Plumes of black smoke spiraled endlessly upward to choke out the pale, cloudless blue sky. Though visible only for brief flickering moments, the blinding sun cast down its heat upon the burning sands below. Gusts of wind carried the smoke and dust to a distant sand dune, where there stood four black figures overlooking the hellish landscape before them. There they saw their prize, the smoldering wreckage of an F-16. Exchanging curt nods, they crept swiftly over the edge and sprinted like wild dogs to a carcass.

The wooden stock of a Kalashnikov made quick work of the cracked windshield, and long knives cut away the bindings which held the pilot's limp body rigid and upright in the seat. The body was lifted out and carried away over the desert. The pale blue sky and its flickering sun reflected in the visor of the pilot's helmet until the winds ceased, and the unhindered smoke rose up to snuff out the light.

Some hours later the light returned in the form of a single dim incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. The pilot sat unmoving on the dusty floor of a cell, back against the wall.

The pilot's body began to shudder with coughs and wheezes. Behind the dark visor, reddened eyes cracked open to find two blurry figures sitting on the floor on the other side of the bars watching with morbid fascination. They passed a pipe between each other, taking turns blowing the second-hand opium smoke into the tube of the pilot's disconnected oxygen mask.

"What… do you little punks… think yer doin…" she slurred.

The guardsmen dropped the pipe and rose to their feet, stumbling backwards and shouting things in a language she couldn't understand.

The pilot stood up, bracing herself against the wall. She towered above them. One of the guards pointed wildly at their prisoner while shaking his comrade's shoulder. "Al-Uzza! Al-Uzza! Alshaytan al'amrikiu!" he shouted over and over again.

The other guard nodded. "Almawt lilkifaar!" he barked, unsheathing the machete from his belt.

"Almawt lilkifaar!" returned the other, storming forward to unlock the cell. Flinging open the door, he tugged the pilot by the arm. With some resistance, she stumbled out, head spinning. Through the slurred Arabic shrieking and the smoke filling the room, her eyes caught the flash of the guardsman's blade raised in the air. Sobered by instinct, the pilot swung with her right fist and clocked him in the side of his head. She received a swift kick to the back of her knee and dropped to the floor, kneeling before the executioner holding his face. He stepped forward and yanked off the pilot's helmet. Her bun came loose, sending cascades of red hair spilling down around her head.

The man with the knife grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged her head down towards the floor, exposing her neck. The pilot gripped his wrist. He laughed at the futile effort as he raised his blade.

His laughter turned to a scream as she rammed the palm of her free hand into his elbow, snapping the bones and ripping the tendons. The machete clattered to the ground and she snatched it up, swinging at his legs and cleaving one of his shins in two. Blood sprayed in her face and he fell backward.

The pilot scrambled to her feet, grimacing at the weight put on her bad knee. She turned her head to see the other guardsman fumbling with the AK-47 strapped to his back.

She hobbled towards him, hate burning through the blood on her face.

"Allah yukhlusuni" were his last words before the blade slashed through his neck.

Standing there in the middle of the dimly lit room was the victor, soaked in carnage, only barely knowing where she was or what had just happened. She wiped the blood off of her face with the sleeve of her flight suit, and when she opened her eyes again she saw her helmet on the floor. As she placed it on her head, she glanced downward and noticed the opium paraphernalia.

She kicked open the door to the next room, thoroughly stoned and brandishing the AK-47 she looted from the beheaded guard's body. Half a dozen soldiers all looked up at once from where they were seated atop their cots in the cramped barracks. They stood, yelling and storming towards the intruder and pulling their guns and knives. The pilot pulled the trigger and let forth a spray of bullets, and her foes dropped to the dusty floor.

Gunsmoke drifted around the pilot's helmeted head, and a pool of blood creeped forward to lap at her combat boots. She tossed aside her weapon's spent magazine, stepping through the gore and kneeling to take a full one from a fallen enemy's gun, still clenched in a twitching hand. She loaded the magazine and pulled back the bolt.

Just then, a bullet whizzed past her head. She dropped to the bloodied floor. The door to the barracks exploded in a spray of splinters as more bullets came, punching through the wood and ricocheting off the brick walls. Just next to her, at the foot of a bunkbed, was a footlocker. Frantic, she tossed open the lid and dug around inside. Her shaking hand pulled out a grenade.

Fast breaths huffed through her oxygen mask, and the pounding of her heart echoed inside her helmet.

