Date: Tue, 22 Dec 2009 09:27:52 -0800 (PST)
From: Matt Surname <darkhorsestalking@yahoo.ca>
Subject: Sheila the Fugitive 02

All the standard warnings, disclaimers, and copyright information detailed
in the first chapter still apply.  Copyright 2009 Dark Horse. All rights
reserved.

Story Codes:  bbg,  bi,  ped,  inc,  group,  spank (mild),  voy,  con



Sheila the Fugitive 02
by Dark Horse


"Great deeds are usually wrought at great risks."
~ Herodotus (484 BC - 430 BC)


    With the steel door closed and locked behind her, the abandoned
basement was pitch black, leaving Sheila Donnelly completely
blind. However, the sixteen-year-old had been here many times, during the
six years she'd lived at the orphanage.

    Reaching out against the side wall, it took two tries to find the
flashlight left dangling there from a hook. Flicking the flashlight on, she
started across the basement. She didn't need the faint trail of footprints,
partly visible on the filthy cement floor, to know exactly where she was
going. Despite the large hardware store above her blonde head, and the
copious amount of old junk piled everywhere, the basement was actually
quite small.

    Or so it appeared.

    At the far wall, beside an ancient steam boiler, Sheila shined the
flashlight over a section of moldy, crumbling drywall. Spying the pair of
thin seams between the sheets of drywall, she held the flashlight wedged
under an armpit to slide her delicate fingers into the cracks. Careful of
the old drywall's frailness, she slid aside the freestanding drywall sheet.

    Revealing an armoured metal door behind it, with just a small keyhole
breaking its otherwise featureless surface.

    Pulling her keyring from her jeans, Sheila unlocked and pushed open the
armoured door. Although it was as heavy as it was solid, the door easily
swung inward on silent hinges.

    The slender girl stepped through into the lighted room on the other
side, mindful of the drywall edges. If anyone was still awake in the
orphanage later, she didn't want to explain how she'd gotten chalky marks
on any of her knapsack, light grey vest, black t-shirt, or long blonde
hair. Sliding the concealing drywall sheet back in place, so it once more
hid the secret door, she swung the armoured door closed and relocked it.

    Turning to face the already illuminated hidden room, she shut off the
flashlight and hung it on the wall. While not having been here for a few
months now, the bunker felt as familiar as ever. The overhead fluorescent
lights made the large, main room's windowless, bare concrete walls seem
ever starker. An old table with four mismatched chairs, and a worn old
couch, were the only furnishings, being castoffs having been brought here
over the years.

    Sheila had never understood why someone had the bunker built, and in a
hardware store's basement of all places. Was it a fallout shelter in case
of a nuclear war? A criminal hideout to hold off the cops? Or something
from a paranoid millionaire's eccentricities? Whatever its purpose had
been, it hadn't been fulfilled. The girl who'd introduced Sheila to its
secret existence six years ago, had told her it seemed once the bunker was
built, it had been left abandoned and forgotten. Everything in it still
worked okay, including its small kitchen's appliances and bathroom
facilities, but the rooms were left bare of any furnishings. It was another
of its mysteries, within the greater enigma of the bunker's existence in
the first place.

    All Sheila knew, was the bunker made the best secret clubhouse ever.

     The teen crossed the main room to a short hallway, which led to the
bunker's three smaller rooms. At the hallway's end was the small
kitchen. Halfway down the hallway's right side was the bathroom, with its
old toilet, sink, and a tiled section with four shower heads. The third
room, opposite the bathroom, was the small storeroom.

    It was from this last room that drifted the unmistakable sounds of sex.

    Knowing it could only be her personal nemesis, Princess, Sheila went
the third room's open doorway. Sure enough, the lustful sounds came from
Tammy Quinvare and her two friends.

    On an old blanket-covered mattress, ringed by huge piles of old crates
against the walls, a naked trio of preteens were fucking with youthful
enthusiasm. Seeing the three were unaware of her presence, Sheila grinned
to herself and casually leaned against the doorjamb to watch.

    Tammy was kneeling face down, the mass of her waist-length,
bleached-blonde hair bunched up around her cute face. A boy who was younger
than Tammy's twelve years, half-laid atop her, humping her
doggy-fashion. His hands were gripping her around her flat chest, making
the girl cry blissfully as the boy painfully tweaked and tugged on her hard
little nipples.

    A second boy was kneeling behind the rutting pair, holding other boy's
trim waist as he fucked his ass.

    It was obvious the boys were identical twins. Although Sheila had only
seen the pair once before, briefly, she recognized Nate and Marcus, the
ten-year-old twin brothers that Tammy had mentioned would be coming
over. Both being thin with sandy-coloured hair, they were quite
handsome. Looking closer at the humping siblings, she noticed something.

    Like Tammy's own naked body, the boys' flesh also bore the sign of
faint bruises, and the marks of a whip.

    Sheila wasn't really surprised, having half-suspected it. It was hard
not to know Tammy willingly allowed herself be used and abused by a select
few men. It was something the faux blonde often proudly boasted about to
Sheila. The twelve-year-old loved being treated as a slave by her masters,
just as she also loved mild pain. Seeing as Tammy and the twins clearly
knew each other quite well, it stood to reason the boys participated in
those same "games". No doubt like Tammy always did, the boys likely always
wore long shirts and pants, to hide any telltale signs of their masters'
fun with them.

    The boy fucking his brother's ass was grunting louder now, driving his
sweaty boyhood deep with every thrust. With a hard cock pounding his
asshole, the sandwiched twin was moaning in ecstasy, ramming his own cock
in the mewling girl under him as he twisted her nipples.

    Beneath the incestuous boys, Tammy's slender body began shuddering and
jerking in the throes of orgasm. Judging by the boys' strained grunts and
moans, their own release wouldn't be far behind.

