The farmhouse exploded, spraying debris through night skies. And, from the wreckage, he came.
Machete hanging from one hand, mask unsinged, he shambled toward the two of us.
The bomb was my last idea. If that hadn’t killed him, what would?
So we bolted. We’d never outrun him, but when he stopped to kill one of us, the other might escape. Our only hope.
You were a young woman, blonde and topless, who hadn’t had a single line of dialogue in the first two thirds of the film.
I ran, keeping two steps ahead of you. I liked my odds.