Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre by Rod Glenn Page A

and emotions, momentarily stalling the one most important one; self preservation. It all seemed so surreal; like a scene from some tacky teen slasher film, not real life. Certainly not her life!
    Matching her slow pace, Whitman offered her a gentle smile, one that could’ve been mistaken as that of a proud and loving father. His tone was soothing as he said, “I think now’s your cue to run. Screaming.” The sneer that followed his last word was far from gentle; it was predatory and laced with inhuman malice.
    Without needing prompting a second time, Mandy thrust her bag in Whitman’s face with all her mustered strength and dashed for the tree line on the opposite side of the road. Her heart-stopping scream would have put Jamie Lee Curtis to shame.
    Whitman caught the heavy bag an inch from his face and smiled at the unexpected flash of tenacity. Casting it onto his back with his own pack, he started to jog after her at a more sedate pace. He wiped droplets of rainwater from his face and chuckled quietly to himself. He hadn’t quite known how he would feel at this stage, but so far it was quite enjoyable. Like catchy-kissy in the playground …
    Mandy tore headlong into the forest, her arms flailing to cast obstructions aside. Branches and low shrubs scratched and clawed at her extremities as she threw herself unbound into the forest. Her throat quickly grew hoarse and her lungs ached from both screaming and flat out sprinting over uneven ground. The beating of her feet on the spongy ground and the lashing of branches against her face and arms seemed to conjure a cold clarity of mind that seemed almost unbelievable. The screaming was prematurely tiring her and the only person in range to hear it was the madman behind her.
    She rushed on with only her panting breaths mingling with the snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves and foliage. The pungent smells of moss and damp earth tingled in her nostrils as she struggled to regulate her breathing.
    Droplets of rain broke through the canopy here and there, one hitting her cheek as she glanced upwards to the pinprick views of the dark sky. The already damp ground was turning to gluey mud with the worsening rain, sticking to the soles of her boots and making every step ever more laborious.
    Daring to peek over her bobbing shoulder, she could not see the man chasing her, but her instincts told her that he was out there somewhere. Questions cart-wheeled through her mind as she forced herself onwards. Was this all really happening? Was the new guy in town really going to kill her and chop her up? It sounded absurd – like some sort of sick practical joke – and yet she knew it to be true. He was going to kill her. But why?
    The last question stopped her abruptly in her tracks. Gasping for air and clutching her throbbing chest, she spun around to face the way she had just come. There were a couple of angry scratches on her forehead and left cheek and her hair was hanging limp and dripping from the continuing fine rain. She drew in a gulping breath then screamed at the top of her lungs, “WHY?” After another gulping breath: “Why me, you fucking nutcase?” The first question had been laced with anger, the second with desperation.
    Whitman stepped out from behind a tree several yards away to her side. He was breathing hard and red-faced, but was utterly composed. “Why not you?” The question was put simply and with an almost resigned tone.
    She shrieked and threw herself away from him, stumbling immediately over several roots that had broken the surface of the wet forest floor. Shaking his head in mild amusement, Whitman walked casually towards her, his own face reddened across one cheek by an unseen branch.
    The hard fall scraped both her hands on rough bark and twigs and jarred a knee against a stump, but she was moving again as soon as she struck the ground. Crawling on her hands and knees, Mandy frantically scrambled away from him, crying out in pain and