    Suddenly the ass-fucking boy raised a hand, and viciously slapped his
twin's bare ass, striking the sweaty flesh with a loud crack. He struck
again before savagely gripping the boy's firm ass cheeks with fingers like
claws, thrusting inside his brother even harder than before. Near-howling
with rapturous agony, the fucked boy's whole body began spasming, trapped
in-between his partners' naked bodies.

    Then Tammy screamed out in ecstasy, as a second and more powerful
orgasm eclipsed her first still-expanding climax, sending her into violent
convulsions.

    The kneeling boy behind the pair could barely hang onto his brother, as
the entangled boy and girl thrashed uncontrollably in rapture. Suddenly he
yanked out his four-inch boner from his brother's ass, crying, "I'm gonna
cum!"

    Rising up to squat over the duo, the ten-year-old furiously jerked his
cock, aiming it downward. With an almost-painful cry, the boy's cock began
squirting. Four pulsing jets of milky boy-cum splattered across his
sibling's ass and spine. Thus spent, the sandy-haired boy sank to his knees
on the blanket-shrouded mattress, panting as heavily as Tammy and his
brother were.

    Sheila softly clapped her hands in applause, causing the sweaty trio to
start in surprise.

    "Not too shabby, Princess," the sixteen-year-old babysitter smirked,
easing away from leaning against the doorjamb. "I'd give it a seven. Maybe
a seven-point-five for effort."

    Still on her knees beneath the boy, Tammy stuck her tongue out
playfully and gave Sheila the finger.

    If Sheila's day hadn't already been unusually filled with various
sexual escapades, and being awake now for close to nineteen hours, she
would've been tempted to join in the threesome's fun. However, even being a
near-nymphomaniac, her endurance did have limitations, and she was honestly
looking forward to going to bed soon.

    Beside, if Sheila had joined them, in the morning she would've
regretted having finally given into Tammy's numerous, and not-so-subtle
advances over the years.

    "So," Sheila asked in a musing tone, "is this what you were so
desperate to tell me about, Princess? Let me guess. You're trying out a new
act for your masters, and wanted a critique, eh?"

    "Actually," a woman said from beside Sheila, "Tammy's reason was
myself."

    Whirling in surprise, Sheila instinctively dropped into a defensive
stance. Although not ranked as the highest scoring student in her
self-defense class, she judged her skills capable of taking care of
herself.

    The woman held up her palms, standing just out of arm's reach. "I'm
sorry to startle you, Sheila. It wasn't intentional."

    The teenager's tensed muscles eased some before she nodded, but her
deep blue eyes studied the newcomer warily.

    Looking in her mid-thirties, the tallish woman wore plain jeans and a
white blouse. She was pretty with brown hair curling partway down her back,
surrounding a kind face. However, her dark brown eyes were just as wary as
Sheila's own were at the moment, with the hints of crow's-feet at the
corners. The tiny wrinkles spoke more to the woman's long state of tension,
than the current tensing of her shoulders and thin figure.

    "My name's Jane," the woman explained, "and Tammy and I are both in the
same . . . business, shall we say. However, that's not all that I am. I
wouldn't be meeting with you, Sheila, much less telling you any of this,
unless circumstances have become as dire as they have. You see, I'm a deep
undercover agent, for an agency in the United States government."

    Sheila blinked in confused astonishment.

    Then burst out laughing.

    "Oh man," the blonde teenager managed between bouts of laughter. "You
almost had me there! That's a good one. Maybe I could've believed you, if
you'd just said you were an FBI agent or something. But an undercover spy?
What is this, a joke? Okay, seriously . . . Jane is it? Who are you,
really?"

    The woman suddenly smiled in a knowing, confident way, which sent a
shiver of unease up the babysitter's spine.

    "Sheila Desdemona Donnelly," Jane stated, as if reading from an
invisible page. "Born February second, 1993. Orphaned March twelfth, 2003,
by an impaired driver in an automobile accident. Your grades average in the
top five percent of your classes, although that math test two weeks ago
shows a slight weakness in calculus. Self-employed as a babysitter, and
quite a successful one at that. As well, you passed your motorcycle license
test with flying colours, However, pulling those few stunts on your scooter
showing off, nearly cost you several points."

    Tammy was staring at Sheila in shocked disbelief.

    "Desdemona? Your middle name's Desdemona?" the girl giggled, but
Sheila's death glare quickly wiped away her gloating grin.

    Somewhat shaken by what the woman's intimate knowledge of her, Sheila
narrowed her deep blue eyes. "Alright, so you know some stuff about me. It
means you did a bit of background checking, and probably hacked into some
computer files. Impressive, but none of this is exactly a secret."

    Jane nodded. "True. How about then getting caught by the police, trying
pick the lock of your elementary school back when you were eight? With your
twelve-year-old accomplice, Gary Kendal?"

    Sheila felt like she'd suddenly been sucker-punched in the stomach.

    It had been eight years ago, shorty after meeting her boyfriend
Gary. The two had thought it would be a gag sneaking into the school on a
Sunday night, to prepare some practical jokes for Monday morning. Gary had
taught her how to pick locks, along with some other less-than-legal skills
he'd possessed. While she'd been picking the school's back door lock with a
pair of hairpins, a police cruiser had arrived seemingly out nowhere,
pinning her and Gary in its headlights.

    Because Gary would've been in very serious trouble, thanks to previous
run-ins with the law, Sheila had resolutely, and quite vocally, tried to
take the entire rap herself. Naturally the police hadn't believed her
quickly made-up cover story, that she'd blackmailed Gary into trying to
break into the school with her. However, the officers had thankfully been
lenient. They'd only given her and Gary a very stern reprimand and warning,
before sending them home, without filing an incident report.

    Sheila didn't know how this woman could've known about that. The fact
she did, though, more than unnerved the sixteen-year-old a little.