She pulled the pin and tossed the grenade through the hole in the door.

The shooting stopped and she heard a terrified voice utter a few words before the door was blasted away and a spray of viscera came with it. Throwing herself to her feet, the pilot ran out of the room, trampling over bodies and their detached parts as she sprinted down the spiraling hallway, painted red from floor to ceiling. A door swung open and a dark figure with a gun stepped out in front of her. Point blank, the pilot sprayed bullets into his guts before shoving him away. Crumpled up against the wall, bleeding out, he turned his head slowly to stare at her.

From behind, a knife slashed through her coarse Nomex flight suit. Only on a subconscious level did she realize the blade carved downward from her shoulder blade through the flesh of her back. Stumbling forward, she turned to see her attacker take another swing at her. She reached out and caught his arm, the blade stopping inches from her neck. With wild eyes, she looked into his inhuman face, shrouded in black.

Dropping the gun, she snatched him by the throat. The knife slipped from his quivering fingers as he moved to grasp at the large hand squeezing his airway shut. Then the pilot reeled back and slammed her helmeted head against his cranium. A few rasping words slipped out of his mouth, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, and the pilot struck him again. And again. And again. Blood burbled from his mouth and streamed out of his nose and sprayed against her visor. The dull thumps turned quickly into cracks and crunches and then wetness. She stopped when her visor was red and she could no longer see what she had done. His neck slipped from her hand and he dropped to the floor like refuse.

Bright light shone through the doorway in front of her. Stepping out, she felt the sunshine pouring over her, her boots sinking lightly into the hot, crunching sands. She was standing at the foot of a huge mountain. In the distance was a faint wisp of black smoke.

Reaching into her flight suit, she pulled out the opium pipe and lighter and took another hit. Red hell dripped into her face and ran down her neck. The cut in her back seared, the crusting blood still a touch wet against her skin. She had never felt anything more beautiful in her life.

Freedom.

"After that, I spent the next few days living in the mountains. The U.S. army patrol found me covered in animal skins, red all over. Said I was carrying a big stick and shouting gibberish at them. Barely recognized me as one of their own; woulda shot me if it weren't for my name patch. Woke up a bit later in a hospital back home."

"Wow," said Wirt. He rapped his pen against his notebook, clearing his throat. "So, um, how do you… feel about all that?"

"Cut the crap, Wirt," Beatrice said, leaning back in the couch and kicking her legs up. "We both know you're not here to be my therapist, you just want ideas for your writing."

"Uhh… Two birds one stone, right?"

"Hah. So much for patient confidentiality."

He subtly flipped the notebook to a different page. "But no, uh, seriously, tell me how you feel."

"Oh boy, where to begin…" Beatrice dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a pack of smokes and a lighter. She held the pack out to Wirt.

"Beatrice, this is my office."

"Oh, gotcha." She removed a cigarette, placed it in her mouth, lit it, and returned the items to her pocket.

Wirt sighed. "Your feelings?"

She exhaled a cloud of smoke and tapped the ashes into the shag carpet. "I was gettin' to it, be patient! You want me to be honest?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"Well, to be honest," she said, taking another drag of her cigarette, "To be honest, I wish I were back there sometimes."

Wirt began to write something down, then stopped and looked up. "You wish you were back in Afghanistan?"

"No, Afghanistan sucked. I mean, I wish I was back in… the heat of the moment, y'know?"

"Not really."

"You wouldn't. No one would." She sat back, laced hands resting atop the slight beer gut that strained against her tight, stained white t-shirt. Her cigarette hung loosely from her lips as she stared up at the white stucco ceiling. "I thought I was gonna die, man. I shoulda died as soon as I crashed. Ever since I was a kid I thought I was gonna die young, and then I just… didn't. But I really should have."

Wirt was scribbling furiously in the notebook. "Why did you think that?"

"I was always getting into some sort of trouble when I was a kid. When you've got a family like mine, you gotta get your kicks somehow," She dropped her cigarette butt to the floor, ground it into the carpet – Wirt clenched his jaw for a fraction of a second – and busied herself with lighting another one. "Fighting, drinking, arson, cruelty to woodland creatures…"

"And bedwetting?" Wirt thought to himself.

She didn't notice the edges of his lips tugging upward against his will. "So naturally, I never thought I'd have a very long lifespan."

He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat. "Did you join the military because you thought you'd accelerate that?"

