Short Story: Sir Percy to the Rescue by UncleMorgan

Sir Percy to the Rescue

By UncleMorgan

It hadn’t been like an ordinary ambush where they either block the road or just fill you full of holes as you drive by. They’d come barreling out of a side road at just the right instant to turn parallel to her course and then run her right off the road.

She’d been going pretty fast, for a Georgia back-road, because she was in a hurry. Just like everyone else was in a hurry right about now, desperate to get someplace safe before the last of the gas ran out. Or before they got hijacked by someone even more desperate than they were.

Her car had jumped the ditch and somehow landed right side up, then bounced three car-lengths into the woods. It stopped in a cluster of pretty serious-looking trees about four feet short of disaster and with a solid arm’s-length of pure luck on each side.

The airbag had deployed on the first bounce and almost knocked her unconscious.

Her overwhelming dread of fire and the hooting laughter of her approaching attackers had been powerful incentives to get her moving. She unhooked her seat belt, pushed the driver’s door partly open, and fell out on the ground.

When she did, her small sequined pocketbook fell out with her. It had bounced from the center console to the floor beside her feet.

She made a rough landing, still seeing double, but grabbed it out of sheer female habit.

As she started crawling away their flashlights picked her out in the growing shadow and their shouts of happy anticipation sounded like the yelping of a pack of curs.

Predictably, they were already arguing about who would get to go first.

“The hell with this!” she thought, as she crawled around to the front of the car. She zipped open the change pocket in her handbag.

Sir Percy, her ever-faithful companion, was right there: a pearl-handled Nickel-plated Derringer loaded with two rounds of 9mm Hollow Point. And right beside it, the plastic pill bottle with six more bullets inside.

There had been four people in the truck that ran her off the road. The two riding in the bed were the youngest and the fastest out, already bounding across the ditch toward her at a dead run. The two in the cab were older and slower to follow. They were apparently content to walk. All four seemed certain that she was too dazed on injured to put up much of a fight, because they had left their rifles and shotguns in the truck.

She watched their feet and the flickering of their flashlights from under the car as the first two approached. They split up, each one moving up one side of the car, slowing down as they came up on their prey.

When they reached the windshield she popped up in front of the hood ornament like a Jack-in-the-box and shot them both in the chest.

The man on the left was first. He went down with an almost comical look of surprise on his face. The man on the right went down with a look of gut-grinding horror.

She was already reloading.

The remaining two were well out of range, and retreating fast. She was sure they weren’t going to run because the two she had shot were probably family. They were going back for their rifles.

“One dinky little Derringer does not trump two rifles,” she thought as she wobbled over to the body of her second attacker.

She knew she only had a few seconds, but she had spotted the large sheath knife belted on the man’s right side, and she wanted it.

She rolled the limp body over impassively, opened the belt buckle and ripped the sheath loose. Then she pulled open the rear door of the car and reached for her BOB.

She knew she was out of time when a jack-light on the truck came on and pinned her in its blinding white glare. The first shot followed instantly and blew the window out of the open car door. The second round was right behind it and went through the space she had been standing in when the light came on.

No time for the BOB now. Maybe later.

Hugging the ground and concealed in the late-afternoon shadows, she crawled twenty yards straight away from the car, paralleling the road and waited for the men to leave the truck. As soon as they did, she crossed the road and took cover in the far-side scrub. Then she worked her way back toward the pickup.

They kept searching for her for almost an hour as she watched with growing impatience and listened for the sound of their return.

As she had hoped, they had assumed that she would flee straight away from them, deeper into the scrub. They hadn’t picked up her trail. But, then, even if they had been modern-day Daniel Boones they wouldn’t have had much chance of finding her trail by searching where she didn’t leave it.

The sun was almost down when they finally came back, each one carrying a body over his left shoulder and a long gun in his right hand. They were talking bitterly about rounding up the rest of the family and loading up the dogs.

They were going to make her pay.

By God.

She waited until they set their rifles down and dropped the tailgate of the truck. Then, as they man-handled the bodies into the bed of the pickup, she stepped out onto the roadway behind them and approached with Sir Percy at the ready.

She was less than ten feet away when the first one noticed her and lunged for his rifle. She shot him twice and reloaded before he finished slumping to the ground.

The last man standing had seen her reload and was too smart to try to escape. He stood in the truck bed and looked down at her with a flat, expressionless face. He didn’t look the least bit scared, just dangerous.