    Jane's expression became grimly serious. "The reason I needed to see
you, Sheila, is that we need your help to stop a child sex slavery
operation."

    Sheila's eyes widened in shock. "W-what?!"

    "It's true, Sheila," Tammy nodded, walking over with Marcus and Nate
behind her, the trio getting dressed as they did. "We've been trying to
help Jane get info about these bad guys whenever we could. We don't think
our own masters are involved with the slavers, or would want to be, but
there's been a few of them that Jane asked us to keep an ear on."

    The twelve-year-old's expression became sober. "Over the past year,
several of our friends have disappeared. No one knows where, or why. Now,
even some of our masters are starting to get suspicious about our missing
friends, too. Even our favourite master wants to put Nate, Marcus and me
into hiding, 'cause he's afraid we might end up missing next."

    Leaning back against the doorjamb for support, Sheila's mind whirled
with the implications. A child sex slavery operation? What Tammy and the
boys did with their "masters" was one thing, but they did it
willingly. Surely they trusted the men enough not to fear being with
them. But the thought of sex slavers snatching little kids, and their plans
for them . . . .

    Sheila's fists clenched so tight, her fingernails threatened to cut
into her palms. The blonde babysitter's eyes narrowed as she stared hard at
Jane. Her voice became frosty, from the implications of what she was being
told.

    "What's your role in this, Jane?" she asked, more sharply than
intended. "And why do you need my help?"

    "Like I said, I'm a deep undercover agent, who's been planted in the
organization for several years now," Jane started explaining. She quickly
held up her hands, seeing the teen's darkening expression. "No, I don't
have anything to do with the slavery directly. I can't tell you any more
details than that, to protect myself and other individuals, but my cover
has allowed me to acquire certain information. This information can not
only severely cripple the slaving organization, but possibly crack it wide
open.

    "Before you ask, Sheila, no, I can't deliver this information myself to
those who must get it. Were I to try, my cover would be blown wide open,
and the slavers would go into hiding before we could grab them. The man I
need the information to be delivered to, is the only one I can trust with
it. Once he has it, we can finally get these sick bastards, once and for
all."

    Taking a moment to digest this, Sheila wanted to shake her head in
disbelief, but didn't. "What about your own agency, whichever one it is?
Why not simply give them the information? Isn't that what you're suppose to
do?"

    "Yes, but . . ." the woman hesitated. "You can imagine how vital this
information is, Sheila. I hate the very thought the agency might not be a
hundred percent trustworthy, but . . . ."

    "Nice," Sheila replied sarcastically. "So why me then? Why not someone
else?"

    "Because you're not known to the slavers. More importantly, Tammy
trusts you."

    Turning to look at her longtime nemesis, Sheila barely managed to keep
a shocked laugh from escaping. "Oh, c'mon! You trust me, Princess? We've
been at each other's throats since you came here."

    Tammy shrugged slightly. "Yeah, but it doesn't mean I don't trust you."

    Nate and Marcus nodded in unison.

    "Tammy looks up to you, Sheila," one of the twins said candidly. "She's
always saying how she wants to be like you."

    "Hey! Shut up about that!" Tammy gave the unintentionally-tattling boy
a shove.

    "Well it's the truth!"

    "You don't have to tell her that, you idiot!"

    "Why not?" the other twin asked innocently.

    "Because!"

    "Because why?" the two boys chimed together.

    In spite of herself, Sheila had to admit she felt honoured having
Tammy's trust. Even if she still thought the twelve-year-old,
wannabe-blonde was a snotty little bitch.

    Ignoring the squabbling preteen trio, Sheila turned her attention back
to Jane.

    "Alright, so you trust me," the sixteen-year-old pointed out. "I guess
my next question is, what do you want me to do?"

    "I need you to get this to the one who needs it," the woman said,
showing her a tiny black plastic case. It was no longer than Sheila's red
painted thumbnail, and no more than four times as thick as a
fingernail. Jane carefully unlocked the lid's click-lock and eased open the
case. Revealed was a small, square computer microchip, nestled snugly in a
bed of protective foam.

    Sheila's slender blonde eyebrows rose in disbelief. "A microchip?"

    "A special microchip," Jane corrected, closing and locking again the
tiny case's lid. "Computer discs, no matter their level of encryption, are
always vulnerable. This microchip, however, is specially encoded. It'll
only work in a specific type of computer, with only a specific set of
programs, and with only a specific series of passwords. And that's only
half the steps. The information isn't on the microchip itself, but only the
microchip can access the next step in retrieving the information. Think of
it like a key to a vault, which contains another key to open another
vault. You can understand how vital this information is, Sheila, and how it
can't be allowed to fall into . . . their hands."

    Accepting the offered tiny black case, Sheila studied it for a moment,
then gingerly slipped it into her grey vest's breast pocket. "If this'll
bring slavers down, then I'll do it. So where am I suppose to deliver it
to?"

    "Houston, Texas."

    Sheila rocked back on her heels, blinking several times.

    Although Jane's expression was serious, her eyes were sympathetic. "I
know Houston's quite a ways to go ---"

    "You think!?"

    "--- but it needs to be brought there."

    Jane withdrew a thin blue booklet from a back pocket of her
jeans. "This is a passport for you, Sheila. Before you ask, yes, it's the
genuine deal. My agency is working with a division in the RCMP, and they
had it made for you. Without it, you won't be able to cross the border into
the States, or board the plane tomorrow morning."

    "Whoa, hang on a sec!" Sheila waved her arms, feeling more than a
little overwhelmed. "I thought you were talking about bringing this chip
somewhere in Toronto. But Texas? I've got babysitting responsibilities. And
final exams are less than three weeks away! I can't just drop everything in
an instant, and head to Texas!"

