On the count of three, you tell her, we’ll bumrush it. She looks at you, apprehensive, but she nods anyway. The Butcher creeps around the fire, body lower and lower to the ground. Waiting for its moment.
You, too, begin to lower.
You can hear it’s breathing, low and labored. Teeth gnashing with anticipation. It’s around the fire now. The only way out is behind it.
You fake a step forward as Meredith throws herself at The Butcher. As it grabs her, you take off, in no hurry to see what happened to her. You can hear what’s happening well enough. You’re tearing throw the woods, running in whatever direction you can. But it’s not long until the humming returns — louder, needier, the breath on the back of your neck.
Until suddenly there are no woods anymore. You trip in a ditch and sprawl onto an old country road, tumbling into the rough gravel street. You slowly rise to your feet, blood coming from your head. Stars and lights flash through your vision, but even then, you can see the teeth. The shining, shimmering teeth, smiling wickedly from the safety of the trees.
They are the last thing you see as the very real set of headlights swerves in the snow, the oncoming snow truck losing control as it plows through you, trapping you underneath it as it rips you to shreds over the stones. The plowman, distraught, calls the police to come, quickly, but it’s already too late. Your pieces have already been collected.