She rested her chin on her fist for a moment. "No. At least not on a conscious level. Mainly just wanted to get as far away from my folks as possible. Didn't know what else to do with my life, college was obviously out of the question. It just felt like the only option."

Wirt closed the notebook, took off his glasses, and set them both aside. He tucked his pen back into his shirt pocket. He sat with his knees pressed together and his hands balled up in his lap. "I think," he began, breathing deeply, "you weren't as ready to accept your death as you thought you were."

"Yeah?" she said, lifting an eyebrow.

He smiled a little at her. "Well, for starters, becoming a fighter pilot isn't a spur of the moment decision. And you didn't just give up when you were abducted by those terrorists in Afghanistan, you had a fighting spirit. You proved yourself wrong because you wanted to."

"Also because I didn't want to get my head lopped off."

"That too. But my point is," he stood up, pacing a bit. "Is it possible you knew, deep down, that you were meant for more than just getting your head lopped off in the desert?"

She sat quietly, rolling her cigarette back and forth between her fingers. "When I stepped outside, I guess that's what I was feelin'. But I always just thought it was because I was high."

"No, that's actually a normal feeling, Beatrice."

"Incredible." She leaned back against the couch, folding her arms, drumming her fingers against her hard, tattooed bicep. "So I guess this is my grand purpose I was fighting for? To be a good-for-nothing deadbeat bu-"

Wirt's watch started to beep. "Oh, crap. I-I'm sorry Beatrice, but this'll have to be the end of our session." He was scrambling around, tripping over his own feet, scooping up his belongings in his scrawny arms. "This is so unprofessional, but I really need to get home on time tonight."

"Girlfriend still givin' ya trouble?"

"I-" he stopped and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. He slipped his notebook and travel mug into his bag. "N-no, everything… everything's fine. She's good. We're good." He offered her his hand and she took it, nearly pulling him to the floor as she stood up from the couch. "Have a good evening, Beatrice. I'll see you this time next week. I-I'll make it up to you, I promise. And in the meantime, keep thinking about your, um… purpose."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it. Thanks, Shrink," she said, flicking another cigarette butt to the floor and heading out of the office.

Wirt stood there for a moment, with his disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt, and watched her walk down the hallway, her form strong and solid, her long, swaying red hair shining in the green fluorescent light.

Wirt drove down the empty streets that evening, stereo playing a Smiths song at a casually low volume. He could hear the tires against the pavement. He reflected on his solitude, his entrapment in an indifferent world; how he longed for a moment of contentment and peace, how he hoped he had gotten Sara's usual order right. He grimaced as he hit a pothole and the bag of takeout slid off the passenger's seat and fell to the floor.

He sighed. At least he tried to do a nice gesture.

Eyes lidded, he scratched at the stubble on his jaw as he tried once more to stop thinking. He needed to shave. He would do that as soon as he got home. Sara liked it when he was smooth. He exhaled warmly, the smallest smile settling on his tired face.

Turning into the parking lot of the apartment complex, he found his spot and sat back against the seat for just a moment, sighing.

Love, peace and harmony are very nice, but maybe in the next world, indeed.

Shutting off the car, he grabbed the bag of takeout from the floor and headed toward the steps of the building. Once inside, he headed up two more flights of stairs before finally reaching the apartment he and Sara shared. Knees aching, he fished around in his pocket for his key. He wrestled the key into the lock and the heavy door creaked open to reveal the same drab, mostly empty, largely unnoteworthy apartment as always. He stared at the spot on the wall above the couch where he imagined would be the perfect spot for a framed painting. Some kind of forest scene, with a waterfall in the background and a humble mill perched beside the river. This same thought entered his mind at around the same time every day and left as soon as he stepped inside.

He stepped inside. Oddly enough, he was still thinking about that painting.

Leaving the warm, heavy plastic bag on the kitchen table, he walked down the hall, entered the bathroom, and flicked on the light. His gaze lingered on his reflection as he reached for his dull old disposable razor. Turning on the faucet, he ran the blade under the water and splashed some in his face. In a few quick swipes, his sparse patches of whiskers vanished. Small dots of blood rose up here and there. Good enough, he thought.

Stepping back into the main room of the apartment, he glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Sara should've been home by now. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and gave her a call. Pacing, he listened to the ringing tone repeat several times. The call was just about to go to voicemail when his girlfriend picked up.