Fortyish, perhaps. Lean and hard-bitten. Eyes like grey river stones. Dangerous eyes. Yes. Very dangerous.

“You,” she said, “Step out on the tailgate and jump down to the ground.”

He did so, keeping his hands in sight and moving slow.

“Take your wallet out of your pocket and toss it to my feet. Try anything funny and I’ll shoot you dead.”

Watching him carefully, she picked up the wallet and glanced inside. A little money, a Driver’s License for one Robert Thomas Jaimes, and a few credit cards that matched it. Nothing unusual.

“Mr. Jaimes”, she said as she tossed the wallet back toward his feet, “What relation are you to man I just shot?”

“Jessup’s my brother,” he replied slowly. “My older brother.”

“And the two in the truck?” she inquired.

“Them’s Jessup’s boys, Timothy and Lincoln.” He said. “My nephews.”

“How old were they?” she asked.

“Just kids,” the man said. “Timothy’s 19, and Lincoln just turned 21.”

“Old enough to know better, then,” she said, after a moment. “If they’d been raised better.”

The man looked down at the ground.

“Mind if I get my wallet back?” he asked when he raised his head again.

“Go right ahead,” she said agreeably. “But slow.”

He nodded, squatted down, and picked up his wallet with two fingers.

“Slow it is, Miss…?” He said as he straightened up and tucked his wallet into a back pocket.

She had been watching him closely, with a wide unblinking gaze that picked up movement much better than detail. She saw him fumble slightly as his hand disappeared behind him and pushed his wallet back into his pocket.

Then his elbow rose—too much!—before his hand came back into view.

She spun sideways and sucked her gut in as the sheathe knife left his hand in a fastball underhanded pitch without the slightest trace of spin.

“Combat throw,” she thought distantly as the knife missed her belly by an inch and she shot him in the chest.

He didn’t go down right away because he was braced against the tailgate with his knees locked, hanging tough to the bitter end. He looked at her with a ferocious grin gone suddenly bloody.

“Had to try,” he gasped. “Family.”

“I don’t fault you for it,” she replied.

Then she shot him again.

Ten minutes later, Cecily Davis, 22, professional school marm, devout Johnny Depp fan, long-time Prepper and hopeless romantic, was ready to continue her journey. One hundred and eighty miles down the road a man with an honest heart was waiting for her.

She looked at her face in the rear-view mirror as she started the truck.

Not too bad. Her hair was a little mussed. Her face perhaps a little flushed, but still refreshingly innocent. Her pale coral lipstick made her mouth as alluring as ever. Two beautiful black eyes. Two beautiful blue eyes. A frankly stubborn chin. Not bad. Not bad at all, all things considered.

As she pulled away she left four bodies, late of the Jaimes Family, concealed in the underbrush beside the road. Unsuccessful ambushers and would-be rapists all, she would forever ignore the memory of their existence.

Four long guns, six assorted knives, a modest amount of money, a .357 Magnum revolver (late of the pickup’s glove box), her luggage, her BOB, and a respectable amount of assorted ammunition, were all packed neatly in and around the passenger’s seat.

Her newly-acquired truck now contained the last of the gas from her wrecked car and the needle of the fuel gauge hovered reassuringly against the Full mark.

Sir Percy now contained the last two rounds of her 9mm Hollow Point ammunition and hovered reassuringly between her breasts.

Out of sight, but never out of mind.

And always ready to come to the rescue.



—The End—

 

Thank you. Another one of you delightful short stories. Keep them coming, entertaining, thought provoking, and a nice moral lesson!

 

The story should have started 15 minutes before she got in the car - the 15 minutes it took to make her slam fire shotgun from that book she bought on Amazon...

Nice red & thanks.

 

LOL!!! Nice story!

Sir Percy, reminds me that I have one firearm with a name. Baby Doll! My polished stainless, series 70, Colt 1911, .45ACP, Officers model!
And if I ever have to kill hillbillies, she'll be what I'm using!

 

Heheheheheh!

Well, I did wonder at one point if she was going to whip one out, but then the story would have had to end with her driving off into the sunset with a 12-ga shotgun stuffed into her bra...

 

Quote UncleMorgan, man! It's his tale!

 

Now, y'all settle down, now!

There ain't nuthin' wrong with hillbillies that eight bars of "Dueling Banjos", eight bars, and a yodel cain't fix.

An' maybe a 'possum sammich.

Them is good eatin', y'know.