He was dead, I was sure of it. There’s no human being on the planet capable of surviving every shot in a full revolver. I knew I got him at least twice in the chest- I’d seen him jolt when they hit. And one of them must have gotten him in the leg because a dark, thick liquid was steadily making its way down his shin before he’d crumpled to the ground. Carefully I tiptoed closer and found the guarantee I was looking for: a large dark puddle forming around his head and thicker chunks of what must have been brain goo.
I forced myself to release the breath I was holding, but I still felt unsettled. I stood there in the dark, looking down at the form, wondering what was underneath that damned mask and reassuring myself that I’d chucked the machete far enough that he couldn’t suddenly jump up and grab it.
What was I thinking? Jump up? There’s freakin’ brain bits seeping out of his skull! He’s dead! It’s over!
But there was this choking sensation in my throat or chest or wherever that I couldn’t breathe past. This trepidation that I couldn’t shake. Every fiber of my intelligent mind where logical and rational thought ruled was telling me to calm down, to slow down my pulse before I had a heart attack. But the insistent pounding of my heart against my rib cage told me that my logical brain did not know the full story, that there was still cause for fear.
I took a step back, suddenly feeling faint from the massive blood pressure. Just then his hand shot up, grabbed me by the neck, and started to lift me off the ground. I hadn’t seen him stand up, hadn’t seen him move! I pulled the trigger of my gun and it clicked empty. I kept clicking at his chest futilely and screaming at myself in my head. What the hell! He’s dead! He’s dead!
The last thing I heard before the darkness blacked out my vision was an inhumanely deep voice coming out of a throat that sounded like it had been torn open:
“What? You never watch a horror movie?”