Unfed — Kirsty McKay

POP GOES THE GIRL

But Red's not dead. She grabs my boot, and before I know it she's on top of me, a writhing, skinny thing, a bag of bones held together by sinew and fury, gnashing teeth mere inches away from my exposed flesh. Her breath is rank and fishy. I want to scream but don't dare open my mouth for fear the rancid stuff spilling out of hers will drip into mine.

With one almighty heave I push her off, then seize the pole like a crusader. And just as she falls on top of me again, I thrust it up through the soft skin under her chin. The metal pierces flesh easily, moves up through her face, and with another thrust pops out of her eyehole, pushing the cloudy eyeball out onto her cheek.

It is, without doubt, the bang-up, Al, tip-toppity grossest thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life.