In a silent hell of blood and fire, the slaughter played out. Guards, wealthy buyers, staff of the Doghead Society—anyone Owen came across became another corpse at the end of his gun. There might still be people hiding in the factory, but Owen no longer cared. He torched the surveillance room and then set fire to the rest of the building as insurance.
The group exited through the front gate. The courtyard outside was filled with cars, most belonging to the dead guards. Owen found one with the keys still inside and drove them away from the factory.
The sky outside was heavy and gray. Beth and Whitney looked through the rear window as the factory receded into the distance, as if they were leaving another world entirely.
As the car rolled through the small town, the quaint, welcoming aura of Europe had vanished. The townspeople no longer appeared warm and friendly, but sickeningly fake. Their smiling faces couldn't hide the ugliness of their souls.
Owen drove straight toward the inn. To him, everyone there—the glasses-wearing clerk, the seductive women used to lure tourists, even the maids—were accomplices. Not one of them was innocent. They were all part of Doghead's machine.
His mind drifted to the child gang. No wonder those kids were so numb to killing. They were a product of this place. Young as they were, they had witnessed more evil than most adults do in a lifetime.
He also thought of Elixhill. Was she still alive? The warehouse where they'd left her was just next to the inn, so Owen detoured there first. He figured Beth and Whitney might want to see the fate of the woman who had lured them into this nightmare.
The warehouse was sunken into the ground, hidden. From outside, the door appeared untouched. No one had entered.
Had she already died in agony?
They unlocked the door and entered. What they found inside chilled them to the bone.
Elixhill was dead. Horribly so.
Owen had left her tied to a chair, covered in cuts laced with salt, intending for her to die slowly from pain. But what they saw now was far worse.
Apparently, Elixhill had tried to escape after they left, but Owen had tied her too well. In her struggle, the chair toppled, and then came the real horror.
Her blood had drawn out the rats.
Dozens of them emerged from hiding. At first, they only sniffed and darted away when she moved. But as her strength waned, the rats grew bolder—biting at her open wounds, tearing flesh.
Elixhill screamed and fought, but she was helpless. The rats came in droves, scrambling for a taste of fresh blood.
By the time Owen and the others arrived, she was already dead—her body chewed into a mangled pulp. The once-beautiful model was now a grotesque, faceless corpse.
Even as their presence scared off many of the rats, a dozen or so still lingered, circling her shredded remains, reluctant to leave.
No one vomited this time. No one turned away. Instead, there was an unexpected sense of satisfaction. More than when they'd killed Douglas. More than any bullet to the head. This, somehow, felt right.
…
Four smoke-scented figures stood silently in front of the inn.
In the grass nearby, a few sparrows pecked at scattered seeds. Suddenly, a wild cat pounced, scattering the birds. As they flew off, the four approached the inn's entrance.
Owen opened the door and entered first, Monica behind him. Beth was last. Once everyone was inside, she closed the door and locked it with a heavy chain.
They didn't hide their weapons. In fact, Beth looked the most intimidating, carrying the XM26 shotgun she'd picked up from the factory. The others had pistols, but hers had the power and presence of an executioner's axe.
Inside, the old TV was still playing Pulp Fiction. A few people sat on the couches watching. But the commotion at the door made them turn their heads.
Owen and Monica spread out, flanking the room, slowly forming a semicircle around the people watching TV. Beth walked straight to the front desk, shotgun in hand.
The bespectacled clerk was there, sweating. He was holding a passport, apparently registering a blonde young man who stood on the other side of the counter.
The room fell silent except for Beth's slow, heavy footsteps—each one like a drumbeat of doom. The clerk swallowed nervously as she approached.
"Tourist?" Beth asked, snatching the passport from his hand and turning to the blonde.
The man was terrified, heart racing. This was supposed to be a vacation, not a war zone. And this pretty girl? Carrying a shotgun?
"Y-yes…" he stammered.
"British?"
"Y-yeah…"
Beth tossed the passport back at him. "Close your eyes. Get in the corner. Don't get your face splattered."
Terrified, he nodded, clutched his bag, and scurried to the far wall.