    "It'll only be for three days, total," Jane assured her. "We've already
talked to the orphanage's administrator, and we'll be squaring things with
your school tomorrow morning. Or maybe I should say later this morning,
seeing how late it is. Don't worry, Sheila. All you have to do is catch the
nine o'clock morning flight to Denver, then a flight to Phoenix, then a
chartered plane to Houston. Round trip it won't take you more than three
days, at the most. And there's a hotel room already reserved for you in
Houston."

    "Gee, is that all?" the teenager deadpanned. "You're pretty confident I
was going to do this, weren't you?"

    "Yes," Jane replied bluntly, then softened her tone. "Look, I know
we're asking a lot of you, but over the past month, I've had very trusted
agents do background checks and a full profiling on you. You don't think
we'd hand something this vital over to just anyone, and cross our fingers?
From what Tammy has told me, along with your profile, we know you'd never
see a child harmed. I hope you can forgive our presumptuousness, and see
that this mission is for the greater good of innocent victims, who these
evil bastards are harming."

    Sheila knew Jane was right. The thought of children getting hurt or
worse, boiled her blood like nothing else did.

    "Fine, I'll do it," she gusted a soft sigh accepting the passport, and
slipped it into the vest pocket holding the microchip.

    "Thank you," Jane said solemnly.

    Tammy suddenly wrapped her arms around Sheila's narrow waist, squeezing
her in silent gratitude. For such a simple but heartfelt gesture by the
girl, it spoke volumes how important it was, even to the self-centered
Princess herself.

    "Alright, alright," Sheila gently eased herself from her arch-nemesis's
tight embrace, feeling oddly uncomfortable by this side of Tammy. "So once
I'm in Houston, how do I find whoever it is, to give them the chip?"

    "Go to the AIM corporate headquarters first thing in the morning when
they open. It's spelled how it sounds. You can find the address in the
phone book once you're down there. At the front reception desk, give the
receptionist your name, and ask to see your uncle Harry. Harry
Runder. He'll be your step-uncle. From there, just follow the instructions
they give you."

    "Good old step-unk Harry Runder, who works at AIM's HQ. Right. And this
is all I have to do?"

    Jane nodded.

    Shaking her head, making her long blonde hair ripple across her
shoulders and knapsack, Sheila let out a resigned snort. This was
crazy. Going all the way to Texas, so she could deliver a secret microchip?
It was like something out of a cheesy spy novel. And a badly written spy
novel at that.

    But the idea of a child sex slave operation abducting kids, and the
fate that no doubt awaited those innocent children . . . . No. She had to
help, even if it meant taking this bizarre trip. The thought of Melody or
Billy, or any other little kid she knew suffering such a fate, made her
clench her teeth. If she could keep that from happening, then no task could
be too great.

    It wasn't like it would be that risky, either. Jump on a plane in the
morning, catch two more connecting flights, and deliver the microchip in
person. She'd be back by Tuesday, and surely back in time for her date with
Jesse.

    Again she found herself reflecting on her thoughts barely twenty-four
hours earlier, feeling this day would somehow be a monumental one for
her. Adding this, on top of everything else today, certainly went well
beyond qualifying it for that!

    At least this crazy day was just about over. There wasn't anything left
but to return to the orphanage, grab a shower, and catch some sleep before
her nine o'clock flight tomorrow. Or rather nine o'clock today, seeing it
was nearly one in the morning.

    Besides, after everything else today, what more could possibly happen?



    Nineteen-year-old Levi Sarcowski cursed. He knew it had been going too
well. The abandoned basement's lock had been nothing to pick. A trail of
footprints leading across the severely dusty floor, to the wall beside an
ancient steam boiler, had guided them like a neon beacon. And removing the
loose sheet of drywall at the trail's end had been effortless.

    But now they were faced with an armoured, pick-proof, impenetrable
metal door, that had no business being in the basement of a hardware store!
What the hell were they suppose to do now?

    "Get out of the way."

    Brutishly shouldering the skinny Levi aside, Jack studied the door's
edges in his flashlight's beam.

    For a moment, Levi wondered if the psychopath was going to grip the
door in his bare hands, and simply rip it right out of the wall. Beneath
the dark suit and long black overcoat, like the ones Levi also wore, Jack
had an incredibly muscular build. However, no one was that strong, in spite
of the determined look on the man's handsome face. Although the rat-faced,
former street punk's wiry build wasn't exactly weak, he knew Jack could
easily snap him in two if he wanted. He probably would, too, if Cerberus
hadn't partnered them up.

    After a few moments studying the door, Jack nodded to himself before
turning, and headed for the basement's exit.

    "Hey!" Levi whispered sharply in astonishment. "Where you going? What
about the door?"

    Looking back over a broad shoulder, Jack's dark glare made the
greased-haired teen's guts almost turn to slush.

    "I'm going to get a can opener."

    As Jack left, Levi turned to look at the armoured door again, absently
fingering the silenced MP5 submachine gun in his hands. This no-brainer of
a job wasn't proving as brainless as it had first seemed. There was no way
the targets knew Cerberus was onto them. So why had they met somewhere with
an armoured door? Where'd the door even come from in the first place?

    Despite this momentary setback, the prize that waited Levi was worth
it. A hundred-gees made for a lot of happiness. As well, having a tender,
twelve-year-old girl all to himself, to do with whatever he pleased
. . . . Oh yes. He had many ideas of what to do to her. And they were just
to start off the fun.

    It was a shame it wasn't a boy. Nothing felt better than fucking a
little boy's asshole, especially when they futilely fought to escape, and
tearfully pleaded for mercy. But girls had assholes, too, and they could
also desperately struggle beneath him just as deliciously. Thinking about
it had his cock in his dark suit throbbing, eagerly anticipating his
soon-to-be-coming enjoyment.

