“It’s not yours either,” Beard says.
“Put it back,” Cleo says.
“And what are you going to do if we don’t?” Buzz counters.
Why does it matter what they take? Why does she feel a sudden desire to protect Dorothy’s belongings?
“I… I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Beard takes a step toward her, the frying pan cocked over his shoulder like a weapon.
“I’ll…”
There’s a whistle to the left, a cutting of air. Something flies through one of the broken windows.
Beard staggers to the side, his eyes bulging.
An axe is now stuck in his neck.
“Ozaaak!” Buzz yells just as Beard’s head slides off his body, the head hitting the floor a second before the axe.
Buzz drops the onions. They spill from the bag and roll across the floor not unlike the head.
Cleo can’t seem to move. She should move. She should be terrified into moving.
But she can’t.
The floor creaks behind her and a shadow stretches over the piled debris.
“Ahhh!” Buzz turns around and runs down the hall.
The footsteps are heavy now. Closer.
Cleo clamps her teeth together as the Tin Woodman comes into view. He bends down and scoops up his axe with metallic fingers.
Cleo has heard the stories about his arm made of metal and cogs, but hearing about it is not the same as seeing it, and the cold glint of the metal only makes him more terrifying.
Buzz is still screaming, moving through the house from room to room, looking for another exit.
She can’t blame him for forgetting a window is just as good as a door. She can’t even move.
Finding no escape, Buzz comes running back out to the kitchen. The Tinman straightens his arm, stretching out the axe directly in Buzz’s path, and Buzz, driven by panic, slams right into the blade.
It hits him square in the chest.
Blood burbles from his mouth. He gasps out one long, wet breath before sinking to his knees.
The Tinman plants his boot on Buzz’s shoulder and uses the leverage to yank the axe out.
Buzz tilts over dead.
Cleo still hasn’t moved.
She swallows.
Maybe if she doesn’t move, doesn’t talk or sneeze or breathe, he’ll look right past her.
The Tinman grabs the leg of an overturned chair. He rights it, sits down. He pulls a rag from his pocket and wipes the blood from the blade. Slowly. Carefully.
