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The Autumn Aircraft - #1 - Little Sister Becka

“That’s Avery Johnston! That’s motherfuckin’ Avery Johns—”
A dead-centered blow to the face silenced her, taking her to ground as if she’d been body slammed.
Gunfire fro m within the hall of the comp le x erupted, and the interloper bent down, lifted the girl, and
launched her two handed into the first floor hall. Men and wo men fe ll over like bowling pins. The ones still
standing, paused for a brie f mo ment, a ll with stunned expressions as prominen t as yellow face paint.
The interloper used the mo ment to bend down, pic k up a middle -aged man, reach ing for a gun, and fling
him across the hallway ne xt. The man was nothing more than a brown flash, zipping across the corridor and
smashing into the back wa ll at over twenty five miles an hour. Everyone glanced in the direction he was thrown and
the interloper dashed forward, arms pu mping, throwing a hook or an uppercut whenever he needed to get someone
out of his way. More men went down, some unconscious. More than halfway down the hall a man on his right
aimed a sawed-off shotgun and the interloper snatched it away like taking a dangerous object from a child, cocked it
mid-sprint, aimed, and erased half the man’s head with the pull of the trigger. The blood drenched the interloper’s
face and the apartment door behind the victim.
More gun smoke permeated the air, the interior of the bottom floor quickly turning into a hazy world of
white. Bullets fle w in every d irection, puncturing drywall, bursting light bulbs, and leaving bullet holes in the
carpeted floor. No one in the hall was able to—or not sma rt enough to—get a clear line of sight before shooting.
Someone kept screaming, Kill that bitch ass nigga!
Everyone yelled, but no one seemed to be ab le to hit. The interloper fired the re ma ining two cartridges in
the shotgun, silencing several shooters in near-spectacular sprays of blood, then fell to his stomach. He wa ited,
lying with the corpses. He took a thorough look around, searching for movement or lack thereof. In seconds he
spotted a clear opportunity. The interloper rushed forward, tackled a man trying to aim a nine millimeter handgun,
and took him hard to the ground.
The surrounding gunfire re mained ceaseless. The stranger held the man’s arm down, cocked back, and
punched him on the left side of his cheek, breaking his cheekbone and sending a number of bro ken, bloodied teeth
scattering onto the floor. He coc ked his fist back and swung again, hitting the man in the side of his head and
fracturing it right above his left eye. The man was killed almost at once. Calm, but keeping his move ments swift,
he picked up the man’s handgun and dashed through the smoke. He came to a sudden halt when he came face to
face with a non-working e levator at the end of the hall.
“IT’S FUCKING AVERY JOHNSTON!” someone screamed from behind him. A number of shooters had
broken into coughing by now, trying to shoot but having to stop when the need to cough grew too intense. The
stranger aimed the nine millimeter towards the noise, and with something that resembled uncanny—and even
eerie—accuracy, e mptied what was left in the magazine, taking ten shooters down to the floor with chorus of thuds.
He dropped the gun, took a right and went through the door that led to the stairs at the end of the hall. The man was
headed to seventh floor.
Men were already rushing down the stairs, many wanting to get out of the building, but some—presumab ly
connected to some of the tenants or guests downstairs—came to join the action. Seven men went past the interloper,
only sparing him passing glances as they made their ways down. Then two, one Hispanic and the other Blac k,
rushed him.
Both of them, apparently without guns, had caught him o n the second floor landing and unleashed a flurry
of punches and kicks. Curses punctuated their blows and sprays of spit followed their curses. The black man landed
a hook to the interloper’s eye, the Hispanic pulled a knife and shoved it into his side.
A split second later, the reddened knife fe ll fro m his hand as the interloper clenched his wrist, forced it
violently down and the man down with it. He stomped on the man’s neck, killing him. The man that looked like
Avery Johnston turned and buried a hook in the black man’s gut, and spit flew as the man doubled over, his eyes
spread in stunned surprise. The interloper began to aiming punches at his head. He busted his lip, split the skin
above his eye, broke a tooth, and connected numerous times to th e side of his head, sending him into a dizzying
spell. At one point the man stumbled and fell to the stairs, his blood covering the stranger’s fist. The next moment
the interloper was stomping his head into the risers. One hard stomp fo llo wed by another. The interloper grunted as
he did this, though he was not short of breath. He wasn’t even sweating. More people dashed past him. The
interloper ignored them and continued stepping on the man’s head. The final step sunk into the man’s skull and
came out with a wet, meaty fwaap! The stranger slammed a fist downward into what was left of the man’s head for
good measure and stopped.