Still in motion, I pivot on my heel and bring the saw across Ma in one brutal arc.
The blade slices her head right off her neck, sending it flying to the floor.
Blood spurts from her throat, one-two-three moments before she drops dead.
Click.
The gun.
Click, click. Click.
Papa’s trying his hardest to shoot me, failing every single time.
The piece is jammed.
“Noooo!” Reese shrieks once the shock has left her system, rushing to Ma, sobbing into her bloody nightgown. “Mommyyyy!”
My poor sister. She’s a violent one, true. She’s also young, brainwashed, and broken.
I decide then and there that I won’t kill her. I’ll dump her in the nearest town. Let the world teach her something other than what our parents did.
Something better.
First, Skylar.
Except when I turn—chainsaw roaring, blood boiling—I don’t find her helpless.
Not at-fucking-all.
“Hey, Grandpa?” Feral smirk. White-knuckled grip on the knife I gave her. “Die, you son of a bitch.”
The blade drives into his neck. His howl rattles the walls.
Most living-hides never made it this far. And even if they did strike our arm, thigh, or stomach with scissors or something, they’d panic, leave the blade buried in one of us, and run.
Without pulling it out, the blood stays dammed. That’s why we Colberts haven’t lost a fight.
Yet.
But Skylar isn’t anyone else.
My clever girl rips it free. Blood gushes, spraying across his shirt and hers.
Color surges back into her face. Eyes glittering, determined as she bolts behind me.
“Good girl, Trouble.”
“No. No!” Grandpa claws at his neck, palm pressed hard.
It’s pointless. The blood keeps pumping through his fingers.
While this goes on, with me standing in front of Skylar, Reese’s screams pierce the air. Papa’s curses continue, his eyes wild.
The gun keeps on its weakclick, click, click.
I need to end Papa so he won’t shoot us in the back when we try to get to the tires and get Reese the hell out of here.
With that conviction burning in me, the chainsaw becomes more than a tool. It’s an extension of my arm as I run at my father.
