The raider pressed the axe blade tighter against the zombie-pony’s throat, enough to cut flesh, which split and pulled back as if it had been strained taut.  Ichor that might have once been blood oozed from the wound.  The zombie-pony didn’t flinch or whimper, but the filly did both.

“Right.  Kill her.”  The revolver floated forward next to the grenades.  “That way, there won’t be anything to block my shot.”

I could see the raider considering his options and not liking what he was finding.  Dropping the axe from his mouth, he whinnied pathetically “I don’t wanna die!” and dashed for the open balcony, leaping over the cringing filly.

S.A.T.S. send four shots right into his ass.  It was a pathetic way to die.