"Yeah, baby? What's up? I'm really busy right now."

"Sorry, didn't mean to bother you, but, uh…"

"Yeah..?"

"It's past 6:30, are you gonna be home soon?"

He could hear her sigh into the phone. "I'm sorry babe, but they're having us all work overtime tonight. No one will tell me what's going on, but it seems important."

Wirt dragged a hand down his face, rubbing away his scabs and smearing tiny trails of blood over his irritated skin. "Alright. Alright. Your job is important. Okay. Do you know when you'll be home?"

"As soon as I can. Hang tight, okay? I miss you."

"Okay. Miss you too."

"B-"

"Bye." Wirt hung up and gripped his phone tight enough to hurt his fingers to stop himself from throwing it. Typical! Here he was, going out of his way to show his girlfriend he cared, how he was ready to patch up their issues and move on, and she couldn't be bothered to come home. She had to work overtime. Sure, like Wirt was supposed to believe that. Right now, she was probably… She was probably…

"Oh, God." Wirt desperately wished to stop thinking. Slumping over to the kitchen table, he pulled out a chair and dropped himself down in it, propping up his elbows and resting his face in his hands. Overtime. Overtime.

She hated him, and for what? Having dreams? Being in crippling student loan debt? Having the gall to suggest hanging up a picture in this God-forsaken off-white purgatory?

He leaned back in the stiff wooden chair and his eyes rolled over to stare at the takeout. He was too upset to be hungry, but there was a lot of perfectly good food just sitting there getting cold.

He stood up and snatched the bag. If Sara was too good to appreciate his nice gesture, then he would find someone else who did.

As he left, he slammed the door. He imagined the framed painting falling to the floor. With his head down, his free hand balled up in his pocket, and his knees aching, he started down the stairs of the quiet apartment building.

The water was getting cold. She felt very warm.

Basking in the desert sun, bliss tanned her pale skin and ran hot through her veins. Sweet, sticky blood washed over her, dripping from every inch of her, filling her nose with the scent of being alive. There was no pain; her bad knee was bad no more, a gentle finger ran up and down the faded scar on her back. Her heart was an animal skin drum that God lazily thumped to a slow rhythm. There was sand under her bare feet and the horizon was nothing but free, open blue sky for miles.

It was a disintegrating memory of the most beautiful thing she had ever felt, delivered through a collapsing vein.

She was feeling pretty good. Not quite as good as the day before, and last week was out of the question, but at this moment, everything was almost okay. A plume of black smoke rose up in the horizon of her mind's eye as a knock at the door roused her.

She sat up too quickly in the grimy tub and groaned as her back creaked. The knocking came again. It was a quick, shaky rapping, almost too quiet to hear. But it was there nevertheless, and she knew he was there too. Always at the worst times, he was there. Growling under her breath, she hoisted herself out of the watery embrace.

Wirt was about to knock again when the door opened a crack. Looking up, he saw a bloodshot green eye staring down at him from beneath a bushy copper brow. "Can I come in?" he asked, holding up the bag of food as an offering. She gave a low humm as she undid the chain lock and beckoned him inside. His gaze lingered on her extended arm; a scattered line of blackish-purple bruises ran from her wrist down under the loose sleeve of her threadbare blue flannel robe. Shuddering, he looked down and stepped inside Beatrice's apartment. She pulled the door shut and latched it behind him.

They sat on the cigarette-burned couch and ate their Chinese food as the chunky little analog TV droned on the other side of the room. Beatrice had hoisted the thing out of her bedroom and plugged it in there for him, either because she knew he needed a distraction or because she didn't want to talk to him. He pretended it was the former.

Beatrice ate much faster than he and tossed the empty Styrofoam box and plastic fork to the side, where it joined several other empty, rotting Styrofoam and cardboard boxes. She reached her fingers under the flap of her robe and scratched at her stomach. "So," she said, snapping Wirt out a daze he didn't know he was in. He coughed on a half-chewed mouthful of noodles. She smirked at him. "Any particular reason you came by this neck of the woods?"

He set the cold food he had been picking at aside. "I'm… not happy."

"Kinda figured. Don't gotta be a therapist to figure that one out."

"Sara didn't come home tonight."

"I was in the Air Force, not the FBI, bud. I respect the false sense of faith you've placed in me, don't get me wrong, but missing persons ain't really something I-"

"What? No, I mean she's working late tonight. Or, she said she's working late, supposedly. I mean, we barely get to see each other as it is, it's like she's avoiding me. And yet she says I'm the one who won't communicate…"

Beatrice snorted. "Women, right?"