    Jack returned several minutes later, his own silenced MP5 submachine
gun shouldered. Levi thought it was weird, as Jack was playing with a small
wad of yellowish clay in his beefy hands. Why would he be playing with
Play-Doh, at a time like ---

    "Jesus Christ!" Levi backed away, his eyes wide. "That's fucking C-4!"

    Ignoring the suddenly pale teenager, Jack began molding the putty-like
plastique explosive in a long, thin strip along the armoured door's edges.

    Levi swallowed hard. "Where the hell did you get C-4? Do you know what
you're doing? If you fuck up, you'll either blow us to fucking hell, or
bring the whole fucking building down on top of us! Or both!"

    The handsome man sneered contemptuously at him. "Cerberus likes to be
prepared for any possibility. For me, using C-4 on a door like this is
child's play. Ever see what happens to a human being, when you shove a bit
of C-4 up their ass? It took me a few tries to get it right, so they'd
still be alive for a while afterwards. Or at least what's still left of
them, that is. After all, where's the fun in merely blowing a person apart
from the inside out, when you can also listen to the sweat music of their
screams? The good ones even last an hour or two afterwards. Now that
requires skill."

    Levi didn't think it was physically possible for him to become any
paler. He was wrong.

    Finishing, Jack inserted a thin detonator in the clay-like explosive,
and broke the timing pencil off at the two minute mark. Moving themselves
behind the cover of one of the piles of junk in the basement, Levi cringed
as Jack's finger suddenly pointed at him, squarely between the eyes.

    "Remember," the psychotic man said casually, as if they were chatting
at a donut shop, instead of waiting for a wad of plastique explosives to go
off, "the blonde teen's mine. Do anything to mark up her pelt, and I'll add
you to my trophies, too. Got it?"

    Nodding in fear, Levi desperately struggled not to crap his pants. He
was no longer sure now who was more evil, Jack or Cerberus. He silently
decided after this job, he planned to get as far away as possible from both
of them.

    Living on penguin-burgers in Antarctica sounded good, if it meant still
living.



    Sheila was about to bid Jane, the twins, and even Tammy a good night,
when a sudden, ear-splitting crack echoed through the bunker. A hail of
plaster fragments rained from the ceiling, lightly coating the shocked
quintet.

    "What the hell?" Sheila spun around, her ears ringing a bit from the
sharp report.

    Looking back down the short hallway, despite some of the main room's
fluorescent lights having blown out, a visible haze of powdered plaster
wreathed the edges of the bunker's armoured door. The same door that now
seemed to sit slightly askew in its reinforced frame. She didn't have to
know from dozens of action movies, that the only thing capable of doing
something like this to a bunker door was a bomb, or explosives.

    "Oh god," Jane breathed, having suddenly gone almost whiter than the
plaster bits speckling them. "Cerberus knows! He found out!"

    Sheila didn't know who this Cerberus was, but she could guess what he'd
found out about. And what it meant for Jane, and likely Tammy. If whoever
this Cerberus had sent was carrying explosives to bust down an armoured
door . . . .

    An armoured door that couldn't take a second love-tap like the last
one.

    Whirling, Sheila pointed at Tammy. "Get the boys and Jane out of here!
Use the escape tunnel," she ordered. Seeing the wide-eyed girl frozen in
shock, she gave her a none-to-gentle push towards the storeroom's other
side. "Now, Princess!"

    Snapping out of it, Tammy grabbed Marcus and Nate by their wrists to
pull them towards the far wall.

    It was in hindsight, that Sheila realized the girl might not have known
about the bunker's hidden escape tunnel. In fact, how did Tammy know about
that secret tunnel in the first place?

    Mentally shaking off the irrelevant thought, she found Jane still
staring in horror at the distant door. A door that could come crashing down
at any moment. Sheila gave the woman a push in Tammy's direction, who was
already behind a pile of crates, working to lever open the tunnel's
concealed hatch.

    "W-wait!" Jane cried, staring at Sheila. "What about you?"

    "I've got a plan, trust me! Now move it!" This time it was a shove she
gave the deep undercover agent.

    Jane hesitated for a second, her dark brown eyes silently
pleading. However, seeing the determined set of the beautiful teenager's
expression and deep blue eyes, she gave a grateful nod and bolted for the
hatch Tammy was starting to open.

    Not wasting anymore time, Sheila leaned into the small kitchen at the
end of the hallway. Grabbing a hanging cast-iron frying pan, she ran back
down the hall. Coming into the main room, she turned off the remaining
fluorescent lights, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint,
backlit glow from the storeroom's light, gave any indication where the
hallway was.

    I'm fucking crazy! Sheila thought as she knelt down behind the old worn
couch. Totally, fucking, insanely crazy!

    Hefting the heavy frying pan, getting a feel for its weight, the
sixteen-year-old knew it was the right thing she was doing. She just hoped
doing it, wouldn't end up being the last thing she did.

    After a tense few seconds, she wondered if whoever had tried to crack
the armoured door had either given up, or ran out of explosives. Maybe if
she backtracked, she'd have time to reach the secret tunnel, and ---

    The sudden explosion slammed the couch into Sheila's back where she
knelt, knocking her down.

    Laying sprawled on the floor, even through the ringing in her ears she
heard the armoured door toppling. And felt the jarring vibration of it
hitting the concrete floor, in every bone in her athletically-slender
body. Thankful her knapsack had borne the brunt of the couch, when it had
been explosively-shoved against her.

    She now knew what the end of the world felt like.

    The second explosion proved one thing. Whoever had brought Ragnarok to
the bunker, wanted inside badly. And now they had their way in.

    Sheila's fear at the moment was more for Tammy and the others, than for
herself. It also helped her get back onto her knees. Across the top of the
couch, she caught a glimpse of a flashlight beam through the dust and
smoke-clogged darkness, and ducked down further. Her heart hammering in her
near-flat chest, she willed herself to be silent.

