She swung the hatchet like it was an extension of her arm, and the machete in her left hand arced in elegant tandem, counterbalancing the weight of metal meeting flesh.
Teeth sank into the thick leather on her shoulder, and she swung around, decapitating the thing before it could do any real damage. She kept moving, pivoting and ducking. Despite their speed, their reaction time was slow, and their attacks were nothing if not predictable.
She stepped back from the increasing pile of bodies as the final set outstretched arms grabbed for her. She sliced them off before going for the head shot, the essential killing blow. The rotting bodies slumped to the asphalt, fetid blood oozing all over the road as she surveyed her handiwork.
Twelve.
The largest group she’d ever conquered. She would have preferred to sneak past them but the highway was clogged, and by the time she’d realized they were already behind her, blocking her retreat. Still, she’d kept her cool, evading them long enough to unsheathe her weapons. Then she simply went about eliminating them in an orderly fashion. There was no panic. No erratic movements. Everything precise and calculated. Unhurried.
She had enough experience by now to know that panicking helped nothing. It made you sloppy and vulnerable. Weak.
Weakness was for the dead and dying. She was alive.
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