"…And right now, she's probably not even at work, she's probably out hanging around with… With…"

"Wirt, remember what I told you about the J word."

"Jason Funderberker," he hissed through his teeth, his small fists clenched in his lap. His jaw tightened and a little vein throbbed at his temple. Beatrice smacked the back of his head. "Ow!"

"Next time I'm gonna to get a water bottle to squirt you with. Get a grip, man! Wasn't the last time you saw him, like, when you were back in high school?"

"Yeah, but he was popular, Bea! And Sara told me a couple weeks ago she saw him at the drug store. He's mobile, he's out on the town! He was at the drug store, Beatrice! He was probably there buying… buying cough syrup, because he's out there in the streets slinging drugs, making more money than I could ever hope to make from listening to people complain about their meaningless lives-"

Beatrice cleared her throat.

"Sorry. But my point is, he's a thug! A pimp! And everyone loves him! And everyone includes my girlfriend!"

"You ever considered getting screened for schizophrenia? 'Cuz you're veering dangerously close to schizo territory right about now."

He gave a pathetic little sound and leaned forward with his face in his hands. "My life is crumbling all around me."

"Let's focus on that for a minute, okay? Let's focus on your life. Forget about this weird version of Jason you made up. Forget about Sara. We're going to focus on you."

"O-okay…"

"And I think," she said, reaching out and slapping a hand on his slack shoulder, shaking him, "the best thing we can do for you right now, is get you wasted."

"No, Beatrice, I really don't-"

"Sure ya do." Beatrice stood up, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to his feet. "I know the perfect place. We're gonna get you liquored up and outta your head, and you won't even remember any of this horse hockey, and if that don't work then nothin' will." She dragged him to the door.

"Beatrice," he said, tripping over his feet. "If that actually worked, you wouldn't be seeing me every Wednesday."

"Look. I don't see you coming up with any better ideas. Do you wanna get messed up or not?"

"Yes," he said, "but aren't you forgetting something?"

"What..?" She looked down. "Oh, yeah. Lemme get some clothes on real quick."

Wirt and Beatrice walked down the street together on that still-warm early autumn evening. Beatrice's hair was wet and she was wearing the same stained white t-shirt, faded blue jeans and falling-apart tennis shoes from earlier that day. Wirt saw the hole-in-the-wall bar they were heading towards and, suddenly self-conscious, untucked his shirt, unbuttoned a couple buttons, and rolled up his sleeves. Dark Lantern, the little wooden sign hanging off the building read. Wirt gulped as Beatrice pushed open the door and strode inside, and he closely followed suit.

The bar's patrons mainly consisted of weary tradesmen who had just come from their place of work. Wirt looked around and saw a short, pudgy baker still smeared in flour sitting at a table across from a tall, pudgy butcher still dressed in his bloodstained apron. He saw a knife handle poking out of his pocket. Wirt locked eyes with him briefly before coughing and looking away.

There was a band set up in one corner, playing something that could pass as avant-garde psychedelic indie alternative something-or-other from a neglected bargain record bin. "I come for open mic night sometimes," Beatrice said, the sound of her voice hovering just above the din. "The folks here are the only ones who can really appreciate solo death metal."

Wirt had heard her music a couple times before. It scared him.

They sat at the bar and Beatrice ordered them both Miller Lights. The barkeep, a busty older woman who physically couldn't look at Beatrice without glaring, set the bottles down in front of them a touch too forcefully without uttering a word. Beatrice twisted the lid off and took a long, slow drink as Wirt struggled and fidgeted with his.

One beer soon became two and three, and although everything Wirt knew as a therapist screamed at him that this was wrong, he couldn't help but feel better. Beatrice seemed to be right more often than not. She ordered two shots of whiskey.

"For the love a' God," the barkeep said, grating the shot glasses across the counter, "Keep your shirt on this time."

Beatrice raised her whiskey to the barkeep, who had already turned away and busied herself with something else. With a smirk, she clinked her glass against Wirt's and downed it in a quick gulp. Wirt closed his eyes, hailed Mary, and spilled the burning nastiness down his gullet.

As the night went on, the band's music sounded better and better. Empty bottles lined up on the counter, and empty shot glasses were refilled by a scowling bartender. Beatrice managed to keep her shirt on. Wirt somehow managed to stay upright in his seat.

