The supercharged beam cuts into the Fury’s writhing torso, the upswing almost severing its tiny head from its neck. The child’s face hangs drunkenly askew, dark eyes horribly serene, mouth screaming hate.
“You've got your hole, Lizard.”
Maybe if she keeps shooting, the whole ghastly mass will just burn away, a gigantic moth caught in a candle flame. But the rifle’s power cell is nearly dead.
Even as she disappears, Witch sees the tendrils reach for another wreck. The screaming mouth stretches impossibly, and the car falls into black, abyssal nothing.
But this time, someone's behind the wheel.