Nettie ran at her, lifting the cleaver as she came. Her lips peeled back from her teeth and a long howl tore out of her throat. Wilma crouched, holding her knife out like a giant switchblade. As Nettie closed with her, Wilma drove it forward. It thrust deep into Nettie’s bowels and then rose, slitting her stomach open and letting out a spurt of stinking gruel. Wilma felt a moment’s horror at what she had done—could it really be Wilma Jerzyck on the other end of the steel buried in Nettie?—and her arm muscles relaxed. The knife’s upward momentum died before the blade could reach Nettie’s
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Oh my goodness