"Forget Sara, man," Beatrice slurred. "Let's find you a new girl."

"N-no, I can't do that, Bea." Wirt sipped his beer as Beatrice laughed. "Really, I can't do that. S-Sara… Sara would kill me."

"C'moooon. Lighten up, Worry-Wirt. What's she gonna do, send Mack Daddy Funderberker after you?"

"Fuh… Funderberker…"

"You and me got very different ideas about what 'popular in high school' means, man. Lemme give it to you straight: Jason's at Wednesday night Bible study, Sara's there with him getting filled with the Holy Ghost, and you and me are out here cruising for chicks."

"I…" Wirt propped his head up against his fist. "I dunno, Beatrice…"

Beatrice took a long drag from her beer. She slammed the empty bottle down on the counter, knocking over several of the others. "AY!" she barked, snapping her fingers. The bartender set another Miller Light in front of her and immediately walked away as Beatrice was in the middle of asking, not for the first time, if she could get a veteran's discount. She shook her head and turned back to Wirt. "Lighten up and join me, or I'm finding you the ugliest whore in this place. And trust me, there's a lot of 'em."

"Fffine." He turned around in his seat and peered around the bar as he sipped his beer. He nudged Beatrice. "How about her?"

She slapped Wirt's hand down. "Don't point, ya square." She looked. There was a smallish young woman, very pale and with dark shoulder-length hair, walking their way. She wore a tight, green off-the-shoulder sweater, neckline riding at a dangerous spot on her chest, the frills and straps of some black lingerie plainly visible. Her pleated plaid mid-thigh skirt swayed with her hips. She'd almost be too well put-together for a place like this, were it not for her stringy hair and dark eyebags.

Beatrice turned sideways in her seat, one hand resting on the counter holding her drink, the thumb of her other hand hooked in the waistband of her jeans. As the woman walked by, she casually stuck her middle finger out and it caught on the edge of her skirt, pulling it up.

The pale woman stopped and flattened the back of her skirt, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Beatrice sat there unassumingly drinking her beer, and Wirt looked away, red in the face. He glanced back at her out of the corner of his eye and she flashed a shy grin at him before she kept walking.

Wirt's neck craned to watch her. When she was out of earshot, his head whipped back to Beatrice, who was looking very pleased with herself. "Bea, don't do that!"

"Don't do what? I don't think she's the one for you, anyway," she said, folding her arms on the counter. "She has those nice clothes, prolly real expensive, and yet she can't afford panties. It's all a sham." Wirt was melting. A rancid grin curled up on Beatrice's face.

A minute later, there was a tap on Wirt's shoulder. He glanced over at Beatrice, who waggled her eyebrows at him. "What?" He looked behind him and found himself face to face with the pale woman. He gasped and slipped backwards out of the barstool.

Beatrice caught him by his collar and put him back, patting the top of his head and ruffling his hair. "Hey there," she said.

"Hello," said the pale woman, with a light English accent to her voice.

Wirt stared at her, dumbfounded. "Uhh…"

"Pardon my friend," said Beatrice. "He's a li'l shy. Ain't that right, Wirt?"

"Umm…" Beatrice slapped him hard on the back. He jerked into a casual pose, leaning on the counter. "Uh, yeah, haha, w-what's your name?"

She smiled serenely at him. "Lorna," she said.

"Lorna," he said. "Th-that's a, uh, a pretty name…" He saw her lips move, but didn't hear her say thank you. His heart quivered, every neuron in his brain was firing off at once, and he could feel the individual beads of sweat rising up on his forehead and in the palms of his hands. The static hung in the air. Wirt was all but paralyzed, and Lorna stared at him with her pale blue eyes, her expression becoming concerned.

"…Sooo," said Beatrice, "what brings a gal like you here all by yourself?"

"Just feeling a bit wicked tonight, I suppose."

Wirt gave a nervous laugh. "Aren't we all."

"Are you two a couple?" asked Lorna.

"Hah!" Beatrice burst out, taking a swig of her beer. "No."

Wirt stared blankly ahead, feelings of guilt and shame creeping in. "No," he said, hiccupping. "Beatrice and I are just friends. I- I already have a girlfriend, she's just not here right n- ow!" Beatrice pinched him in the ribs.

