Zane gritted his teeth, raised the sucker, and let fly. Missed the ribcage. Caught a paw instead. Blood bloomed where toes had been. The dog's whine rose to a freakish yelp.
Focus. Focus.
He inhaled on the upswing, then brought it down with a huff, slamming the dog back into the trough, gashing its belly. Out gushed a geyser of crimson, spilling across the concrete.
As the fur blackened around the blow, Zane lifted the axe once more, fine droplets in the air, that same stench that bullied its way down the school hallways when butchery class let out.
Again!
A hind leg, sliced, dangled awry. Those eyes, the panicked yelps; he should have chloroformed the damned dog.
Finish him, why don't you?
The next blow struck an artery. Blood fountained up and out, drenching Zane's pantleg. It splashed hot, then went cold and clingy. Such life there was in the mutt, struggling out of the carnage as if to undo it.
Zane caught its eyes, held them as he brought the blade straight down between them, burying it so that the skull collapsed and fell-a bleached steerhead in the desert-to the cement floor.
Zane's heart was pounding.
He laughed and cried with joy.
Through the cellar door, he heard a doorbell chime.
Let the bitches get it.
Despite an overpowering need to be chosen as the school's designated slasher, Zane had always preferred violence at one remove.
The televised electrocutions on Notorious were just his speed. Indeed, he often used the show's soundtrack, its screams tracking the rise and fall of electricity through the victims, to draw the most amazing artwork from his students.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
This dog weren't no cord of wood. This had been life itself, and no more direct contact with life had Zane Fronemeyer had than in ending it.
First step, doggiedom.
Next, the homeless.
But could he endure their eyes? Damned straight he could!
Zane planted himself on the couch and sat forward, the axe angled like a leaf rake between his jittery knees.
Come on, come on, he thought, I didn't give you that much chloroform. Open your frigging eyes so I can finish you off and be on my way.
The cellar door unlatched.
Zane looked up in annoyance.
Dexter Poindexter averted his gaze from the mirror. He was a shy guy. Too shy for his own good, some people said.
That's what Mommy and Daddy told him, though Daddy Owen, the spouse they had divorced the year before, disagreed.
Dex fluffed the wide ends of his bone-white bowtie, nice smooth ripples. Its color and satin sheen matched his lobebag, a tight garter band right around the base of the ear and a generous splay below.
He sincerely hoped these things were dry-cleaned between rentals. It grossed Dex out to think of some other guy's lovelobe in this same bag. Maybe many guys, though styles changed often enough that it wasn't likely.
Dex shrugged into the coat, buttoned a button at his waist, and shot the sleeves.
His tux looked sharp.
Tweed would whistle at it. Her eyes would go wide. Of course, Dex would be busy admiring what a knockout she was in her gown, which she had described again and again these past few weeks in great detail.
It was fortunate they were in the dance band. Running through one chart after another would take their minds off the general terror.
As sophomores and juniors, he and Tweed had played senior proms, learning first hand what it was like to see the murdered couple carried into the gym, laid out beside the centerpiece, danced around, and at midnight torn apart.
That reminded him.
He went to the dresser and lifted the cleaver, its blade no longer than his index finger and not much wider. His church group-all church groups across the nation did this-had given him and Tweed practice. An expendable sheepdog. Dex had gotten a cross-section of tufted ear and only been nicked once.
Of course, tonight there would be more kids diving in to futter the couple. And their state of mind would be way more agitated.
That was for sure.
Dex's right leg twitched.
You had to be brave, cram in there, push and shove and lunge, praying that some doofus did not, by design or accident, clip your lobes, or slice off your fingers, or slash your face.
Dex raised his suitcoat's right flap.
These tuxes, the more expensive ones anyway, had a special pair of loops. On the right loop, he secured the handle of his cleaver. On the left, his Futterware container.
The cuffs caught his attention, as wide as high collars, and as flappy.
Cufflinks.
As stern as Dex's father was, he always had his son's welfare at heart. Dex removed the lid from the white box on his bureau. On top of a layer of cotton waited the gold-skull cufflinks his father had worn, and Dex's grampa before him.
Signs of love.
Mommy and Daddy had that ferocious look stitched to their faces. Harsh words spilled in profusion from their mouths. They were quick with the whip and Christlike in their savagery.
But they were proud of him, pleased in his choice of Tweed as a girlfriend, and bursting with joy that tonight was Dex's prom night.
