Evil Summer II, part 3

(Click here to read Part 1.)(Click here to read Part 2.)(Click here to read the original Evil Summer.)

Of all the days to wear my new Louboutins, this was by far the worst. Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver was catching up fast as I tried sprinting down the street in six-inch heels, desperately searching my Blackberry Storm for the phone numbers of the old gang. But it was no use; at that moment, with Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver breathing down my neck, I knew that it was either me or the shoes.

I turned the corner and ducked down an alleyway, kicked off my kicks and kept on running. But God, I loved those shoes, and before I made it three steps I spun around and ran back to the place I had left them. I stooped over to pick up my pumps, but suddenly he was there, looming. For the first time I saw the knife in his hand, and terror shot through my side as the memories of that Evil Summer from long ago flooded over me like a tsunami full of doom.

I should have just killed Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver when I'd had the chance. The thought bounced between my ears, and knew I wouldn't make that mistake twice; before I had time to think I was reacting, and instinctively hurled my shoes at my would-be assassin. The first bounced harmlessly off of his shoulder but the second hit its mark. In that instant all I saw was red, and not just because of the signature soles of my shoes. To my horror I realized that the six-inch spike of my heel had driven straight through Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver's left eyeball and into his brain. He was dead instantly, felled in an ever growing puddle of his own blood and guts.

I stood in shock as I watched a black, thick liquid ooze out of his mouth, remembering with horror that scene from all those years ago. But instead of forming an ominous message at my feet, it rose into the air and streaked off at lightning speed and disappeared. Slowly I came to my senses and walked over to where the shoe that wasn't lodged in Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver's face lay. I picked it up and walked back to the body, and gingerly pulled the other shoe from Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver's eye socket. The sucking noise it made as I extracted the lodged heel was nauseating, but there was no way I was going to leave a brand new pair of $800 heels stuck in the face of a guy who just tried to kill me.

Suddenly, and without warning, I shrieked, startled by the opening bars of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" as sung by the cast of Glee emanating from my Blackberry. It was Courtney, finally. "WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?" I screamed into the phone.

"Well," she said, her voice raspy with what I presumed to be sleep, "you'll never believe where I am."

"I don't have time for that!" I barked. "Fucking Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver just tried to fucking kill me!" I yelled.

Courtney didn't say anything at first, but I could hear her heavy breathing on the line. "It's the funniest thing," she said finally, "but I'm at the old abandoned warehouse down by Route 13. And I'm here with Chris and Josh and Justine and Melanie. Also, Roger is here."

I was stunned. Did Randy (or Patrick!)/My Driver go after them too? "Don't move," I told her, "I'll be right there." And quickly I wiped the guts from my shoe, put them back on, and ran to the corner to hail a cab.