The unearthly sound is abruptly cut off by a CRUNCH that doesn't seem as wet as it should for the way the thing's head comes away more or less caved in by the tire iron Peter swings at it with both hands. He stands over it, panting and shaking, then abruptly steps forward and hits it again even harder at some half-imagined twitch of its limbs. "Goddamn," he says, one hand coming up to shield his mouth. He's seen worse, he's trying to remind himself and he's seen worse recently, but the thickness of the blood, the vacant eyes --

"Come on," he says, tearing his eyes away. He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to look at this.