchester fisted in his liver-spotted hands.
Immediately, Rott lifted his eyes and stared at the old man in a way that seemed to freeze the course of time. "Un-uh, Pops. You take your popgun and sit your wrinkled ass back down in that chair. There ain't nothing you can do for her now, anyway."
Sam stood stone still and didn't move. His hands clutched the old .44-40 so tightly that they hurt. But he knew Rott was right. He turned his eyes back to Millie. She was still and limp, still hanging awkwardly off the fire plug. There was no mistaking that she was dead.
Rott's eyes continued to stare him down. "I said… sit… your…ass…down."
Sam did as he was told. He dropped heavily back into the rocker, his heart pounding wildly in his shallow chest. I'm going to have a heart attack, right here and now! he thought to himself. But he knew there was little chance of that. He simply wasn't that lucky.
"You behave yourself and maybe I'll cook you up a hamster or something," Rott told him and laughed.
Sam sat there helplessly and watched them skin and gut almost every animal in Millie's Pet Shop. They even skewered goldfish on sticks and roasted them over the heat of the grills. The odor of roasting meat filled the air, causing Sam to feel lightheaded and nauseated.
The men had their feast, washing it down with beer they had stolen somewhere during their travels. Then, as night drew on, they split up, taking up residence in the pet shop and hardware store. Before Rott went in, he turned and gave Sam a toothy grin and a wink. "Good night, Pops."
Sam sat there, feeling cold and exposed, despite the warmth and humidity of the July night. He sat there for an hour or two longer, until no light shown from within the neighboring buildings and only the sound of men's snoring could be heard. Then he got up, went into the fix-it shop, and retrieved the Radio Flyer. Wearily, he pulled it across the street, toward the fire plug. Halfway there, he noticed one of the men – a skinny, little skin-headed guy with black swastikas etched up and down his arms – standing near the side of the pet shop, taking a piss . Sam's sudden appearance startled him so that he pulled a 22-caliber pistol from his waistband and leveled it at him. "What the shit do you want, gramps?"
"I just want to bury my friends," he told him, pulling the big red wagon up next to Millie's lifeless body.
The man thought about for a moment. He looked nervously toward the pet shop, where he knew Rott slept. "Well, okay… but hurry it up, will you? If Rott finds out I let you go, he'll
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