    "Jesus, Jack!" A youngish male's voice complained. "The whole fucking
neighborhood knows we're here now!"

    "Doesn't matter," came a brutish-sounding reply, as the flashlight
played briefly above the couch. "Just shoot the woman, grab the blondes,
and we're out of here. If anyone tries to stop us, blow them away."

    "But Cerberus said ---"

    "Fuck him," the older male spat. "Do what I said, or I'll leave you
here alive and gutted like a deer. Got it, Levi?"

    "Got it," the younger one answered meekly, leaving no doubt he believed
the other would carry out his threat.

    The voice of the one called Jack suddenly quieted. "There's a light up
ahead in the hallway. Go check it out. If it's them, keep them covered till
I get there." The flashlight played along the couch's top again. "I'll be
there in a moment."

    Oh crap! Sheila thought, biting her lower lip not to cry out in
fright. Adrenalin coursing through her, she gripped the frying pan even
tighter in her delicate, trembling hands.

    A distant metallic clang came from down the hallway.

    "What the shit?" the younger man called Levi cursed, along with the
sound of him running down the hallway. It was echoed a heartbeat later by
the second man's own hurried run.

    Recognizing the sound of the escape hatch's security bar being locked
into place, Sheila knew it meant Tammy and the others were likely safe. For
the moment at least. Now it was her chance.

    Jumping to her feet in the dark, Sheila ran for where she knew the
bunker's entrance would be. More by luck than chance, she somehow avoided
tripping over the toppled armoured door. However, she scrapped her upper
right arm on the jagged edge of the blown-out door frame, causing her to
involuntarily cry out in pain, as well as drop the frying pan with a loud
clang.

    "Fuck!" one of men yelled from deeper in the dark bunker. It was
followed by an oddly muted, rapid-stuttering coughing.

    Then came the unmistakable whines of bullets ricocheting off the metal
door frame behind Sheila.

    Although screaming in sudden terror, arms wrapped protectively over her
head, the sixteen-year-old's long legs kept sprinting solely on fear-fueled
instinct. A few times she blindly rebounded off one of the basement's piles
of junk, causing several mini-avalanches behind her. Before she was aware
of it, Sheila literally ran into the steel door leading to the
outside. Grasping the handle in both hands, the right hand now slick from
blood flowing down from the arm's painful gashes, she ---

    A bobbing flashlight's beam caught her in the corner of an eye, making
her wince from the blinding light.

    "Gotcha now, bitch!" Jack's voice called triumphantly behind her. Then
he gave a startled curse, which was followed by the sound of a tripped-up
body landing hard on the floor.

    Seizing her chance, she pulled on the handle. But the door held fast,
preventing her from escaping.

    "No!" Sheila cried in frustration and fear, then realized the
problem. Unlocking the deadbolt with a vicious twist, she yanked open the
steel door and raced up the sunken set of concrete stairs, leaving the door
wide open in her haste.

    Bolting across the orphanage's back lot, part of her was surprised no
one had come to investigate the explosions. But then again, the basement's
walls were thick, and few people were around at one in the morning,
including homeless scavengers.

    Recalling Jack's order to gun down anyone who got in the way, Sheila
knew heading for the orphanage was the last thing she could do. But there
was nowhere else she could run to. As well, Jack would be emerging from the
basement at any moment, in pursuit with his gun. If an unfortunate
passer-by was to happen by . . . .

    She couldn't allow that to happen.

    Then desperation-born inspiration struck. The Christ-ler!

    Running for Sister Josephina's eggplant purple minivan, Sheila's
blood-slick fingers fumbled with the keys, while stealing fearful glances
at the open basement entrance. Finally managing to get the driver's door
open, the teen jumped in and cranked the ignition. The minivan, littered
with religious paraphernalia, came to life on the first try.

    Suddenly bullets stitched across the windshield, cracking and starring
the safety glass, and making her recoil with a scream.

    Ignoring the pain of the ragged cuts on her upper right arm, she jammed
the shifter into drive, and mashed the accelerator to the firewall. The
twenty-year-old Chrysler Voyager hesitated for a moment, then in a squeal
of protesting rubber it took off like a scalded cat, clipping two parked
cars as it angled for an escape.

    Sheila was nearly at the street exit, when the minivan's back window
exploded inward in a shower of glass by a second fury of bullets. Crying
out as she inadvertently swerved, the minivan's fender sideswiped the
orphanage's side in a screech of metal. Then the Christ-ler pounced onto
the momentarily traffic-free road, tires still squealing.

    On the dashboard, the plastic Jesus statue stood pointing out the
minivan's now-missing back window, as if silently telling the shooter to
atone for his sin.

    Frantic for some way to escape, the blonde teen struggled to remember
where the nearest police station was. In her panic, she wasn't sure now
even where in downtown she was. At the same time, she was trying to pay
attention to the other cars now on the road with her. While born and raised
in a small, northern Ontario town, she'd lived at the orphanage in
Toronto's downtown for the last six years. In spite of that, she couldn't
remember where the police stations were, and her life really was depending
on it!

    And of course there wasn't a cop around when she needed one.

    Then a staggering realization struck her like a physical blow. Her cell
phone!

    It wasn't just the blood making her fingers slippery, why she had
trouble pulling the cell phone from its belt pouch. Her entire right arm
was becoming numb, despite the adrenalin still coursing through
her. However, she didn't dare try using her good left arm. Even in the
sparse, very early morning traffic, she couldn't afford to speed this fast,
and steer with an arm that was losing more feeling by the minute.

    At last managing to free the cell phone and flip it open, her deadening
thumb betrayed her attempts to punch nine-one-one. Each attempt seemed to
make the opposable digit clumsier, and hit almost every number but the
three she needed.

