“What-w-what?” he sobbed. Fabian’s arm reached down from atop the roof to stab a tee into the Real One’s windpipe. He gurgled a scream.
“Fabian’s on the roof!” said Dillweed, ducking down. Fabian popped another tee into the knot of nerves below the Real One’s ear. The Real One screeched, and with his equilibrium shot to shit, he fell backwards out of the cart. Fabian jumped on him, biting full-force onto the kid’s chin, scraping the flesh from his face bones with his teeth.
Shane slammed on the brake and cranked the wheel. The cart coasted to a sideways stop. “Fuck this,” he said unsheathing a five iron. He handed the club to Dillweed.
“No,” said Dillweed. “Gimme that wedge.”
Shane and Dillweed cruised back toward the tee-off point, Dillweed with the wedge, Shane with a wood driver. Shane clobbered off the top quarter of Fabian’s skull polo-style as they rode by. A vomit-hued smattering of brains spilled onto the faceless skull of the quivering Real One beneath him. Mustache was the first one to notice their approach. He had his fist lodged in the lifeless mouth of a Real One. He wore the caddy’s disembodied head like a tight glove, the spine curving lazily from its base like a whip. The turf was muddied with blood causing the cart’s tires to lose traction. Shane jumped from the cart and swung his club through the head of a crouching golfer, who was too busy slurping up caddy entrails to hear him coming.
Baldy grabbed Dillweed by his dirty shirt and pulled him from the golf cart. His jaws were unhinged, his teeth, pink with blood. Dillweed thrust the shaft of the club into the gaping mouth, pushing down on Baldy’s cheeks. Baldy’s grip tightened as a demonic scree erupted from his throat and the orange in his eyes ignited brightly. Dillweed turned the club like a wheel, ripping Baldy’s lower jaw from his head. It hung to the side, still attached by the stretched skin. Baldy dropped Dillweed. Dillweed brought the wedge down on Baldy’s ankle, crushing it to jagged shards. Baldy dropped to his hands and knees. Before he could finish Baldy off, Dillweed’s attention turned to Shane as he emitted a visceral battle cry.
The head of Shane’s club was sinking into the blood mud on the turf. Shane thrust the pointed shaft through the neck of an older golfer and jerked the handle sideways, ripping through most of the muscle. The golfer stumbled back, his head drooping away from his neck. Shane drove the shaft down through the back and chest of another golfer, but lost his grasp as the orange ooze splattered from the entry point onto the grips. A spine whipped across Shane’s face, nearly removing an eye. Shane threw a wild haymaker in the direction of the attack, connecting with Mustache’s face, smashing his hairy philtrum against his two front teeth, dislodging them from their sockets. Mustache countered by swinging the skull on his hand down like a hammer onto Shane’s shoulder. Shane cried out as he felt his rotator cuff crumble.
Dillweed sliced his club through Mustache’s knee, hearing it buckle through his blood-soaked khakis. Mustached dropped to the opposite knee as his debilitated leg bent at an unsettling angle under his weight. Shane returned with a flying left hook, splitting Mustache’s cheekbone up through the eye socket. Shane lifted his knee up into the damaged cheek and eye, holding Mustache’s head in place with his functional arm. The knee shot up again and again until Mustache’s head was mostly eye socket, the eye itself jellied onto the pointed fragments of skull.
“Is there anyone left?” Shane asked surveying the turf for survivors. The remaining Real Ones were strewn in Spirograph patterns across the ground. “Get your six!” Shane yelled pointing behind Dillweed. Dillweed swung the wedge blindly behind him. Baldy caught the club by the shaft and tore it from
Dickmeyer emerged from a sand trap and attacked Shane from behind, clutching and twisting Shane’s shattered shoulder. Shane leapt up and head-butted Dickmeyer desperately, catching his eyebrow ring on one of Dickmeyer’s lower incisors. Baldy dropped the club and dove at Dillweed from his one un-shattered ankle. He wrapped both sweating hands around Dillweed’s neck, bringing them both to the ground. Dickmeyer wiggled his loosened tooth, smiling. Shane attempted to regain his balance, dazed from the head-butt and adrenalin and pain. Dickmeyer removed his golf cleat.
“Dave!” Dickmeyer growled at Baldy. Baldy looked at Dickmeyer with his sideways cheese-drooling jaw and flaming, orange eyes. “Turn him this way! I want him to watch.” Baldy released Dillweed’s neck and pulled him to a sitting position. Dillweed sat gasping against Baldy’s torso as Baldy held the wedge tight across his chest and shoulders. Dickmeyer slapped the spiked, metal cleat across Shane’s face, dropping him. Shane clutched his face and curled into a fetal ball. Dickmeyer and Baldy screamed laughing. Dickmeyer boarded the golf cart and drove it onto Shane’s shins. Shane’s deep, unhuman screaming shook Dillweed’s core. Dickmeyer put his cleat back on and stomped on Shane’s broken shoulder. No matter how big of a breath Dillweed tried to swallow, he could not get enough breath back into his body to move or even yell. Dickmeyer stomped his cleats down onto Shane’s hands. He hammered a driver down onto his elbows and wrists. Bones spiked through Shane’s joints.
When Shane’s voice gave out completely from screaming, Dickmeyer straddled his chest and said, “You know what I’ve never understood about you young people? These.” Dickmeyer hooked his fingers through Shane’s gaged earlobes. “You know these are going to dangle down to your nuts when you get older right?” Baldy roared in laughter.
Shane swallowed and mustered what he had left of his consciousness to say, “Then you can rest your head in them when you’re sucking my dick.” Shane spit a gob of blood up at Dickmeyer and laughed. Dickmeyer stood, shaking with rage. Shane looked up at Dillweed and winked. “It’s been a rad fucking ride, mate.” Dickmeyer returned with a tee and a golf ball. He pushed the tee through Shane’s eye. Shane gasped and bucked his head, fighting the bewildering pain. Dickmeyer put one foot on either side of Shane’s head to hold it still and put the golf ball on top.
“Wedge!” Dickmeyer barked at Baldy. Baldy tossed Dickmeyer the wedge, replacing Dillweed’s restraint with a chokehold. Dickmeyer caught the wedge and swung. The ball arched gracefully over the turf. Shane’s eye dislodged with the tee and landed by Baldy. “Aw, would you look at that?” said Dickmeyer. “Sliced it.”
Dickmeyer brought the wedge down on Shane’s face, hacking and hammering and pounding until Shane’s brain matter was sludge in the dirt.