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Leatherface Vs Undead

It wasn’t cold. The blanket of snow kept him warm.

That was a funny thought.

It was quiet. The snow cut the howling wind down to a whisper that lulled him to sleep when the sun went down.

It had been a long time. How long? How many days had passed since he’d opened his eyes? Sunlight leaked through Brady’s eye holes to tell him when it was day. Or was it Sebastian? Names, like grandpa’s truss, useless tools.

Stay still. Let the snow flow over you, cover you completely. Wait. He did what he was told.

Memories kept him company, his own or from this mask, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. The mask was close, intimate. The flesh was one with his face, glued in place by sweat turned ice, like a brother. Or sister.

Grandpa was gone. So was Grandma. Well, not really gone, but they were very quiet now.

The faint crunch of ice under booted feet pushed all other thoughts to the back of his head. His grip on Betsy grew tight. She was covered with a thick layer of grease to keep her warm. They’d rigged her with an electric start to help him with this task. Grandpa told him not to trust electricity. But this wasn’t really electricity, it was batteries, which was different. Like a flashlight, they told him.

An icy tear crept from the corner of his eye, crept under the mask and froze.

The synchronized crunch-wunch of snow grew louder and louder, like a multitude of migrating animals. But it was no animal, and it was going to die. Maybe it would kill him – more a hope than a worry. Then he could sit by grandpa and grandma forever.

Crunch-wunch, crunch-wunch, crunch-wunch.

Louder. Louder. Louder. He waited for the sign.

They’d killed his brother, his grandpa. They had burned his home. They had chased him through the field and the forest, into the marsh, calling him names, firing guns. When he dared to return they fired bigger guns and loud fireworks that stung. But those wounds could not end his life. Many had tried in the past. He just kept going. Mamma said he was blessed

Crunch-wunch, crunch-wunch, crunch-wunch.

The ground trembled ever so slightly. Snow shifted. His grip on Betsy grew tight.

Crunch-wunch, crunch-wunch.

The shadows moved.

Snow cascaded in shower of white as he burst from his hiding place. Betsy snarled to life, spitting shards of grease-black ice. Plugs of snow fell from his mask as he shook his head. He swung the Poulan in an arc and blurry targets fell, tugging his tool and spraying cold pudding.

Stiff grey forms loomed in the glare. They came to Betsy, folded, dropped. More replaced them. From all sides they came, thrusting knives, firing pistols or rifles, biting and clubbing. Squeezing the Poulan’s well oiled trigger, he bored through the lurching things.

Then they were gone – at least nothing stood. He turned his attention to the battle splattered ground. It moved, squirming, writhing. If the part had eyes and the ability to move it did so, with a single minded goal. They came toward him, grasping, clawing, teeth gnashing. He kicked the helmets off as he had been instructed and let Betsy do her job. An arm with a portion of a torso was the last piece she kissed, and as she did so a chunk of metal sparked in her teeth. He picked it up. That strange bent cross symbol, black in a metal starburst.

He sat in the gore and caught his breath, surrounded by rent clothing and rotten flesh. With a ripped grey sleeve he wiped his face. A dangling medal caught his attention, a metal skull and the letters SS. Grandpa had stuff like this in a drawer at home, from the enemies he killed. Grandpa had a name for them.

“Fassists,” the big man gurgled, rising to his feet.

He turned Betsy off and tramped away, back to the marsh and the only friend he had.

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