Gunfire cracks behind me.
Perfect.
They’re coming from everywhere.
And Skippy is… well… Skippy.
“We’re going this way,” I mutter to him like he’s capable of caring, swerving left along a narrow catwalk.
The frame wobbles. One wheel locks. Another squeals. The whole stroller shimmies like it’s seconds from spontaneous combustion.
“Hold it together,” I hiss. “We’re almost?—”
A shot hits the railing behind me, sparks spitting. I duck, push forward, but something catches—the strollerjerks sideways, tips, and Skippy’s body slumps halfway over the railing.
“Shit.”
I drop my rifle to one hand and lunge.
I catch him by the wrist. Barely. A swollen, waterlogged, unholy wrist that feels like it’s made of gelatinous doom.
He dangles there.
Dead weight.
Literally.
The skin around his elbow begins to stretch.
Then tear.
“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me!”
Another attacker barrels toward me on the catwalk. I kick him square in the chest, send him smashing into a rail pillar. My gun fires once—center mass—but I can’t spare a second to watch him fall.
I’m holding Skippy.
I’m fighting.
I’m slipping.
And Skippy’s goddamn arm is coming apart.
“SAINT!” I bellow. “A little help! Preferably now!”
The fight below stutters—the chaos freezing for a split second—as everyone looks up.
Saint spots me.
Eyes widen in absolute horror.
Because Skippy…
lets go.
Or more accurately?—
his arm detaches at the elbow. His body drops like a sandbag straight into a massive opentank of meat chunks on the factory floor.
