Talking it out

“Now,” I address the demon laying on the ground, “Can we talk this out like civilized creatures?”

She continues to swear at me in long-forgotten languages. Her unnatural strength allows her to begin lifting the fire-escape ladder up. She bellows as it pulls free of her shoulder, leaving streams of black, putrid smelling blood flowing across her white lace dress.

“I guess not,” I say, removing the automatic from its holster under my coat. She scrambles back to her feet. I try to shake off the buzzing from the multiple head wounds I’ve sustained in the last handful of minutes and take a pistol shooter’s stance, two hands up and and front of me.

She begins to move forward but her momentum is stopped cold by the three .45 rounds slamming into her chest. My ears ring as the shots sound down the alleyway and out into the street beyond. Her body lies face down, blood from the exit wounds spreading across her back. Quiet descends.

I instinctively reach inside my coat for my pack of cigarettes. Damn.

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