Oh, God. He almost forgot. The metal saw . . . Andy!
“DON’T!” Zig yelled, spinning toward his friend.
Too late.
With a ruthless tug, Reagan yanked the thin metal camping saw at Andy’s neck. Andy tried to grab it. He didn’t have a chance.
“ANDY!” Zig screamed.
A thin red line appeared across Andy’s throat, like a crimson smile. His hands bled, too, his palms facing out, the saw digging into them.
Zig was already running down the center aisle of the sanctuary, plowing straight at them, straight at her. He didn’t have a plan. Just get there, get to him—
“Let him go!” Zig yelled.
To his surprise, Reagan did exactly that. She wasn’t letting Zig tackle them. Like any pro, her first priority was self-preservation.
Lifting her foot to Andy’s back, Reagan kicked him straight at Zig. Her left hand let go of the saw, but her right one held tight to it—so as Andy flew forward, momentum took care of the rest, spinning him like a top. The saw bit into his throat, slicing even deeper.
“Hkkkkk!” Andy gasped, stumbling, his legs buckling.
“I got you! I’m here!” Zig insisted, catching him midfall.
Andy was dead weight. He hit like a boulder, blood waterfalling down his neck, down his shirt . . . it was everywhere.
No. Nonono.
Zig dropped to his knees, lowering Andy to the floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zig spotted Reagan running up the far-right aisle, toward the back of the sanctuary. Zig could catch her or save Andy.
It wasn’t a choice.
“Hkkkkkkkk!” Andy wheezed, gasping for air. Nothing came out. His eyes were wide, dancing back and forth, pleading for help. Already in shock.
“The good news is, she missed Fawkes,” Zig said, staring down at the phoenix tattoo on Andy’s neck. “You’re gonna be okay,” he added, though he knew it was a lie.
Tiny air bubbles gurgled from Andy’s throat. Bad sign. She’d sliced his trachea.
“Roddy, I need you!” Zig shouted, clamping his hands on Andy’s throat to stop the bleeding.
Past the last pew, Roddy sat on Seabass’s chest, burying a punch into the big redhead’s face. Seabass tried fighting back, raising his arm. Roddy hit him again, then again, Seabass finally going limp, unconscious.
It didn’t slow Roddy down. He unloaded with another punch, then another, the ferocity catching Zig off guard. Spit flew from Roddy’s lips, then a strand of drool dangled down. A plump vein swelled at his temple, his punches getting faster.
“Roddy, get over here! He’s gonna bleed out!”
Roddy was just a blur now, slamming his fist into Seabass’s face, then winding up and doing it over and over, pile driver after pile driver, each impact a sickening wet crunch of meat and bone. With each hit, Roddy let out the kind of grunt you’d hear during sex.
Hff. Hff. Hff.
Zig called his name again, begging for help. Still no response.
As Roddy cocked his fist back for another hit, there was blood on his knuckles—Zig now realizing that with each punch, Roddy had been targeting the bullet wound in Seabass’s cheek. Just like Nola, feasting on the weak spots.
As Roddy unleashed another vicious punch, a stray spatter of blood bit his cheek. If Roddy felt it, he didn’t care, his plump vein swelling thicker than ever.
“RODDY, GET OFF HIM! MY FRIEND’S GONNA FUCKING DIE!”
Roddy turned at the outburst.