“See?” I point out. “Creepy psycho laughter. Trust me, come to me and let me make this easy for you?—”
Like a startled deer our victim shoots out from behind a tree. Over his shoulder he screams, “You’re both psychopaths. Now leave me alone!”
I give chase, the axe in my right fist swings beside me. It’s heavy but the weight gives me momentum. The ground beneath my feet inclines, growing steeper with every foot. Unlike last time, this victim doesn’t shift direction. He goes straight up, probably hoping that we’ll tire before he will.
Too bad that’s not going to happen.
I close the distance between us. His heavy breathing becomes more noticeable and his feet are starting to slip from beneath him. A grin stretches across my face. I’m about to win?—
Rhett comes out of nowhere, his body nearly horizontal as he flies through the air to tackle our prey to the ground. The guy cries out in alarm as they both go down. They roll toward me, following the natural decline of the hill. A curse slips from my lips as I get to Rhett and our prey.
The soccer coach elbows Rhett in the face, the force of it throwing his head back. Our prey pushes him off and tries to scramble to his feet but my foot slams under his chin. He falls backward, then screams as the blade of my axe comes whistling down from over my head. He rolls out of the way just in time. Then, like a cat with ridiculously fantastic reflexes, he sees and ducks as Rhett’s blade tries to take off his head.
“Son of a bitch,” Rhett snarls.
Our prey scrambles to his feet and tries to take off again.
He gets in seven long strides. That’s it. Then the blade of my axe slams between his shoulder blades, lodging itself there. I try to yank it free so that I can land another blow but the axe won’t move.
“Shit,” I whisper.
My victim screams in agony but he can’t go anywhere. He’s trapped at the end of my axe which I have a firm grip on.
“Can you, like, wiggle your shoulders or something?” I ask him as I press my foot on his lower back and try to pull the axe out this way.
He screams again, the sound echoing all around me. As I struggle to pull it free, Rhett’s axe appears out of nowhere. It slams into the man’s gut.
“Hey! This is my kill!” I shout, my attempt to pull out my axe becoming more frantic.
Rhett scoffs. “You’re not doing a very good job of it.”
He pulls his blade out and swings again. The man’s intestines spill out from the gaping hole in his gut just before he loses an arm. Though most of his face is covered with his bandana, Ican see Rhett’s eyes. They glitter with malice and delight, flaring brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
Again and again, Rhett swings his blade. Blood goes flying. I can feel it covering me as I continue to try to yank out my axe. Soon, Rhett’s soaked in it.
Eventually, our victim stops screaming.
It's not until there are no limbs left that Rhett stops. Breathing heavily, he stares down at what used to be a man. Rhett’s body is trembling as if the kill had somehow amped him up. When he wipes his forearm across his sweaty face, a thick smear of blood follows and lingers on his skin.
Rhett looks good withlifehumming around him, even with death at his feet. Too bad, I’m too pissed to appreciate it.
I gape in outrage at the limbless torso my axe is still stuck in. Shoving up my mask, I turn to glower at Rhett. “I totally killed him. You know I’m the winner here, right?”
Rhett’s head jerks up as if he’s forgotten I was even standing here. A scoff slips past the bandana covering his mouth.
“I literally dismembered him.Iwon,” he objects.
I point to my axe. “If you hadn’t shown up, he would’ve bled out. That was a killing blow.”
“But Ididshow up, and I stopped his heart with a messy chop to the chest,” Rhett counters, his voice rough. His dark brows slam together in a heavy scowl. “That makes me the winner.”
“No, it doesn’t! I got him first!”
“He was still alive when I cut him up, so you didn’t kill him. Youalmostkilled him,” Rhett explains as he tosses his axe down.
I sputter, looking for a counter argument. Santi skips up to us with his mask up, grinning ear to ear.
“Okay, turns out I probably need to practice throwing at moving targets before trying to use these things,” he admits, not seemingly put out by the idea. “Now, who won?”
