The Texas Chainsaw Massacre by Stephen Hand

Author:Stephen Hand [Hand, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 1844160602
Publisher: Black Flame
Published: 2004-03-12T08:00:00+00:00

The metal door was thrown open behind them, hitting the wall with a resounding clang, and suddenly their ears were bleeding from the screaming five horsepower mayhem of a gasoline fuelled engine.

Erin and Andy both jumped on the spot, leaping with fear and turned round to see—

Some kind of ungodly death-freak standing in the open doorway. He was huge—his great bulk almost filling the metal frame. He was ugly, like shit straight from the Devil’s ass. He was wearing a decaying mask sewn-up from some poor bastard’s face. And he was gripping a fucking chainsaw.

Erin screamed out, “Oh my God!” her voice overlapping with Andy’s cry of “Holy shit!”

They couldn’t believe what they were seeing, but Erin immediately knew that this was the answer to all their confusion. Just one second of seeing this skin-wearing psychopath and almost everything suddenly made bitter, terrifying sense.

Andy lifted the tire-iron, ready to hit the motherfucker. Then he backed up with Erin right beside him.

The sharp metal teeth went round and round the cutting bar, churning up the air in front of them, roaring, the air thick with the smell of exhaust fumes.

The sheer sight of Leatherface almost paralyzed Erin with fear. Her instinct was to freeze, to put her back to the wall and do nothing. It was only Andy who kept her going.

Andy got ready to run. Maybe that sick bastard was too fat to go after them. One thing was for sure: Andy would never beat him in a fight.

They needed help.

Quickly, the boy turned to see Old Monty laughing his fucking head off behind them. Just ten paces beyond the old bastard was the door. Freedom.

Andy grabbed hold of Erin’s hand and ran.

At first, the double amputee seemed to be moving out of their way. He pulled his wheelchair back and to the side as if to leave the path clear. But he was just getting into position.

Andy started to move. One pace, two and he hit the deck!

The boy went crashing down onto the slippery floor of the hallway, the tire-iron spinning out of his hands along the polished boards.

Andy looked back—the cane . . .

The old bastard had tripped him!

Erin!

Closer, closer, closer, the engine never let up, grinding, whining, merciless.

When Andy fell, he’d had to let go of Erin’s hand, leaving her to look on in horror as Old Monty rolled over and put one of the wheels of his chair directly onto the tire-iron. And now the old man was square in her way.

She didn’t want to look back but she could hear the chainsaw right behind her.

She screamed.

Andy tried to get up. He reached for the tire-iron but it was firmly trapped under the wheelchair.

Old Monty took a swipe at the boy’s head with his cane, but the stick went wide.

Erin could see him but couldn’t believe it: the shambling heap of flesh with a chainsaw, squealing in its knotted, stitched apron made from the skin of his victims. The saw buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

She ran forward. Any second now and they’d both be dead.

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