    Caught in a sudden flash of headlights and blaring horn blast, Sheila
swerved sharply to the side, barely avoiding getting T-boned by a huge
delivery truck as she ran a red light. Gritting her teeth, she made another
determined try at dialing.

    Nine.

    One.

    Jesus's head exploded, as a storm of bullets finished shattering the
windshield from the inside out.

    Screaming and involuntarily raising her forearms, to protect her face
from the explosion of safety glass fragments, the minivan started careening
and fishtailing. Then as it spun fully out of control, the Christ-ler
flipped over sideways.

    The minivan began rolling like a squarish barrel, in a deafening
catastrophe of crunching metal and shattering glass, right towards a huge
building ahead. As Sheila was thrown from the driver's seat, some part of
her mind noted the irony.

    That her first car accident, would be the first time she hadn't worn
her seatbelt.



    Raking shaggy brown hair from his grey eyes with a frustrated huff, the
twelve-year-old homeless boy crawled from his large, rag-stuffed cardboard
box. Jesse Anderson thought it was bad enough he couldn't sleep, but he had
to piss yet again.

    Stepping against the alley's far wall, he unzipped his worn jeans and
pulled out his circumcised, hairless little dick to whiz against the
bricks. Finishing by wiggling loose the last few drops, he swore he'd just
peed not even an hour ago, after having gotten dropped off at a nearby
alley.

    By Sheila.

    Images of the beautiful teenager came to his mind's eye, and far from
the first time since they parted company an hour ago. Her soft flowing
golden hair. Sparkling deep blue eyes. Her bared, almost flat tits, with
their huge puffy nipples. Her stroking his boner so skillfully, but yet
with a fondness he'd never felt in a handjob before. And that goodnight
kiss . . . .

    Jesse wasn't surprised to find his cock sticking straight out again,
its entire three inches harder than rock. But at the same time it was
annoying. He'd only finished jerking off barely half an hour ago, because
he couldn't stop thinking of Sheila. How was he suppose to fall asleep, if
he couldn't stop getting boners? And how was he suppose to last until his
date with Sheila in three days, if he couldn't fall asleep between now and
then?

    Muttering peevishly to himself, he struggled to slip his boner back in
his dirty jeans, and carefully zipped up. Maybe thinking about that butch
Tim Hortons manager would do the trick. Yeah. Jesse doubted other dykes,
even the greasy, old, fat biker ones with beard stubble, would want to be
with that he-she. Just trying to imagine what freaky thing the manager must
have between her legs, grossed him out.

    But it did the trick of squashing his boner. Like a steamroller did a
hot dog.

    Turning to climb back in his cardboard home, from the street came the
screech of tires. Then it sounded like a car being pounded again and again,
by a tank-sized sledgehammer. Running to the alley's mouth, Jesse saw a
dark-coloured minivan make its final crunching roll, landing back on its
remaining three wheels, almost up against the Royal Ontario Museum's front
glass doors.

    With the minivan's corners and body panels crumpled, all its windows
smashed out, and the roof partly caved-in, the boy wondered if the driver
was okay. Or even still alive. Bits and pieces of the vehicle weren't just
scattered around it, but visibly strewn under the streetlights for a ways
up the road.

    Several cars on the downtown street had wildly swerved out of rolling
minivan's path. Only one car stopped to help, though. A dark sedan, which
appeared from behind the minivan. It screeched to a halt next to the
crashed vehicle, laying broken on the open concrete walkway, right in front
of the ROM's entrance locked for the night.

    Jesse gasped upon seeing the man jumping from his car to run to the
minivan's driver's side door.

    He hadn't gasped because the man wore a dark suit and long black
overcoat, in spite of the early June night's warmth. Nor was it that he was
just as handsome as he was burly, with neat brown hair.

    It was because of the compact submachine gun, which the man held like
it was merely a pistol.

    The homeless boy thought the guy had to be one of those SWAT-cops. He'd
seen them a few times, busting a crack house, or raiding some street gang's
hideout. He was even more sure of it, as the burly man peered in the
glassless driver's window. A moment later, the man shifted over to grip in
one hand the sliding side door's handle. With an ear-splitting squeal of
resisting twisted metal, he wrenched the wide door aside, and leaned
inside.

    It was just like watching one of those cop shows.

    Until the man pulled a girl out with only one hand gripping her by the
throat, holding her up with her feet off the ground.

    And Jesse saw that the bloodied girl was Sheila!



    Sheila's first thought wasn't so much a thought, as it was a
vertigo-induced urge to throw up. Definitely no more roller coaster rides
for her. Weren't roller coasters suppose to do loop-to-loops, and not
tumble around like a chucked brick being tossed across the ground?

    Swallowing hard, she fought her rebelling stomach. Okay, thinking about
chucked and tossed . . . . Bad idea.

    Her slender body hurt all over, and something in her knapsack was
pressing against her spine, as she laid crumpled and helpless as a rag
doll. The left side of her face felt wet and sticky for some reason, and
she could barely feel her right arm. Whenever she felt like moving again,
which hopefully wouldn't be for another year or three, she was going to
make a note.

    To have more sympathy for Melody's teddy bear in the dryer.

    Suddenly the wall next to her was forcefully shoved aside, revealing a
big man dressed in black, silhouetted by bright lights. He looked kind of
blurry. Or was it just the sticky stuff sealing her left eye shut? Was that
one of those new-style squirt guns he held? Come to think of it, she could
use some water to rinse out the awful, metallic-copper taste from her
mouth.

    Then the man leaned in to grab her one-handedly by the throat, hauling
her up and out as he would a child's doll.

    In that instant, it all came back to the sixteen-year-old. The sudden
and bizarre assault on the bunker. Buying time for the others. Fleeing for
her life. Being shot at. Crashing.