"Ah, I see." Lorna pushed the skinny straw of her frou-frou drink in circles around the glass. "Well, don't think me rude, but I've got to run. It was nice meeting you both." They both watched her walk away.

Beatrice groaned. "Uggghhh, you're killin' me, Wirt!" She whistled for the bartender, who was beginning to look very tired. "Vodka Red Bull," Beatrice said.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice, I cracked."

"Yer darn right you did." She snatched the shot as soon as the barkeep set it down and tipped her head back. "So much for trying to help," she said, placing the empty glass with the hoard of others on the counter. "I'm gonna go take a whiz. Just try and take it easy, okay?"

"Okay," said Wirt. He pushed his beer aside and slumped with the sides of his head resting in his hands.

The barkeep leaned over to him, her bosom pressing against the edge of the counter, looking about ready to bust out of her shirt. "You need another one, sweetheart?"

"No thanks, I'm good." He sighed. He was ready to go home.

Beatrice stepped out of the stall and was headed for the door when she noticed the same woman from before staring at herself in the mirror. "Hey, sorry about my friend earlier, he's an idiot."

After a brief pause, Lorna turned to see the tall redhead – Beatrice, she remembered hearing the awkward one say – standing there, leaning against the cracked, graffitied wall. "Oh, that's alright," Lorna said, pushing wisps from her bangs out of her face. The smudged white marbles in Beatrice's head were fixed on her with some kind of warmth, and based on her lax smile, she could tell that it was a rare feeling for her. Lorna smiled back, weakly.

A gunshot echoed through the bar.

Beatrice jumped, whipping her head around. "What the..?" Several more gunshots sounded off in rapid succession, and screams filled the air. Beatrice froze, tense and twitching, and a pang went through Lorna's heart. She began to reach out to touch her, but snapped herself back to staring in the mirror, her dark hair falling in her face.

"Oh my God. Oh my God." Beatrice shook herself out and took a deep breath. "Okay. Stay here," she said, not bothering to see if Lorna was listening.

She bent her knees and crept out of the bathroom. Grabbing a table from in front of her, she flipped it on its side and peered around the edge. Wirt was curled up under the counter, shaking, with his arms wrapped over his head. Several bleeding bodies littered the floor, their chairs knocked over and their drinks spilled beside them. A crazy man wearing a much-too-big balaclava and shabby red collared shirt was standing in front of the entrance waving an AR-15 around like an idiot. His shiny new combat boots clomped across the wooden floor as he fired at the scattering bar patrons. Beatrice felt a body thump against the table and a man's voice groan. She looked down at him, and he looked up at her.

It was the butcher. With a shaking hand, he reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out a cleaver, nodding and coughing blood as he handed it to Beatrice. She took it from him as he went limp.

The slaughterer became the slaughtered. Her wild eyes bored through the shooter. She'd have to return the favor.

The shooter in red stormed over to the counter, pointing his gun over it at the cowering barkeep. Now was Beatrice's chance. Knife gripped in her calloused hand, she shoved the table and the body aside and sprinted, half stumbling, at the gunman. She charged into him, bumping his gun as he pulled the trigger, the bullet shattering a bottle of liquor on the shelf behind the bar. Disoriented, he jerked his elbow upward into Beatrice's jaw. She winced as her head jolted, neck vertebrae popping in a way that they definitely weren't supposed to. Gripping the top of his masked head, she yanked it backward and swung the cleaver at his exposed neck.

The blade got stuck halfway through his throat. The remaining bar patrons gasped as Beatrice yanked it out and reeled back, and a burble of frothy red rose up in the gunman's mouth, blood spraying from his gashed windpipe. She could see his yellowed eyes rolling back into his skull, his stubbled jaws gasping for air that had no place to go. His rifle clattered to the floor as Beatrice swung again, this time severing his neck. He stumbled and swayed for a long, chilling several seconds, dancing with death, before he fell forward against the counter.

And once more, there stood the carnage-soaked victor, barely knowing where she was or what had just happened. Her chest heaved as she drew in heavy, gasping breaths, her rigid arm clenching the dripping cleaver at her side.

The police burst into the bar, all with their G19s pointed at her, and at that moment Beatrice realized she was holding up a severed head for all to see.

And before she knew it, her body jerked and shuddered as it was riddled with nine-millimeter bullets, and she collapsed into the communal pool of blood.

No one noticed the pale woman creeping out of the bathroom, her blue eyes beholding the spectacle as she made for the rear exit.