Sarah had seen everyone else decapitated, immolated, or violated until they were yanked inside out and twitching in the shadows of the poplars.
Her Camp Blackburn t-shirt was sweat through, giving her a chill.
The stars were bullets bending in space.
She grabbed the hedge-clippers from the rusty shed and waited.
Her hiking boots would run no more.
The killer lurched forward.
Sarah began to hyperventilate.
The killer whipped the scythe in the air.
The round blade flopped towards the boathouse.
Sarah’s shears snipped again.
His wet wrist-bones were jabbing her flesh, as she kept cutting him down to size.