“Please,” Amy said. “Don’t.”
Bonesaw reached into her apron and retrieved a remote control. She pointed it at Mark, where he sat on the couch. A red dot appeared on his forehead.
Welp. Here we go.
“No!”
One of Bonesaw’s mechanical contraptions leaped across the room, its scalpel legs impaling the suede cushions on either side of Mark.
Time to cut him open?
One leg, tipped with a syringe, thrust into Mark’s right nostril.
Ahh. Let me guess, this is going to be deadly or at least highly detrimental to the brain if Amy doesn’t fix it?
He hollered incoherently, tried to pull away, only for two mechanical legs to clutch his head and hold him firm.
Yeah, this ain’t pleasant.
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