The clerk saw her eyes lock onto him again and forced a nervous smile. "Miss, is there some kind of—"
Bang. Bang-bang!
Beth didn't wait.
Three blasts from the XM26. The clerk was blown backward into the wall, glasses shattering, shirt soaked in blood. He crumpled behind the counter, gurgling, trying to speak—but only blood spilled from his mouth.
Beth loomed over him, shotgun raised. His vision faded with the image of her face, and then—nothing.
The people on the couches looked on in horror, pinned by Monica and Owen's guns.
Beth's shotgun had been the signal.
Gunshots erupted.
Within seconds, everyone in the lobby was dead.
The trio split up. Owen took the stairs. Beth descended to the bar. Monica moved to the spa.
Gunfire echoed throughout the building.
The inn had no real defense. It was never meant to be a fortress. Just a front to hold prey until Doghead's enforcers arrived.
Owen kicked in doors one after another. In one room, two half-naked women froze, staring in shock.
It was just like the day they'd arrived—bait, perfectly placed.
Only this time, it wasn't staged. They'd come out in curiosity after hearing gunfire. Owen didn't hesitate. Two shots. Two dead.
He moved methodically, clearing each room without mercy. Anyone alive was a potential accomplice. He knew Doghead's cycle now:
Each time the "harvest" ended, the inn would clear out the old guests. The buyers would arrive. The killing would begin. Then, a new group of tourists would be lured in. The staff would keep them entertained until the next cycle.
Yesterday had been a harvest day.
Anyone still here today wasn't a tourist. And if they were, they were just unlucky.
Owen shot anything that moved.
In the bar, Beth was merciless. The XM26's roar echoed as she mowed down every staff member in sight.
She wasn't a good shot—but she didn't have to be. A shotgun at close range was unforgiving.
She even preferred to wound her targets first, watching them suffer, bleeding out slowly, just like the clerk at the front desk.
In the spa, Monica barely used a full magazine. There were few people left. The pool water turned crimson.
The inn had become a slaughterhouse. And none of its residents were armed.
As they left, flames rose behind them. Owen had torched the place—just in case.
"Are we leaving now?" Whitney asked fearfully from the back seat.
"No."
Owen and Beth answered at the same time.
There was one more stop.
Doghead couldn't have operated in broad daylight without protection. Some corrupt officials had to be enabling them. Like the police chief, Brook.
Owen drove straight to the police station. He remembered the way.
There were only six officers in town. That much, he remembered clearly.
He screeched to a halt in front of a one-story building with a "Police" sign on it.
Before they could enter, gunshots rang out from inside.
Seems the cops weren't completely clueless. Maybe someone at the factory had called for help.
But small-town police weren't a threat to Owen and Monica. When Beth tried to follow, Monica yanked her back. "Let the professionals handle this."
Gunfire inside was sporadic—one FAMAS rifle, a few pistols.
"You draw. I shoot," Owen said.
"You draw. I shoot," Monica echoed. Then rolled her eyes. "Fine. I draw. You shoot."
She flashed around the left-side door.
Bullets shredded the frame—but Owen popped out on the right and fired twice.
Two headshots.
"Joseph! Joseph—shit!" someone yelled.
Dead silence. Then Owen popped out again—two more shots. Another rifleman down.
No more gunfire.
Owen called out, "Drop your weapons!"
Silence. Then… rustling.
After a few tense seconds, the last four cops surrendered.
"We were forced! We had no choice!" Brook shouted. "There's only six of us. If we didn't go along, they'd kill us. We have families. We're not like them. We've never killed anyone!"
All four were disarmed and kneeling. Two bodies lay on the floor. Beth glared.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" she demanded.
They shook their heads.
"We didn't! I swear! I never hurt a good person! We still have a conscience!"
Beth didn't look convinced. Monica hesitated—killing unarmed people, even accomplices, wasn't so easy.
Whitney said nothing.
Everyone turned to Owen.
He didn't hesitate.
He walked over, grabbed Brook's arm, and pulled up his sleeve.
A Doghead tattoo.
"What else is there to say?"
Gunshots rang out.
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