I swung my legs over the side of the hammock and stretched, letting my muscles become acquainted again with moving around. After all, I had been lying there for most of the day, prepping for my nightly hunt.

Once I felt awakened enough, I jumped down and went over to the wall where I had hung my clothing. There was a thick, black jacket with a high collar, which I threw on over my own olive-green shirt, and gloves that covered most, but not all of my hands. Just the very tips of my fingers were left sticking out so that I could have better grip, of course. I then pulled on a pair of dark pants with heavily insulated legs. Finishing up, I laced my black boots tightly and double-knotted them so I could make sure that they wouldn't come undone.

It was time.

In truth, it had been a very long period since I had killed. Since Miami, in fact, and that was over a month ago. Miami was a blast-everyone was gullible enough and most were immigrants that had come to the land looking for an opportunity to start a new life. Fine, I had told them, I can give you a new life. They agreed to serve the Blue Lady-even until death. Stupid fools.

Now I realized how Zack had tracked me down, as I had been overly carefree in my killings; I hadn't even bothered to cover my trail half the time. Guess that's how Zack found me.

Anyhow, Miami lasted longer than intended, so I went around until I came to Chicago on a free ticket from the last guy I had murdered. And so far, Chicago was proving to be plentiful.

I picked up one of the .32 pistols, slid a new clip inside and turned the safety off. Damned safety buttons were such a pain in the ass. I wasn't even sure why the government produced them anymore; the world was falling apart as it was, so another dead person would just be another number on a piece of paper that no longer existed.

I then picked up the large hunting knife and tested the very tip of the blade on my finger. Applying just the slightest bit of pressure, I managed to make a red line that appeared out of blank nothingless. Sucking at the wound to remove the blood, I smiled almost wickedly to myself. It was definitely sharp enough. I wouldn't dare give my soldiers a dull weapon. Therefore, the thrill of the hunt would be dead.

Finally, I grabbed the crossbow and held that in my right hand along with the two other weapons. It was a lethal stock of weapons, but I had yet to have somebody even scratch me.

Loaded down with my weaponry, I walked around to the back of the house, where my man waited, in a tiny room, for me. The dying sunlight stung his darkness-accustomed eyes, and he raised his hand to cover them.

Then, he saw me standing there, decked out like a serial killer would be, and let his hand fall back down. He took a deep breath, raising his head higher. I smiled to myself; this one would be fun.

His name was Carlos Sandrez and spoke little English. I had stopped by the prison about a week earlier to talk specifically to him. The guards didn't hear me as I sneaked in through an airshaft and made my way down into the holding cell area where they kept their most lethal prisoners.

Carlos was there on death row for killing not only his wife and children, but his mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and several other miscellenous children. The odd children that had no relation to him were discovered-mostly in the refrigerator and in miscellaneous places around the house-having been murdered in a Jeffery Dahmer style. I'd read somewhere that two of the ten police fainted, while three more blew chunks behind the building.

He had been an elusive criminal, one that the government couldn't catch for months. When they finally had caught him, there wasn't even a trial to determine his sentence; death row was a fact.

I had read about him in the papers around the city and purposefully visited the prison to check him out. He intrigued me. Anybody that could kill off most of their family without regrets reminded me of Manticore.

Stepping in front of his cell that night, he saw me through his almond eyes and whispered to himself, "El diablo."

I laughed, understanding that he thought I was the devil in my black uniform. "No," I whispered back, "Es un amigo."

He studied me for a moment, trying to understand why a man in black would be claiming to be his friend. My Spanish was broken and hesitant, but I knew enough of it to get my point across. Between his limited English and my meager Spanish, while the other prisoners slept to the music of clinking handcuffs and low grumbles, we were able to come to a deal. I'd set him free under the condition that he'd serve the Blue Lady.

"La dama azul?" he echoed, not understanding who the Blue Lady was.

"Maria," I replied, telling him that the Blue Lady really was Mary.

He smiled through his glittering teeth, some of which were golden due to fillings. His long black, greasy ponytail swayed as he bobbed his head. He was taller than me by at least six inches and nearly tripled my body mass. Compared to him, I was an fly at that time.

Now, as I stood outside the place he had called home for the past week and a half, I smiled to myself, remembering a rhyme that I had learned on the streets, "'Welcome to my home', said the spider to the fly…" And this time, I was that spider.