    All by the man trying to kill her. The man who was effortlessly choking
her with just one hand, holding her with her feet dangling helplessly in
the air. The man --- Jack --- whose dark eyes were more cold and merciless
than a snake's eyes.

    Unable to give voice to her terror with a scream, Sheila pissed her
jeans.

    Noticing this, Jack smiled in pleasure.

    "You would've made a beautiful trophy in my vast collection," he told
her with genuine regret. "Taking many days to slowly peel off your creamy
skin. Listening to you screaming and crying the entire time. It would've
been wonderful for both of us.

    "But you ruined that, bitch!" Jack suddenly raged in her face, fingers
tightening around her throat as he shook her. "Now I don't even have time
to let you bleed out slowly! I can't give you an ounce of the suffering,
that you and your kind deserves!"

    Throwing Sheila to the concrete in disgust, Jack stood over her. Aiming
the gun squarely between the desperately coughing girl's eyes, his rage
abruptly vanished, being replaced with a smile.

    A smile reflecting the inhuman evil beneath.

    "Say hello to my other sweet trophies, when you get to hell."

    The silenced weapon spat out a long, muted burst of death, but the
bullets chewed up the concrete behind Sheila's head as Jack cried out
flinching.

    Even as a jagged chunk of brick fell to the ground beside him, and
blood and ichor spurted from the gory ruins of his left eye, the snarling
man was swinging the submachine gun up at Sheila's saviour.

    A short twelve-year-old boy standing not a dozen feet away, now about
to take her place in death.

    Jesse! Sheila silently screamed, the fear for his life eclipsing even
that for her own.

    Something inside Sheila snapped then.

    Years of hard-built mental barriers shattered like glass, as her genes
pulsed with the cursed legacy of her ancestors. Forgotten were the bruises,
the pain, the helpless fear. White-hot rage ignited ever fiber of her
being, coursing through her veins like liquid venom. Ripped away was the
caring babysitter. The teenage girl. The human being.

    Exposing a thing consumed solely with fury-filled madness.

    The living embodiment, of the Donnelly clan's infamous black curse.

    Sheila suddenly sat upright and grabbed Jack's beefy forearm, even as
he was firing the silenced gun again. She didn't know if Jesse was hit, or
the long burst had missed. Nor did the thing that she'd become care. All
that mattered was making this man --- this monster --- pay dearly!

    Taking advantage of Jack's moment of startled hesitation, she rose to
her feet using his arm as leverage. She grasped both the compact submachine
gun's boxy middle and rear buttstock.

    Then viciously yanked on it while twisting.

    Even over Jack's agonized cry, and the weapon's muffled roar as it blew
apart the museum's nearby glass doors, came the delicious sound of the
bones in his trigger finger cracking like dry twigs. Pulling the gun from
his grip, Sheila kicked Jack in the crotch and stepped back, raising the
submachine gun to aim it right at his face.

    And maliciously pulled the trigger.

    Only to hear the rapid clicking of it dry-firing its empty magazine.

    With an inarticulate scream of rage, Sheila gripped the gun harder as
she swung it, aiming its sturdy buttstock at the black-clad man's face. It
slammed into his cheek, just beneath the bloody remains of his left
eye. Staggering back, Jack's quickly-accumulating injuries and shock were
already visibly weakening him.

    Driven by unreason rage, the girl kept striking him with the submachine
gun's buttstock. It didn't matter to her where she struck. Or seeing him
suddenly falling to his knees raising his arms, cringing from the possessed
demon standing over him. His suffering pleas for mercy weren't enough.

    She wanted him dead!

    Snarling like a rabid she-wolf, Sheila brutally hammered the kneeling
giant with his own gun. Flesh tore as bones snapped and blood flowed. Again
and again she mindlessly hit the cowering man at her feet. Even as the
battered form slumped over limply, it didn't stop the genetic curse
gripping her.

    Until a pair of small arms encircled her narrow waist, trying to tug
her away from her rightful kill.

    "Sheila! Don't! Stop! You can't kill him!"

    Raising the weapon again, she was about to smash away this temporary
annoyance, when the blood haze clouding her sight vanished. Letting her see
a young boy's pleading grey eyes looking up at her, half-obscured by his
long brown forelocks.

    "J-Jesse?"

    The twelve-year-old grabbed her left wrist, again trying to pull her
away from . . . from . . . .

    "C'mon, Sheila! We've gotta get outta here! Now!"

    The blonde teenager looked down at the man who laid unmoving on the
concrete. The man who had tried to kill her. His once-handsome face was
barely recognizable through all the blood. She couldn't tell if he was dead
or just unconscious.

    "C'mon! The cops are coming!"

    As if reaffirming Jesse's desperate warning, were the distant sounds of
police sirens nearing.

    The submachine gun fell limply from her fingers, clattering on the
concrete at her feet.

    "Sheila!"

    The fearful urgency in Jesse's voice finally broke through to
her. Allowing the homeless boy to half-drag her to a nearby alley at first,
Sheila's instincts took over and began running with him. Jesse snatched up
his backpack as they passed a large cardboard box stuffed with rags.

    For the next few minutes, he led her in a twisting race through various
dark alleys. With each striding step the sirens fell behind. It was only
when Jesse pulled her behind a dumpster in a distant alley, his lean chest
heaving with exhaustion, did they stop running.

    As the boy struggled to catch his breath, Sheila at last looked down at
her hands.

    Hands splattered in blood. Hers and Jake's.

    "Sheila!"

    The teenager barely heard Jesse's panicked cry, as she began plummeting
into a tunnel of pure darkness. Then the boy's voice was gone, fading
completely in the distance behind her.

    Sheila couldn't even utter a final, regretful farewell to Jesse, as the
blackness rose up like the gaping jaws of a creature, and swallowed the
babysitter whole.