She stepped into the house, closed the door, slipped off her shoes, walked straight to her room and flopped down onto the bed, immediately being blown upward in pieces to splatter all over the ceiling and rain down again, her gore, bones and shreds of flesh mingling hopelessly with the fragments of landmine and the smell of cordite.
He loved her norks. He hated her face. Good thing she no longer had one, largely because all her flesh had rotted off other than the carefully-preserved chest area. He still struggled to land his load there, though, and after so many failed attempts, her bones looked like some kind of abandoned snail farm, at least until his dog got in on the action.