Tough as Boots
By: Stephen M. Tomic
Tags: Short Story, Fiction, Hollywood, Thriller, Flash Fiction

Layla stands in triumph over the body of the second man she has impaled that day. Barefoot and still bleeding from both wrists, she eyes with envy the pair of calf-length rubber Wellingtons the dead man is wearing. She sets the hunting rifle on the ground and slips his boots onto her mud-caked feet. They are a few sizes too big and squish with each step but that’s better than the alternative.

The rain stops and the gray gloaming spreads over the land. The dogs by her side bay at the rising moon. Layla herself feels like a feral wolf freed from captivity, ready to go on the hunt. Her clothes are torn, dirty, and drenched with filth. She picks up the rifle and whistles for the hounds to follow.

The direction back to the manor is in no way certain. Layla had gotten turned around on several occasions during her initial escape. She knows her return is laden with risk, a preemptive flash of foolishness, when the logic board in her mind keeps telling her to FLEE. But the limits of her patience had been tested and broken, all over a USB key.

She crosses over branch and bramble, through thickets and across an engorged stream, thinking about poor dumbass Derek and how he got mixed up with the demented Master Who. She’d left him impaled too, with a cheese grater sticking out of his ear. Now isn’t the time to ponder regrets and consequences, however. At this point, she isn’t going to take any shit from anybody. A seething steam of anger powers her through the rugged terrain.

The hounds at her side are easily distracted. She gave them each a name: there is Rufus, Marvin, Stevie, Teddy, and George. For being a pack of bloodthirsty, slobbering beasts, she finds them rather adorable. They scamper like curious puppies, chasing squirrels up trees and tracking invisible scents through the forested hillside.

They arrive at a clearing in the valley and the looming mansion comes into view. The dogs paw at the soft wet earth, panting with a religious fervor as they come closer to pay dirt.

“You boys find something?”

Marvin sticks his nose deep into the earth and extracts a slender bone. Layla uses her boots to clear away the earth stuck to the outline of a human skeleton. Stevie and Marvin’s harmonious howl indicate they have found more.

Layla thinks back to the pictures and videos she had inadvertently discovered on the key, gruesome scenes of sex and torture. Faces of men and women she not only recognized but also once knew, men and women who had subsequently disappeared. That wasn’t so shocking. It happened all the time in their line of work. But this…

Thunder cracks, signaling the storm has not yet fully abated.

Layla looks at the dogs guarding the bones.

“Stay,” she commands. She then cocks the rifle and ascends the hill alone.

The hill isn’t so steep, yet climbing nonetheless proves a challenge. The boots are ancient relics with well-worn treads. Layla slips and drops to a knee, rises, then attacks the incline once more. She imagines herself in a movie montage, her childhood dreams come true. Except this day has been an unflinching nightmare since the moment the director yelled cut.

She knows no one she knows is looking for her. If she dies, that creepy butler will add her to the pile of bones below. The thought doesn’t bother her so much. Normalcy flew out the window hours before.

She approaches the back terrace with a tentative step. A feeling of trepidation gives her pause. If she runs now, will she be home free? She could go to the police and tell them everything that has happened but who would believe her? She realizes the answer to her problem lies with that damn key.

She scopes the perimeter from beyond the hedgerow at the edge of the property. She expects scanning spotlights, motion sensors, and ski-masked foot soldiers but instead there is only elegant landscaping with nary a Bond villain in sight. She reasons that Master Who, or whatever the fuck his real name is, has sent his minions out in search of her. Or perhaps they are lying in wait, preparing to spring a trap.

Layla’s heart thumps like mad and she feels like she’s about to choke on her fear. She scurries across the patio, then plants her ass against the wall like some raiding commando. Then, she twists the handle of the door and is surprised to find it wide open like Dracula’s castle.

The boots squeak and squelch on the floor like basketball shoes on a glossy court. She makes her way through the empty kitchen back to the dining room. It’s spotless, like they were never there. Derek’s body is gone, as is the pool of blood by his chair. She knows she hasn’t been dreaming because the underlying stink of cheese remains.

Back in the kitchen, Layla flips on the light and goes rooting through the fridge for something to eat. There are condiments, cheese, and plastic containers with different names written on the lids: Lexie Lawless, Meredith Mills, Hugh Hungus, Derek Domino…Layla opens one of the containers and shrieks, dropping it.

“You should have minded your own business, Ms. Harrison.”

Cavendish the manservant is standing between her and the exit. He’s bedecked in a black and white tuxedo and is holding an unsheathed katana. The blade gleams. Layla freezes.

“What the hell is this?”

Cavendish’s thin lips part, exposing his yellow teeth. “You rejected our hospitality. Now, I’m afraid you must pay the price.”

“Bite me.” She slowly raises the rifle to her shoulder.

Cavendish is quick, however, and cuts the distance between them with a few nimble strides.

Layla tries to step out of the way but the boots slip and slide and she goes down hard on her ass, missing the horizontal swipe of the sword. Cavendish’s narrow eyes explode with surprise, realizing the gun is suddenly pressed up against his groin. Layla doesn’t hesitate a second time.

“Eat this,” she says and fires.

The wooden staircase beckons. Layla ascends, leaving bloody bootprints in her wake. She reaches the master bedroom at the end of the hall and presses her ear against the door.

She hears a song she knows, the dolorous “Hotel California,” then enters. The room is aglow in lavender candles. She spots the USB key on the desk.

Master Who is in the bed, friskily fucking, oblivious to the mud-and-blood-soaked angel of death that has arrived to send him straight to hell. He nibbles at Derek’s ear, whispering lyrics that the boy will never hear. Layla creeps closer and is about to barf but then coughs instead, loudly.

Master Who, bemused, spins and mutters, “What?”

Layla strikes with the katana. The blade pierces his shoulder and he yelps and slithers to the floor. Layla comes around to the other side of the bed and presses the boot to his throat.

She smiles and says, “Guess who?”